NSFW Best Thread Ever [No SJW-related posts allowed]

[JarlFrank]

 

[Hell Swarm]

 

[Baron Dupek]

Sierra united

 

[Fedora Master]

Ah, Crispy in his early days

 

[JarlFrank]

 

[ds]

 

[Hag]

It takes a true degenerate to want to bang the undead.

Spoiler

A crackling ball of lightning caught Taylor's shoulder as he took a rolling dive across the ground in front of the tall pillars that stood guard in front of the compound that looked for all the world like a human skull. The structure was impossibly large, embedded into the volcanic surface of Hell. The all-too-familiar bloated red gasballs that floated across the bloodied battlefield drew a curse, and he put away the shotgun and grasped the chaingun that had become his trusted ally against the quickly approaching airborne menace. They moved faster than they looked capable of; that he had learned, and there would not be much time left before he would have to engage them in closer quarters.

He stood up, snarling wordlessly. The chaingun slung under an arm spat controlled fire. He had to deflate as many of the incoming fiends as he possibly could, while dodging or trying to absorb the vicious waves of charged projectiles. It was going to be close, he saw, because he was starting to run low on ammo, while the wave of cacodemons still looked close to endless. At last his chaingun spun empty, and he threw the useless weapon to the ground and drew the chainsaw, darting in to a turned floating head and daring to hold the chainsaw to the demon as it ripped through the thick hide that held the demons' coherence. In, and out ... in, and out, and the dead cacodemons piled up around him until at last, some minutes later that might as well have been hours later, he stood alone and unchallenged amongst the strewn bodies of his enemies.

Then he staggered, uncertain, and had to clutch one of the tall pillars that rose claw-like to the sky to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. He knew that he had taken serious injuries: his hand came away bloody as he wiped sweat from his forehead, and a sharp insistent pain in his midsection told him that he had used up all of his luck.

He looked to the backpack he had shrugged loose to the ground before he began this fight, and half-crawled, half-walked to it, seeking out that one package of last resort. The supply officer had issued him, and every one of the other marines, a dire warning on the use of the berserker pack. The ampoules contained within had the power, when combined, to start triggering all sorts of physiological effects, both desired and adverse. He had become well familiar with the red haze that would fall over his vision, that rush of strength and sense of power it imparted, and the insanely fast healing that would take place as the medicine coursed through his body. He would need all of it now, he thought, as he stared at the imposing building in front of him.

Taylor flung open the top of the pack and pulled out handfuls of ampoules, spreading them out on the ground. He glanced at the labels on the vials as he removed the hypodermic syringe from its pouch in the lid. Lidocaine. Benzedrine. Psylocin. Morphedenol. One by one he inserted them into the syringe, guiding with trembling hands the targeting probe over the pulsing vein below his bicep. As the clear liquids drained into his bloodstream he felt his muscles tightening, his sinews becoming taut. His heart beat furiously, and a strange sense of peace momently flooded through Taylor's body, before he felt the berserk beginning to kick in. It started at the tips of his fingers and toes, the tingling hypersensitivity of awakened nerve endings spreading up through his limbs, up his chest, until he could almost feel it welling up inside his brain, as the throes of the sudden fury rose like mercury to the top of his skull, almost as if it was ready to pop like a thermometer pushed beyond its limits. There was no more pain now, or perhaps there was nothing but pain -- there was no difference. He wasn't a human, he wasn't a mortal frail being broken and bleeding, he was a god, an angel of death, an unstoppable force against whom even the Devil himself would soon cower.

Rising to his feet, first unsteadily, but then with growing skill and ease, Taylor took a quick survey of his numerous injuries. Turning his bloodshot eyes towards the enormous deaths-head before him, then began to limp, then walk, then run, then sprint, into its gaping maw. He had left his provisions behind. He didn't need them; an empty chaingun and a near-broken chainsaw were worthless now. His vision warped and blurred as he leaped over the enormous statue's teeth, racing down into its gullet. Imps! Twenty, no, twenty-four of them, were perched inside, waiting for him, beckoning for his approach. With magical gestures, clouds of flame began springing forth from their outstretched hands, but Taylor was too quick for them, jumping and diving and weaving through the balls of fire, like an unstoppable juggernaut. His clenched fist, made of tempered steel, weighing a thousand pounds but light as a feather, hung back as he raced to meet the first of the creatures, before whipping forward, driving right through the ugly beast's head, blood and brain exploding from the imp's face as it flew back ten feet. More fire, more flame. The imps cackled and screamed, Taylor spun like a whirling dervish, the inertia of his fists never subsiding, connecting with jaws and eye sockets and horns, cracking and ripping and shattering the demon's vile forms, the rakes of their claws mere tickles. The two dozen imps quickly were reduced to piles on the floor, and for the first time in what seemed like hours Taylor inhaled, the red haze in his vision diminishing a shade, as the amorphous forms around him congealed into definite shapes, and he saw one last imp before him, cowering behind a pillar.

