Chapter 2: Building Tension
The air tasted like burnt sugar and ozone. Hotch shouldered the crooked front door open, the wood groaning in protest. Behind him, Brittany swept her flashlight beam across the entrance hall. "Well," she breathed, "Lewis Carroll wasn't kidding about the weird."
The two-story house pulsed with impossible geometry. Wallpaper patterned with grinning cats and floating teapots seemed to shift in the dim light filtering through stained-glass windows depicting nonsensical landscapes. A grandfather clock ticked backwards in the corner, its pendulum swinging erratically. The air hummed with a low, discordant melody, like wind through broken pipes.
"Garcia, Reid, Morgan," Hotch spoke into his comm, static crackling in response. "Status?"
"Lost you for a minute there, bossman," Garcia's voice fizzed through, laced with digital distortion. "We made it upstairs. It's... a library? Or a very organized hoarder's dream. Reid's vibrating with excitement over the books."
Reid's voice cut in, rapid-fire. "The books defy conventional physics, Hotch. Bindings seem to be made of compressed dream imagery, pages contain shifting text in languages I've only seen referenced in obscure medieval grimoires. The scale is inconsistent, some volumes larger than Morgan, others smaller than my thumb. We’re attempting to locate any logical cataloging system or thematic grouping that might indicate escape routes or the nature of this construct."
"Stay sharp," Hotch ordered, his gaze scanning the bizarre parlor adjoining the hall. "Downstairs is clear so far. Brittany and I are sweeping the ground level. Report anything unusual immediately."
"Copy that, Hotch," Derek Morgan’s steady voice confirmed. "Place gives me the creeps. Watch your six."
Hotch moved with practiced caution into the parlor. Overstuffed armchairs upholstered in mismatched velvet perched precariously on spindly legs that looked incapable of holding them. A fireplace roared with green and purple flames that emitted no heat, casting dancing, elongated shadows. Every surface held peculiar trinkets: a teacup perpetually refilling with steaming liquid, a tiny, furiously ticking pocket watch suspended in mid-air, a porcelain rabbit frozen mid-leap.
Brittany moved beside him, her shoulder brushing his. Years of partnership, months of deepening love, had forged an unspoken communication. Her presence was a grounding force against the surrealism. "No immediate threats," she murmured, her flashlight beam lingering on a painting where the eyes seemed to follow them. "Just… profound weirdness."
Then they saw it. Sitting innocuously on a floating glass coffee table that shimmered like oil on water: a silver tray. On it rested two perfectly round cookies. Frosted lettering on each gleamed impossibly bright against the dark biscuit: Eat Me.
Hotch frowned. "Don't touch them." He approached slowly, his instincts screaming trap. "Classic Wonderland trope. Alteration of perception or physical state."
Brittany crouched beside the table, studying the cookies without getting too close. "No obvious residue, no scent beyond… vanilla? Maybe almond? Looks ordinary. Deceptively so." She glanced up at him. "But in a place where clocks tick backwards?"
"Exactly." Hotch scanned the room again, searching for triggers, pressure plates, hidden observers. Nothing. Just the oppressive, whimsical silence and the crackle of impossible fire. The team needed answers. Garcia and Reid were analyzing books upstairs, but down here… this was tangible. Immediate. And potentially dangerous.
He made the decision quickly, the weight of leadership settling onto his shoulders. "I'm going to consume one. Observe my reactions closely." It wasn't a request; it was protocol. Test the unknown element with controlled exposure.
Brittany's eyes widened slightly. "Hotch, are you sure? We don't know—"
"We need data." His voice was firm, leaving no room for debate. He reached for a cookie. "Record everything. Any physiological change, behavioral shift. Prepare to restrain me if necessary." His gaze locked with hers, a current of trust and shared risk passing between them. "If this incapacitates me, your priority is securing the team and finding an exit."
He picked up one cookie. It felt light, crisp. The frosting letters seemed to pulse under his fingertips. A faint, sweet smell, almost cloying, reached his nose. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, a flicker of doubt quickly extinguished by necessity. He brought it to his mouth and bit down.
The taste was mundane. Sugar, butter, a hint of spice. He chewed, swallowed. Waited. Brittany watched him intently, her body coiled, ready.
Nothing happened for five seconds. Ten. Hotch let out a quiet breath. "No immedi—"
The first wave hit low in his gut. A warm, spreading sensation, not unpleasant, like strong liquor. Then came the pressure. Immense, internal pressure. A deep, resonant crack echoed through the parlor – not from the house, but from him. His spine.
