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Omnipocalypse

Reign of Rats: Wedding Party

Party Crasher

By Von Krieger

It's quite the interesting sensation to suddenly have your life do a jumpcut. One minute you're going about your day as a perfectly normal man-thing and then all of a sudden there's a light in the sky, a big blue window in front of your vision, and then the weird blue window changes and says that you're being reformatted because the place you just so happen to be driving through on your way home from work just so happened to be auctioned off to a world-invading faction of ratlings.

More like reform-ratting!

The thought made me giggle-snort and push my dislodged glasses up my pitifully short man-snout. One moment I'm heading home from the daily grind in a gas-engine car and the next I am home, as my car is now a carriage that serves as my portable laboratory, place of business, and residence and is powered by a chunk of terribly mutagenic glowing green rock.

I'm pretty sure that I'm kind of the same person that I was, and also not. I'm also pretty sure that I shouldn't be awake through whatever is going on as I have a sort of instinctual racial memory about what happens when a place is reform-ratted by the Great System.

The Daughters of Fellstar are a faction of ratlings that have given themselves wholly to the Great System and use its continual spread into new universes in order to acquire resources, land, and boost their… our numbers. We've so tightly tied ourselves into the game-like interface that we're no longer capable of reproduction without the Great System pitching in a hand. Or more like we've been purposefully limited so we don't spawn-spread our way through the cosmos through sheer numbers.

We're fully capable of taking care of ourselves from the moment of our birth, imbued with fragments of racial memory, though we're physically (and often mentally) feeble compared to fully grown members of other races, but we have the advantage of reaching physical adulthood in the span of two or three weeks if we have access to enough food, which was the main problem that limited the size a ratling horde could attain.

With the Great System we skip that part with new members of the faction effectively being spawned from whole cloth or created from those who haven't been registered with the Great System, just like I had been.

Like a game, the amount of resources generated and the amount of land claimed limit just how much and how fast we can produce a population, and we can supplement our numbers through our wonderfully dark and corruptive magics that allow us to take captives even from other factions recognized by the Great System and add them to our numbers!

That was part of my job, after all! Except that with some of the Great System's restrictions in place rather than being all about battle and pillaging and such, we were much more diplomatic. After all, with the Great System in place we didn't really get pregnant, and thus were wonderfully fuckable. We were the vanguard forces that would be sent out into new worlds to show the locals the upsides of being a ratling! That being an almost complete lack of sexual inhibitions and the casual and constant fucking.

Your typical ratling would get off, at minimum, a half dozen times a day. Which was in fact the major bulk of my own job. A full fifteen percent of ratlings were dedicated to fucking. The Broodmothers took the majority of it, but they were also our most precious resource since they were the ones who gestated the crystal eggs that new ratlings hatched from and defeated ratlings (or lazy ones that wanted to travel quickly) respawned from. So dealing with a constant flood of horny ratlings and getting them off quickly and satisfactorily in a rapid and efficient way fell to the Couratesans and Strumprats.

Another giggle-snort at the rat-themed wordplay of courtesans and strumpets. Couratesans were shaped in a way that made them more comely to most types of man-thing, while us Strumprats were more ratty in nature and our focus was more on satisfying our own forces rather than attempting to recruit more compatible locals and bewitching them into joining our cause through a near-limitless sea of willing rat holes and poles.

But I couldn't do my job like this! Yuck! How had I managed to tolerate being in this naked, furless, tailless twice over man-body for decades? Blech! It wasn't even shapely with lovely curves everywhere! I could feel an arcane tingle as the reform-ratting process went to work, but it was far, far too slow for my liking.

Thankfully that was something that I could fix, since making man-things into ratlings was part of my job as well. Memories of running miles worth of CAT-5 cable through tight holes melded with memories of running miles of RAT-5 pole into my tight holes. By which I mean I was the centerpiece of an orgy where I satisfied five needful rat cocks at a time.

