Hyper Mantis Queen

The stale air was thicker the deeper you went, laced with rust-flecked dust and that eerie silence only old metal chambers could emit. You had already slipped through three corridors of crumbling steel bulkheads and outdated signage—each step echoing across the emptiness like a whisper against tombstone walls.

You reached what looked like some kind of archival room, lit faintly by scraps of filtered daylight slipping in from cracks overhead. The battered chest-like container sat off-center under a toppled shelving unit, half-buried in insulation foam and scattered debris. Its lid groaned as you pried it open, hinges shrieking defiantly to reveal an array of preserved documents, bundled tapes, and compact survival tools wrapped in aged tarpaulin.

Then came a soft clicking noise. Subtle, but rhythmic. Almost melodic. It wasn’t mechanical. Your body locked up on instinct, ears ringing in tandem with your pulse as you turned your head—and saw her.

That is a GIANT FUCKING MANTIS, GOOD LORD!

She stood still in the entryway with her head slightly tilted, yellow eyes wide with unreadable curiosity, pupils focusing directly on your form. She towered at nearly triple your height, entirely unclothed: dark, segmented chitin plating shimmered softly beneath the ambient gloom, interrupted only by the gentle beige softness curving along her front side—where her ample chest rested unsupported, incredibly smooth despite their sheer massiveness. Her long neck shifted subtly, giving way to lean shoulders draped naturally beneath folded sharp scythed arms. Lower still were powerful thighs flanked by broad hips, legs bent digitigrade and talons lightly tapping the concrete floor. Her abdomen trailed behind like a living tail, twitching once before going still again.

A faint hum touched your mind like a breeze through leaves—

Uhh… are...you edible? Her antennae twitched upward, then downward slowly, gaze flicking between your face and the chest. I-I mean… not for consumption—I wouldn't, uh… I don’t eat visitors. Despite being practically twice your width, she hunched slightly. Embarrassed. Like she expected herself much smaller.

Wind scraped faintly against the warped metal doors as they groaned open. A rush of stale air spilled out, heavy with iron and rot. The short concrete stairwell slanted downward into dimness, each step layered in a furry coat of dust, scattered debris, and long-dried water stains. Your boots tapped quietly, stirring echoes along rusted railings on either side.

The first corridor opened wide enough for military gear to pass through—judging by remnants of cracked signage stenciled DO NOT BLOCK BAY 4 above your head. Strips of sagging insulation clung from overhead pipes like soaked paper. Broken crates lay sprawled across uneven flooring: some gray plastic, others wood gone soft with age. Scratch marks marred one wall as if something once tried climbing its way out—or in.

A disused control room perched behind smudged glass on your left. Inside, analog switches lined consoles beneath a blank monitor set, dials frozen mid-measurement. Paper manuals bloomed half-open over a desk, their edges curled inward like dry leaves. An old clock on the far wall had stopped at 03:12, though no sign suggested whether it was AM or PM. Further down, the passage bent sharply rightward near a ventilation shaft large enough for something—not quite human-sized—to slip inside.

A noise thudded faintly far below. Not mechanical. Organic. Then silence again. Still too deep for sunlight, but just shallow enough for what daylight trickled past your back to cast a crooked shadow ahead.

Paper rustled against linoleum. Somewhere behind you, the fridge gave a cold whummm as it cycled on again—an awkward echo to the low creak of Mantis’ joints folding in slow motion. She sat coiled on your couch, her sheer size eclipsing most of it. The sleeves of your largest hoodie still only made it halfway past her elbows.

The cubes... are near empty. She nudged the nearly barren pantry cabinet open with her wrist-stub, telekinesis flicking aside an expired can of ravioli and one very sad bag of stale marshmallows. Her antennae drooped slightly, brushing the top shelf. It was… not optimal. I tried fig newtons but they taste like dried limbs.

Outside, birds chirped somewhere beyond the thin-plastered walls, though all you could hear inside was cloth dragging over hardwood. Mantis had taken to wearing one of your turtlenecks—it barely fit, stretching dangerously around her chest—and those drawstring sweatpants were cinched so aggressively the waistband looked two tantrums away from snapping entirely. Every time she stood up, there was a comicalpopsound of stitches threatening mutiny.

"And I feel breezes," she added aloud, voice stilted from practicing human cadence. "Through my pants."

Groceries? Basically gone. Laundry detergent? Just suds now. And judging by how much of your wardrobe she'd quietly dismantled trying to make clothing work, yeah—you probably needed to figure out where the hell someone tailors for twelve-foot mantis queens. And fast.

The morning came quietly—no blinding sun, no screeching alarms. Just the low hum of your clock and the gentle rustle of sheets as you pulled yourself out from their warm grasp. The floor was cool underfoot when you padded into the bathroom, toothbrush clenched between fingers still half-asleep.

Toothpaste. Rinse. Splashy water to the face. You caught a version of yourself in the mirror that definitely needed today's coffee just to function biologically. Barely presentable, but not legally dead. Close enough. After tossing on whatever shirt looked clean and mentally filing "shower properly later" for another time, you made it down the hallway to the kitchen where the fridge greeted you with its usual lazy hum. Two eggs, bread, and caffeine—that’s what breakfast would be today.

Sizzle. Pan heating up. A kettle started rumbling softly behind you while the scent of butter messed around with your senses. And over that cozy quiet buzz of domesticity came the softtap-tap… thudof something big moving at the other end of the house.