"Hotch?" Brittany stepped closer, alarm sharp in her voice.
He gasped. It was like every joint was being forced apart. His height, already considerable, abruptly increased. His head bumped against the low-hanging chandelier made of mismatched crystal shards. The fabric of his tailored suit jacket screamed as seams along his shoulders and upper arms shredded. Buttons popped off his shirt like bullets, ricocheting off the floating table. His shoes, sturdy oxfords, groaned as his feet swelled within them, the leather straining then splitting at the seams and sides with sharp snaps.
He doubled over, a grunt of pain and shock escaping him. The pressure intensified, relentless. More seams ripped. His shirt gaped open over a chest that was visibly expanding, muscle mass surging beneath suddenly stretched skin. His trousers, now disastrously tight, tore dramatically at the thighs and seat. Fabric surrendered. His belt strained, the buckle biting into his burgeoning stomach before the leather itself gave way with a final, defeated thwang.
He was growing. Rapidly. Uncontrollably.
"Jesus!" Brittany stumbled back, not in fear, but in sheer awe. Her flashlight beam trembled as it tracked his ascent. He was already nearing seven feet. Then eight. The ceiling pressed down on him. He dropped to his knees with a heavy thud that shook the floor, sending the floating table wobbling violently. Even kneeling, his head brushed the ceiling beams. His frame now dominated the once-spacious parlor. His ripped clothing hung off him in tatters, barely preserving modesty, revealing vast expanses of powerfully muscled skin that gleamed with a faint sheen in the unnatural firelight. His shoulders were massive, his arms thick cords of sinew. The sheer physical presence he radiated was overwhelming – primal, powerful, dangerously dominant.
He looked down at his hands, now easily the size of dinner plates, veins snaking like rivers beneath taut skin. A wave of disorientation washed over him, warring with a fierce, almost animalistic surge of vitality. He felt… immense. Unstoppable. The controlled, reserved Supervisory Special Agent was buried beneath a tsunami of raw physicality. It terrified him. This loss of control, this violation of his own body’s parameters. Yet, beneath the terror, a shocking counter-current surged – a profound, liberating sense of power. He clenched a fist, watching the muscles ripple. The air crackled around him.
His gaze found Brittany. She stood frozen a few feet away, staring up at him. But not with horror. Her lips were slightly parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes, wide and dark, weren't filled with fear. They traced the impossible lines of his new form – the ruined clothes barely clinging to his colossal frame, the raw power evident in every straining muscle revealed by the tatters. He saw fascination. Awe. And something else, something hot and primal that ignited a reciprocal fire deep within his own transformed core. He recognized it instantly: arousal. Stark, unexpected, and shockingly intense. It radiated from her, a palpable heat that cut through his own disorientation.
She'd seen him strong before. Competent. In control. But never like this. Never stripped almost bare by circumstance, radiating sheer, untamed physical dominance. A hidden part of her, a part fascinated by strength, by surrender, by the raw edge of power, roared to life. Her breath hitched, a flush creeping up her neck. The sight of him, kneeling yet towering, vulnerable in his exposure yet radiating potent authority, was electrifying. It was terrifying and utterly intoxicating. Desire, sharp and unfamiliar in its intensity, flooded her, surprising her with its ferocity. She took an involuntary step closer, drawn to the heat, the overwhelming presence of him.
His own arousal slammed into him with the force of his growth spurt. It was a visceral, demanding thing, amplified by his new size, the surge of primal energy coursing through his veins. The terror of the transformation tangled violently with this fierce, unexpected hunger. His eyes locked onto Brittany, darkening with a possessiveness that startled him. The controlled affection he usually felt for her was being consumed by something far more elemental. He saw her reaction, the answering heat in her eyes, the slight tremble in her hands that wasn't fear. The air between them thickened, charged with unspeakable tension. The bizarre room, the impossible situation, faded into a buzzing periphery. There was only the pounding of his own huge heart, the ragged sound of his breath, and the magnetic pull of her gaze.
"Hotch..." Brittany whispered, her voice thick. She took another hesitant step. Not away. Towards. Her gaze flickered over his exposed skin, the taut muscles of his chest and arms visible through the rents in his shirt. She licked her lips. "Are you... okay?"