My pathetic human man-pole was throbbing and erect, and that was also something I would have to change. I wouldn't be satisfying anybody with such a tiny prick and a small package. Anyone that wanted a hot ratty dicking down absolutely, positively wanted the full experience of having a set of big, fat rat balls emptied into, onto, or around them.

The reform-ratting of my sector was very unusual, as typically there was a 24 hour warm up period where the benefits of the Great System were granted to the residents of the new world allowing them to sample the lightest of its capacities in order to reshape themselves and gain access to the wondrous knowledge and power that it granted.

Those who stood out could earn the patronage of higher beings, like the fallen angel Fantomiel Fellstar, after whom our faction was named, whose divine Father had sent her to investigate why ratlings had fully embraced the Great System and shunned a goodly chunk of the heinous and disgusting practices that made our Skaven kin so reviled and monstrous. She had fallen because she agreed with the ratlings who had fully embraced the Great System and adopted a far less brutal way of life.

Fragments of both her and her lover, the Archvyl Meatgristle, the ratling demigod who had guided our people's integration into the Great System, were present and I could faintly feel their attention. There were a number of others like me who were awake during the reform-ratting.

We had a few Players, who had drawn attention of greater powers. The one who had managed to trigger the auction, of course, as the leader of a group who had attained two of the three foundational artifacts of power that the Great System needed to anchor a sector. A second, who had drawn the attention of a great force of hunger for being the first being in the newly created sector to have both eaten and drunk during the few moments where Playerhood could've been granted. Except that had been ripped from them somehow and passed to another.

And though I wasn't a Player, I did have attention focused on me due to my being awake during the process when I really shouldn't be. It turned out that I had latent magical talent of a sort that was completely useless on my world, since we lacked the sort of energies that I could've drawn upon.

Above all, that was why I had so gleefully embraced my role as a part-diplomat, part-cumdumpster, part-plague vector. Screw the thankless job of keeping the machines running that powered the Business Mines or whatever the hells it was that I'd been doing, load me up with spellcasting, sorcery, and sex magic!

My thoughts were an open book to my god and goddess and they rewarded me. I wasn't a Player and couldn't access the full breadth of the Great System's Character Creation, but between my magic, the knowledge that I'd been granted from my reform-ratting, and the small amount of self-customization I could draw upon, it would suffice.

As one of the leading Strumprats, I was given a great gift as part of my starting equipment. A living tome that would chronicle my efforts delving into my arts. The flesh was my domain, in both the shaping of it and the pleasuring of it. Part book and part biological creature, it was filled with the baseline knowledge of Clan Fleshmyth and it would reveal more secrets the more I fed it with knowledge, data and experience.

Mutation, alchemy, grafting, cross-species intercourse that without either the Great System or my Clan's magics would fail to create viable offspring. But with them I could create new beasts, explore new pleasures, new enhancements to empower myself, my guildmates, my beasts, my lovers, and my captives should I find myself forced to take the field of battle rather than the bedroom.

The tome was flesh, and flesh could be shaped. I drew upon the chaotic power that filled the air, sourced from the glowing, corruptive stone that powered my carriage. I summoned the tome in the form I desired and let out a moan as its tentacles enveloped my feeble human member.

Our flesh began to merge, the leather of the cover and the thin pages of beast skin becoming the skin and muscle of my new cock. Knowledge from my human existence aided me, converting words on a page into a sort of biological computer file. The tome's tendrils slid through the skin of my scrotum as if it weren't there, plunging into my woefully undersized human testicles.

Drawing from the deliciously vile mana that suffused the air, the tome transformed the raw magical potential into a thick mutagenic slurry that it began to pump into my nuts, which greedily drank every last drop the eldritch book had to offer. Within a few moments I had vastly improved my capacities to function as a Strumprat as a big, thick black-green donkey dick jutted proudly from between my still woefully unfurred legs.