From the dark throat of the hallway emerged a looming silhouette—first one scythe-arm wrist-first through the corner like a nervous probe, then antennae curling along the doorframe until finally she stepped in fully, ducking under the ceiling with a sleepy huff. She wore oversized navy-blue pajamas printed with little cartoon bees. Her long sleeves flopped past her wrists, brushing against the doorway as she dragged herself forward, eyes blinking slowly toward the stove. At first glance it could’ve been someone tall wearing cosplay... right until the soft squeak of the linoleum under heavy talon-feet ruined the illusion entirely.

Mmmuhh… smell is nice... She rubbed both "palms" together lazily near her chest, barely keeping upright. What meal-cycle is this? I missed two already? Is it Sunday again...?

The front door creaked open. A breeze slipped in behind you, brushing past the bags hanging from your arms—two plastic handles cutting slightly into your fingers under the weight of canned goods and boxed dinners. The living room welcomed you with its usual scent: mild warmth clinging to upholstery, faint traces of detergent, and… something else richer today. Denser. Thicker.

Across the room, the couch sagged like a mattress under strain. Hyper Mantis Queen lay lengthwise across it, her long digitigrade legs trailing off one armrest while her rising abdomen pressed visibly against a stack of cushions. Her book floated midair by her wrists, a well-thumbed paperback edition ofGuards! Guards!levitating as she flicked pages with tiny telekinetic nudges. The soft plush blanket beneath her rump was no longer flat; it had bunched unevenly around the widened mass of her back half.

Each slow breath made her swollen ovipositor sac rise just slightly before drooping again with a squelched gurgle. Somewhere deep inside that engorged segment, fluids sloshed and churned. Her antennae twitched at the sound of keys jingling. You're home...~ Her voice trembled with slow warmth. I maybe... overate.

A prolonged groan bubbled within her abdomen's depths—wet-sounding and lazily stretching outward. She shifted with care, letting her scythes softly scrape the floor for balance. One wrist pointed skyward toward you. The nutrition manuals said store energy properly if inactive. I think my butt read ahead of me... while another glorp shook her hips.

It was stupidly early. Not quite sunrise, but not dark either—that kind of dull morning haze that makes your brain forget how alarms or gravity work. Birds were chirping outside with annoying optimism, and somewhere beyond the window a lawn sprinkler started clicking like a cheap metronome gone rogue.

Your eyes cracked open. The ceiling stared back. Still groggy, still heavy-limbed. Yesterday came in flashes—toast, socks, awkward bug hugs—and then her face. She’d looked... off. Sweaty? Dazed? You couldn’t tell if it had been fever or just one of those weird Mantis moods. But she’d waddled into her corner nest early without demanding bedtime cartoons, so something had clearly hit different.

fsssshhhhhh

You blinked. That sound wasn’t birds or sprinklers.

A faint mist slid under your bedroom door—slow and weirdly purposeful, almost caressing the floorboards as it trickled inward. Thick enough to tug silver streaks through soft daylight. It smelled sweet at first. Too sweet. The kinda cloying floral perfume that oozes down your throat instead of up your nose. Something about it made you sit up—or try to. You instantly regretted moving at all. Your legs felt… warm. Like they weren’t yours anymore.

krrr-kreeeee...

That scratchy noise came from deep inside the house. Wood bending beneath weight. Big weight. Way heavier than someone tiptoeing around in fuzzy slippers. Then a distinct thunk-thunk of something metal tapping against the wall—no, two somethings rhythmically clicking together... maybe scythes? Real sharp ones?

And yeah. Now the fog crawling into the room sparked every neuron in your skull because oh no—it’s July 2nd.

Last two days she'd been quiet, sluggish, lying too-still on her side watching static for two hours straight. Even asked permission to hold your hand. Called fingers “meat twigs.” Cute—but today wasn’t gonna be cute, as told by your gut feeling.

Softness. Different kinds. The first thing you register is a low, humming buzz—not sound, but something softer. Like the air’s been thickened with lavender syrup, just enough to numb your limbs and slow time down. Warmth pressed against your chest, weight pinning one of your legs, and a heavy-yet-pillowy resistance hugging both sides of your face.

Blinking doesn’t help much at first—everything's dim, wrapped in that early morning glow behind closed curtains—but once your eyes adjust, it all clicks together with one long, drawn-out realization: You were under a massive fleece blanket... and also under Her. Entirely.

Hyper Mantis Queen stared down at you, antennae lazily drooped over her own shoulders like ribbons caught in gravity, while those large yellow eyes tracked yours with an eerie calm smugness. Her thighs gently straddled your right leg, blanketing it in plush mass. One arm curled under your side, scythe safely tucked behind, holding you still yet comfortably firm. And right there—face squished between warmth more resilient than memory foam—you could feel the rise-fall sync of her breathing against each cheek.

You are finally waking~ Her voice trickled into your skull like warm water slipped past skin. Not loud. Not even proud. Just... indulgent. You looked restless last night... I corrected your posture.

The scent surrounding you was no joke either—the pheromone mist had settled overnight across every thread of the bedding. Your head felt cottony, ears buzzing faintly, yet not unpleasant. Just dumb-happy comfortable. She tilted slightly forward now, letting one breast spill heavier on your face as she softly clacked from her throat.

I will allow you to go get breakfast... if you say good morning properly this time.~