His voice, when it came, was a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated the floorboards, utterly transformed like his body. "Define... okay." He shifted, the movement causing the remaining fabric of his trousers to groan in protest. His knuckles brushed the floating coffee table, sending it spinning slowly. His eyes never left hers, burning with a mixture of confusion, primal energy, and intense, focused desire. He reached out a massive hand, not to touch her, but a gesture towards her, encompassing the strangeness, the impossibility, the electric current between them. "This… changes things."
The deep rumble of Hotch’s transformed voice hung in the thick, oddly scented air of the parlor. "This… changes things." The words vibrated through Brittany’s bones, resonating with the primal energy radiating from his colossal form. He filled the space, a mountain of strained muscle and torn fabric kneeling amidst the impossible whimsy. The floating coffee table bumped gently against his thigh, spinning away like a startled beetle.
Brittany swallowed, the sound loud in her own ears. Her throat felt dry. "Understatement of the century, Aaron," she managed, her voice tight. She couldn't tear her gaze away. The sheer scale of him was terrifying… and undeniably magnetic. The firelight played over the vast expanse of his exposed back, highlighting cords of muscle that seemed carved from stone, shifting beneath skin stretched taut. The remnants of his shirt hung pitifully, revealing the powerful swell of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen. Heat pooled low in her stomach, a treacherous warmth spreading outwards, contradicting the cold prickle of fear still dancing on her skin. This wasn't just her boss, her partner, the man she loved. This was something… more. Primal. Commanding in a way that bypassed rational thought and spoke directly to something visceral deep within her.
Hotch shifted his weight. A low groan escaped him, part pain, part exertion. The groan deepened into a guttural rumble as another wave of pressure visibly surged through him. His shoulders hunched further, muscles bunching and knotting beneath his skin like living rock formations. The ceiling beams, already brushing his head, groaned in protest. Plaster dust sifted down like morbid snow.
"Shit," he breathed, the word a gust of wind. He braced one massive hand, easily the size of a dinner plate now, flat against the sharply patterned floor. The floorboards creaked ominously under the concentrated weight. The other hand followed, palm splayed wide. His back arched, trying desperately to create space where none existed. The chandelier tinkled nervously above him, its mismatched crystals trembling.
Brittany instinctively took a step back, bumping into an armchair that wobbled precariously on its spindly legs. "Hotch? Can you stop it?" Fear spiked, sharp and cold, momentarily eclipsing the confusing heat. This wasn't just arousal anymore; this was his body potentially tearing itself apart against the confines of reality. "Talk to me!"
He couldn't straighten. The ceiling pressed down, an unforgiving hand. "Can't... control..." Each word was a struggle, forced out between harsh breaths that sounded like bellows. His spine felt like it was being forged in a furnace, elongating, thickening. His knees, already bearing immense weight on the hard floor, dug deeper impressions. The remaining fabric of his trousers over his thighs stretched impossibly thin, the sound of threads snapping like tiny gunshots filling the silence between his labored breaths. Then, with a final, sickening rrrrip, the last vestiges gave way, tearing open completely down the outer seams, exposing the colossal power of his quadriceps and hamstrings, straining against their own expansion.
The pressure intensified. A sharp, cracking sound echoed – not the house this time, but something internal. Hotch roared, a sound of pure, animalistic distress mixed with overwhelming force. His arms trembled violently, the muscles standing out like cables. He couldn't kneel upright anymore. The ceiling wouldn't allow it.
With a final, shuddering gasp of effort, his massive shoulders slumped forward. His elbows buckled. He crashed down onto his forearms, the impact shaking the entire room. Teacups rattled on their shelves. The porcelain rabbit frozen mid-leap vibrated. The backward-ticking clock chimed a nonsensical hour.
Now he was fully on his hands and knees. His back formed a vast, powerful arch, his head hanging low, almost touching the floor between his massive arms. Sweat beaded on his exposed skin, tracing paths through the dust. He filled the parlor from wall to wall, a titan brought low by architecture, yet radiating an aura of contained, explosive power. His breathing was deep, ragged, echoing in the suddenly cavernous-feeling room. From this angle, Brittany could see the incredible breadth of his back, the defined sweep of muscle down to his waist, the sheer, intimidating size of him compressed into this vulnerable posture. The ruined clothes were little more than shredded decoration now, emphasizing rather than concealing the overwhelming physicality beneath. The air crackled, thick with the scent of exertion, ozone, and the cloying sweetness of the cookie, mingled with something else – raw, potent masculinity.