I plunged my fingers into the eager slit that drooled glowing goo, my precum having been tainted from the mutagens that were continuing to be pumped into my balls and from my balls into the rest of my body. I wanted my big fat rat nuts and the big fat rat body that went along with them. Not obese mind you, just pleasing plump, properly thicc, padded and snuggly and soft to hold and behold.

I directed the mana and the mutagen alike to where they were most needed: the base of my spine. How could I ever call myself a ratling when I was bereft of our most wondrous appendage? My new tail began to slither free from the base of my spine as if it had been waiting there all my human life, just waiting upon the fated touch of pestilent mana to free itself into the world. A long, flexible, and deliciously textured length and girth that soon blossomed into several feet of sweet, blissful length. I took hold of it and crammed the end into my cock, using it as a sounding rod to pleasure my eldritch parasite of a rod of a different sort.

The generous Archvyl had decreed that it was unfair that our people be forever limited to the sexual pleasures of one sort of genitals or the other, and as a result 75% of ratlings had penises and 75% had vaginas. It was a 50/50 chance that a lady would be born or created with a cock, or a man with a pussy of his own to play with. And as a result Couratesans and Strumprats did what we could to be able to best service the needs and desires of our clients.

Alas, Fellstar and the Archvyl had not seen fit to bless me with a pussy and I would not interfere with their divine wisdom. But I could make myself an alternative. Particularly as my tome had been blessed with the knowledge of a lovely beast that would surely provide the core of the Daughters of Fellstar's animal husbandry (in more ways than one) here on Earth.

The delectable Ratyena drew upon the gender-norm defying dynamic of the hyena family, with powerful, dominant females infused with physical might over their smaller male counterparts, as well as sporting lovely pseudopenises that allowed for function as both cock and cunt. Except without the whole impregnation thing. But our gods had defied the natural order to bring ratlingkind to where we were today, and as a biomancer whose job it was to not merely spit in the face of nature, but cover the bitch from head to toe in my cum for the mother of all bukkake sessions, I could improve upon that.

Giving myself a proper womb was beyond me, as functional ovaries were something that only the Great System could provide, but I could easily splice the aspects of the oh so sexy yeenis into my own member to let my clients gleefully fuck the slit of my titanic equine manhood that would show my flesh-smithing prowess by creating a pussy far better than what evolution had intended.

Mutagens, mana, and a hormonal cocktail of my own design flooded my body, beginning to work wonders upon my hideous twice-over manflesh. I gleefully tailfucked my new quasi-pussy as the masculine shape of my body soon began to smooth over.

I could hear the gurgling of expanding flesh and the stretching of skin as my body bloated in all the right places. Mostly tits, hips, and ass. Strumprats mostly tended to ratlings rather than the various sorts of man-kin, and the bulk of our kind had nice, hard cocks that delighted in a body with womanly curves, even if they were on a man.

I let out a moan as my bones began to pop and crack in a pleasurable way, releasing a sort of metaphysical tension that I had never known they had until it was gone. Sure, I could certainly guide the process in a different direction, but I was not meant to be a warrior. I was meant for fucking, meant to look small and inoffensive and comparatively harmless. It was harder to do that when you were close to six feet tall instead of four.

But my human body had all this lovely mass to work with and I wasn't going to just casually toss it aside by turning it into cum and blasting it out of my lovely new cock, or turn it into delicious, mutagenic, ever so slightly addictive milk in my big, fat tits. I had cultivated all this biomass by myself and I was going to keep what I earned, compressing my body downward, yet outward.

I had already assured that my womanly proportions were exaggerated and ridiculous, something any plastic surgery addicted porn starlet would have ripped off her own recently worked on nose in order to attain. It was unnatural, almost grotesque with how I had arranged my hourglass figure. Biomancy reinforced just a little bit with a feedback loop of corrupted energies to give off a sort of supernormal stimulus effect.