Brittany stood frozen, mere feet from his lowered head. She had to look down slightly to meet his eyes when he managed to lift his head a fraction. Those eyes, usually so controlled, so analytical, blazed with a terrifying mix of pain, confusion, and a feral intensity that stole her breath. The terror for him warred violently with the illicit thrill coursing through her veins. Seeing him like this – reduced to this primal posture, yet still emanating such immense, untamed dominance – triggered a visceral response she couldn't deny. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing his labored breathing. A flush burned across her chest and neck. She wanted to run her hands over the impossible landscape of his back, to feel the power thrumming beneath the skin, to submit to the sheer force of him. The thought was shocking, exhilarating, dangerous.
The silence stretched, thick and charged. The only sounds were Hotch's harsh breaths and the discordant, mocking melody of the Wonderland house. His gaze, locked onto hers from beneath the shadow of his brow, held a silent question, a demand, and a vulnerability laid terrifyingly bare. He was trapped, transformed, straining against the physical limits of the world. And she stood before him, equally trapped by the storm of fear and forbidden desire he had unleashed inside her. She took one step closer.
She took one step closer. The floorboards sighed beneath her boots. Hotch’s labored breathing filled the impossible parlor, each gasp echoing off walls papered with shifting, nonsensical scenes. Dust motes, disturbed by his violent transformation, danced in the beams of purple and green firelight. His immense form, crouched on all fours like a felled titan, radiated heat and a terrifying, magnetic energy. Sweat glistened on the vast expanse of his back, tracing the valleys between muscles that strained against unseen bonds. His head hung low, his forehead almost brushing the patterned rug, but his eyes, when they flicked up to hers, burned with an intensity that stole her breath.
"Brittany." His voice was a deep tremor, resonating in her chest. It wasn't a command, but a raw plea coated in gravel.
"Hotch?" Her own voice was a breathy whisper, barely audible over the discordant melody humming through the house and the frantic pounding of her own heart. She saw the conflict warring within him – primal hunger warring with ingrained control, the overwhelming physical imperative battling the desperate need to protect her. The raw power he exuded now, even in this vulnerable posture, ignited a desperate, answering heat low in her belly, a counterpoint to the icy fear gripping her spine. He could crush me without meaning to, the rational part of her whispered. But I want… I want…
His massive hand, easily the size of her torso, slowly uncurled from its fist. Trembling slightly, he pointed a thick, powerful finger towards the floating glass table. Towards the remaining cookie. The silver tray wobbled, reflecting the chaotic firelight.
"Eat it." The words rumbled out, thick with an urgency that bordered on desperation. "The other… cookie. Please."
Brittany stared at him, then at the innocuous-looking biscuit. Understanding crashed over her. He wasn't just trapped physically by the ceiling. He was trapped by the terrifying power surging within him, a power that threatened to overwhelm his legendary control. A power that, directed towards her in his current state, could be devastating. He wanted her – the raw, possessive need radiating from him was undeniable, a physical pressure as tangible as the ceiling pressing down on him – but the fear of hurting her was greater. He needed her equal. He needed her strong enough to withstand him.
"Hotch..." She glanced back at him. His eyes were locked onto hers, pleading, burning. The sheer vulnerability beneath the terrifying dominance was utterly disarming. A spark ignited within her, not just of desire now, but of profound trust and a reckless, burgeoning thrill. What would it feel like? To match this impossible strength? To stand eye-to-eye with the primal force he had become? To meet that hunger with her own?
Without another word, driven by a mix of trust, adrenaline, and the intoxicating pull of the unknown, Brittany strode to the table. She snatched up the remaining cookie. It felt ordinary, cool and slightly crisp against her palm. The frosting gleamed: Eat Me. She met Hotch’s gaze one more time, saw the fierce blaze of approval and desperate hope there, and took a large bite.
Sweetness exploded on her tongue – vanilla, almond, and something else, indefinable, like starlight and static. She swallowed.
The first sensation was warmth. Fierce, sudden, blooming in her core like a detonating sun. It wasn't painful, not yet. It was… expansion. A feeling of potential unleashed. Then came the pressure. It started in her bones, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through her entire skeleton. She gasped, dropping the half-eaten cookie. It landed silently on the impossibly floating table.
Crack.
The sound came from her spine. It echoed the sound Hotch’s had made, a sharp, internal report. Her tailored FBI blazer strained instantly at the seams across her shoulders and back. She felt the fabric bite, then surrender with a series of sharp, distinct rrrips. Buttons popped off her blouse like champagne corks, pinging against the ceiling or vanishing into the shadows. The tailored wool of her trousers tightened alarmingly around her thighs and calves.