For man-things my body shape was something akin to those beer bottles that drove Australian beetles mad with lust as they appeared to be a bigger, grander, more desirable female than could ever have possibly existed in nature.

That was me now, a sexy ratling manwhore that was more woman than any human female would have ever hoped to be. My no longer undersized incisors worried cutely at my lush, oversized lips, which I had tinted the same green-black as my corrupt parasite cock and my oversized, leaking nipples.

Perhaps leaking wasn't quite the right word, perhaps drooling was more appropriate. Just like the rest of my openings, as I had to make sure I'd be able to accommodate the length and girth of nearly any man or beast, they were delightfully sensitive and stretchy. How better to serve as many clients in such a short time as possible by giving them two more wonderfully fuckable holes to fill with their cocks?

My arms and legs were properly rodentine now, the silly flat human nails replaced by short, sharp claws. My dextrous fingers capable of delicate wonders that made the human analogs look like the clumsy flippers of a seal or a dolphin, the actions of a skilled surgeon more like ineffectual fumblings compared to what I could perform.

I was in the unique position to select my own fur color. Tracing back to our ancient roots, black and grey fur held special places of prominence as belonging to warriors and wizards and the rare albino being a great omen of things to come.

But I was special, unique, and how better to advertise this by customizing myself to have a fur color that wasn't possible through even the most depraved interspecies breeding program? The sector was undergoing its own reform-ratting into a sprawling underground cavern complex filled with its own thriving biosphere where life gleefully grew in abundance without the nourishment of sunlight, instead greedily slurping up the chaotic mana that bubbled and writhed up from the deposits of Vylstone that grew from the proximity to the Abyssal Depths.

I took my coloration from the Vylshrooms which themselves took their eerie green luminescence from the faint traces of Vylstone that they had incorporated into themselves. I had no reason to fear deformity, fear cancer, fear radiation sickness. My body had been blessed by the gods to ignore all those things. The warping power of Vylstone would never harm me, it was a friend, a lover, and a weapon to wield. Oh I would certainly mutate, but the worst I would receive would be something novel and neutral, never detrimental. And if I was lucky it would be something fun.

I watched with delight as my glowing green fur began to sprout, eradicating my bare human skin along with it, leaving only the places that a proper rat ought to have hairless. The lower limbs, the tail, and the nose.

Alas, my glasses were no longer suited to staying on my rapidly improving face. The nose piece was far too small to stay in place upon my long, proud, and majestic snout and the legs could no longer properly seat themselves even so, as my now much larger ears had moved up to a place of prominence higher on my head.

I liked the harmless, nerdy look they gave me and as the manipulation of biological matter was my dominion, I formed mana into a pair of pince-nez glasses that would stay in place upon my stately and sexy snoot. Tortoiseshell glasses made from an analog of actual tortoiseshell.

I had kept some human-like features to my face. Man-kin found solid black eyes disturbing, so I had kept the general human look of my eyes. Whites out the outside, rings of color for an iris, and then a pupil. I made them heart shaped of course, and then tweaked my nipples to be the same. Just another way to advertise my services and use my own body as a billboard.

I added a few little black hearts to my fur in a few places, one on my face as a beauty mark, a few on my tail, and of course a cluster on each hip and a row of them on my lower back. What kind of a tramp would I be without the official stamp, and if I was going to be a brightly colored, exaggeratedly feminine demi-beast that could do magic, I might as well give myself a cutie mark.

Oh, and while I was at it I added a jagged, semi-spiral horn based off the mythological unicorn (which I stole from a certain species of bug-horse) to my forehead. Horns upon a ratling showed that we had magical prowess, and I certainly had it in spades even if it wasn't the standard sort of divinely vile magic that Thauraturges drew upon.

As one last touch, I grew out my hair. A simple thing for a biomancer to accomplish, since I was merely accelerating the natural growth. I tweaked the coloration, of course. Just one more thing to be a physical sign of my lifeshaping prowess as sort of flying a banner as an advertisement. Hmm, flying a banner, or perhaps something like a flag?

I giggled again as I chose my hair's coloration based on a particular flag. I suppose it was kind of true for me as I had been a human man who had replaced pretty much all of that in order to become a very shapely ratling woman and added additional biological augmentations on top of that. So not only was I transgender, I was also transpecies and transhuman.

With my biological reform-ratting complete and my form tweaked to my liking I now had time to enjoy the sweet sensation that my vastly improved body gave me. I flopped back on my bed, one hand's fingers penetrating my oh-so-fuckable nipples while the other stroked my parasitic cock that was currently crammed full of well-textured tail.

Hmm, perhaps a few more tweaks? I didn't need to experience any more pleasure than I already did, but my clients certainly could. Being able to use my tail as another fucktoy meant another ratling that I could potentially pleasure at the same time. There was something present in my magic, a guiding force that helped the designs along as I used my mana to change the texture of my tail again and again, seeking to improve its capacity to function as a pussy-pleasuring sex toy.

I pondered adding tentacles, but keeping my appearance as close to the standard man-kin loadout would keep me better served in a diplomatic role. Oh certainly I could make them retractable, but it would also mean that I wasn't openly displaying the products of my craft and no respectable biomancer would keep her creations hidden, no-no! They needed to be openly shown so that everybody could see my skill at manipulating the fleshy form.

I took my time pleasing myself, wanting to make sure that every single cubic inch of my body was functioning properly in order to both give and receive the sexual bliss that they were supposed to. I had nowhere that I needed to be at the moment, after all. The sector was still in the flux of reform-ratting.

Any humans caught up in the area were undergoing their own transformation into some kind of rat-themed man, beast, or manbeast and any of the other factions that had purchased a claim in order to try and get a foothold on my particular instance of Planet Earth wouldn't have arrived yet.

While it wasn't exactly a competition and we ultimately all served the same faction in the end, the two Players and the Ex-Player that were currently active in the sector and able to be interacted with were not my friends. I could see their names on the Great System, Emma and Angel were listed as the founders of the Errorat Brood, while Mei-Ling had Ling's Lings.

I was not a Broodmother and I did not desire to make myself one. I had been assigned as a Strumprat and a Strumprat I would remain. And yet I needed one in order to properly conduct operations, particularly if I was going to venture outside my starting sector of… Manrattan!

I degenerated ever so slightly further from a pile of squishy, wet noises and moans of pleasure to a pile of squishy, wet noises, moans of pleasure, and the occasional pun-induced giggle-snort. I think out of everything that had been done to me, that was the only truly hurtful alteration. Replace my memories of workplace information technology drudgery with working on my back to provide others (and myself) with orgasms that they were actually thankful to receive? That was fine! Being reshaped into a sexy shortstack rat mostly-girl? Not a problem! Rewire my brain to be a flesh-warping slut who literally got off on the idea of luring others into joining the (tee hee *snort*) rat race? Completely understandable!

But make it so I actually found rat and rodent based puns to be actual amusement that caused laughter rather than pained groaning? A wicked and truly vile alteration that proved you worthy of the title of Archvyl, my heinous and sinister liege!

Well, if I couldn't grab an easily available (in both definitions of the term) Broodmother, I suppose I would have to make my own! Let's see if there's anything interesting available, or if there's just generic units.

The three Broodmothers were already taken, of course. I supposed if I hadn't spent so much time reshaping myself and testing out my pleasure granting/receiving capabilities I might have been able to wander out into the zone and snag the ex-player that got renamed into Angel as a Broodmother for my own purposes.

There were also three non-Broodmothers listed as unique units. There was a ratyena named Fiend listed as Emma's familiar and thus already assigned. It'd be kind of dickish to summon a critter for your party that was somebody else's familiar. What kind of careless ass would do such a thing? Certainly not me!