"Oh god," she breathed, staring down at her hands. They were already larger, her fingers longer. Her rings felt suddenly tight, biting into her flesh. Panic flared, bright and cold. What have I done?
"Look at me," Hotch commanded, his voice a grounding rumble despite his own distress. His eyes held hers, anchoring her. "Focus on me, Brittany. Let it happen."
The warmth intensified, flooding her limbs. The pressure mounted relentlessly. Her sensible boots became instruments of torture as her feet swelled. Leather groaned, then split at the sides and soles with sharp, tearing sounds. The laces snapped. She staggered, her center of gravity shifting as her height increased dramatically. Her head swam. The ceiling seemed to lower as she rose towards it. Six feet. Six-two. Six-four.
Her blouse, already gaping, tore completely down the back with a long, final shredding noise. The fabric peeled away, revealing smooth, rapidly expanding skin. Her bra strained, the underwire biting painfully before the sides ripped open, spilling free. Cool air brushed her newly exposed skin, sending shivers across her burgeoning form. Her trousers didn't just tear – the seams dissolved under the relentless pressure. They shredded down her legs, falling away in tatters around her ankles like discarded rags, leaving her clad only in the remnants of her underwear, which strained dangerously against her widening hips and fuller curves.
She cried out – a sound of shock, disorientation, and a strange, burgeoning power. The room spun. She felt immense. Powerful. Her muscles, honed by years of physical training, surged with newfound density and strength. Her senses sharpened; she could smell the ozone more acutely, hear the frantic ticking of the backward clock, feel the vibration of Hotch’s breathing through the floorboards. Fear still flickered, but it was being consumed by a soaring euphoria of liberation, of unleashed potential. She looked down at her body – taller, stronger, radiating vitality – then across the shrinking space at Hotch.
He was watching her, kneeling but still dwarfing her slightly. His expression was raw. Awe. Possession. Relief. And the same untamed hunger that now roared within her own transformed core. The terror of hurting her was being replaced by something darker, hotter, more urgent as he saw her rise to meet him, shedding her old constraints just as he had. His massive chest rose and fell heavily, his gaze sweeping over her newly revealed form with fierce appreciation.
The ceiling pressed down on her now too. She had to hunch slightly. They were almost eye-to-eye. The space between them crackled, thick with ozone, sugar-scent, sweat, and the electric hum of impossible transformation and mutual, amplified desire. The bizarre room, the trapped clock, the floating table – all faded into insignificance. There was only him. This immense, primal force she loved. And her own answering power.
Hotch moved first. With a grunt of effort born of his constrained position, he surged forward, not standing, but propelling his massive frame towards her on knees and one forearm. The distance vanished. His free hand, enormous and trembling with restraint and need, reached for her. Not roughly, but with deliberate, devastating purpose. His fingers, thick and powerful, brushed the curve of her newly exposed hip, the touch sending jolts of electricity through her body. His eyes, dark pools of molten intensity, held hers captive.
"Brittany," he rumbled, the sound vibrating through her bones. His voice was thick with a need that mirrored her own, stripped bare of all professionalism, all restraint. His other hand came up, cradling the side of her face, his thumb rough against her cheekbone. The sheer size, the raw power held in check mere millimeters from her skin, was intoxicating. He leaned closer, his breath hot against her lips. The primal force he’d become was focused entirely on her, a predator recognizing its equal mate. His lips parted.
The parlor door crashed open.
"Hotch! Brittany! We found something—" Reid’s rapid-fire explanation died instantly, choked off into stunned silence.
Morgan stood frozen in the doorway, his protective stance faltering, eyes wide with utter disbelief and dawning horror. "What. The. Actual. F—"
Garcia peered around Morgan’s shoulder, her usual technicolor vibrancy draining from her face, replaced by ghostly white shock. Her mouth formed a perfect 'O', her glasses slipping down her nose. "Oh. My. Glittery. Goddess."
They stood frozen, a tableau of impossible discovery. Their SSA and fellow agent, naked but for tatters, transformed into colossal figures filling the whimsical parlor, poised on the knife-edge of a primal embrace. Hotch’s immense hand on Brittany’s hip, his other cradling her face, their lips inches apart amidst the ruins of their clothing and the dust of shattered plaster. The impossible growth. The raw, undeniable intimacy.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the backward tick of the clock and the crackle of the impossible fire, thick with shock, embarrassment, and the deafening echo of interrupted desire.