The second was a Rattigar creatively named Tiger, who was also assigned to Errorat Brood and thus had already fallen into the clutches of the more active-seeming of my potential rivals. That was unfortunate, as a tiger base would provide for a bigger beastie to build my bountiful broodmother.

Oh no. It looks like my mind has also been warped to adore alliteration. Boo, buggery, and blast!

But the third, oh yes! The third was still available. Another ratyena, but her unique status effectively made her an elite unit, at least if her point cost in my Great System menu was anything to go by. She didn't have a name, but rather a title. Enigmatically dubbed "The Bride."

How interesting! There was a brief little history about her. Apparently Tiger, Mei, and she were all attendees of some kind of not-so-secret secret society gathering involving an ancient goddess of fertility and inter-species coupling. Mei was there as an investigative reporter and there to locate an item of power, and just so happened to be sitting on the altar connected to said artifact when Emma, her partner, breached a wall to a second artifact that was apparently the straw that broke the ratcamel's back and shattered the barrier between dimensions, requiring the Great System to intervene.

The event was reminiscent of those purity balls that I'd always found creepy as a human and found even creepier as a very horny ratling whose very divinely assigned task in existence was the complete and utter opposite of that. So of course I could totally get behind symbolically being wed to a beast and making out with your new animal husband (or wife, I don't judge) as part of a cult ritual devoting yourself to a fertility goddess. Which was what The Bride and Tiger were. The Bride was one of the human gals being ritualistically wedded to a cute lil boi yeen and Tiger had been one of the beasties to be wed.

Looks like everybody there got to be beasties. Not a single one of the other minions I could potentially purchase for myself was listed as a ratling. They were all mounts, potential familiars, guard animals, pack beasts, war beasts, and several that were listed as "slightly more useful than usual former CEOs."

Well, she'd already been reform-ratted and was probably my best option as a Broodmother. I was a busy guy-girl and wanted to get a move on with the whole shebang of fucking people into rathood. But where to go with that?

Hmm… Well, technically taking over the zoo would be fun. It would get me a lot of new genetic strains and traits to add to the faction's library and thus new toys for me to play with. But I was pretty sure that that would be something that my fellows in Clan Fleshmyth would gleefully dive into so hard they'd probably break their scrawny necks.

As an escapee from the Business Mines there sure would be an awful lot of human resources available that I could invest (my cum) into, retraining a bunch of otherwise useless wastes of space who had been rendered obsolete by a great big pile of simultaneous end of the world as we know it type events.

I'd be getting a leg up (my third leg) on the competition by getting to the potential pool of new hires earlier than I was supposed to. But honestly, what I had here was a faction full of oversexed, short-sighted, egotistical, corrupt, backstabbers who would take every penny that wasn't nailed down, that worshiped at the dark altar of a repugnant god. They were basically ratlings already! All I had to do was cross out "capitalism" and write in "Archvyl Meatristle and Fantomiel Fellstar" and maybe that one fertility goddess if I could ever find out what her name is, and then give them the disgusting rodentine bodies that matches their little black hearts and even blacker souls.

Why, not doing it would be doing the world a disservice! Just imagine everything that could have been accomplished if instead of sitting around waiting for the old and the sick to die in the name of profit, sacrificing them to the Almighty Dollar they just… you know, had to sacrifice people the old fashioned way. In person!

Why, if healthcare CEOs had to personally fuck everybody that their corporations fucked over there would be a whole lot less people getting metaphorically fucked in the world. And those that DID get fucked would start enjoying it pretty darned quickly as they succumbed to eldritch corruption and sexy ratlingdom.

It was a scenario where everybody was a winner!

Now, with my plans properly planned out, it was time to make them a reality!

I pulled a rather sticky hand out of my hyena half-cock/half-pussy and clicked the button I needed to summon forth my Bride to be!

A shame to crash her wedding party, but I had a Bride to brood!

Oooh! Crasher!

That sounds like an absolutely lovely name for a sexy Strumprat.

I think I'll take it!