Momentarily confused, he stood there and stared through the bloody haze that clouded his vision at the lone imp that hid, crouching, behind the pillar that held at its tip a still-beating heart, and wondering why he had not killed it already, with the rest. Suddenly his breath caught, and he realized with his heightened sense of smell that the horned creature there was female, seeing also for the first time, at the same time, the small rounded breasts tipped not by wickedly sharp bone but by rounded nubs of calcified deposits, that all the angles of the male imp form softened into a feminine shape, and he was so gloriously aware that it was female. He realized that the magnificent creature that was attempting to hide from his fury was frightened of him, and hot blood coursed through his body, arousing him. Hardly believing what he was doing, he stepped towards the imp, which looked to be of an age that he thought no more than just into full adulthood. In shock, responding purely to his instinctual hormonal desires, he pulled the imp to her clawed feet and, as she stoodhere trembling, his roving hungry gaze crawled up one side of her leathery body and down the other, drinking in what his eyes beheld.

Tightly grasping the she-imp by the shoulders, he spun her around, flinging her against the uneven wall. Through the rough, cobbled surface of her skin, he could feel the spiked protrusions scraping against the wall as the imp struggled slightly against his mighty grip. His glance darted between the imp's eight spiderlike eyes, pure black, reminding him of pools of still water. The imp stared back at him, panting heavily, jerking unsuccessfully against the iron grip of the marine, seeming to wonder why she was not yet dead. Taylor could tell that the imp was scared. It was a expression he'd seen countless times from the dim eyes of every demon or zombie he'd slaughtered, the haze lifting a split second before they expired, when the grim realization of their impending death momentarily vaulted their conciousness out of the fog of their decaying brains. But this one was different.

His vision pumped red with every heartbeat. For endless months he'd battled the spawns of Hell, with no more human contact than the occasional corpse. For months he had been alone, desperately alone; it was not the thought of death which filled his mind with terror in the quiet hours, for he'd long expected to die. Instead it was the thought that he would never again connect with another human being, another sentient creature. For what seemed like forever he'd only communed with the demons of Hell, and even their vain attempts to destroy him could have held solace if he'd detected a note of real intelligence behind their actions instead of the puppetry of a distant power, animating their flesh with the merest semblance of order needed for action. But in this imp that he held here, he detected -- he thought he detected -- a gleam of real intelligence, if not of a soul then whatever passed for such a thing down here in Hell. Could he connect with this imp? With this- female? His fingers dug into the thick hide of the creature, which snarled with anewed fear and rage. Taylor relished the moment. Here was another real living thing, not just an avatar, but something that he could almost feel thinking, neuronal impulses somehow sparking inside that demon head of hers.

He couldn't pass the opportunity. How long had it been now? Months? Years? He faintly recalled the last time, the quick breathing, flesh pressing together, grunts and moans. He'd never quite resigned himself to the thought that he'd never experience it again, but here was a creature -- a woman? -- that seemed real to him. Or, at least, real. Moving one hand over her throat, he began shrugging off the outer layer of his combat armor.

Yet, in the back of his mind, the last remaining small shred of rationality told him that his steady stream of thoughts were nothing but small justification for what he was about to do. He was about to enjoy what he had not for so long, as the chemicals and hormones coursing through his body have left him no choice but to do. He could not stop now, no more than he could have stopped killing the group of imps just moments earlier that now lay dead at his feet. That his intended victim wasn't even human was nothing more than a vague passing concern as his sanity's last gasp fled in the face of the chemical-induced berserk state and he pressed himself against the imp.

She sensed his intent, and redoubled her attempts to struggle against Taylor's hot body. Her claws flicked in and out of their sheaths at her fingertips as she fought him with renewed vigor. But under the influence of the berserker pack, he was too strong, too fast, too determined to let her push him away. His arms suffered numerous scores, all of which were ignored as he pressed the imp's arms out to either side and held them down. She snarled and bit at him but he held his face away from her jaw. He bent his head towards the swell of her breasts and started licking at her pebbled skin. It was not soft like the skin of the women he'd been with before, in what seemed like a past life now, but at this moment he did not care--indeed, at this point her skin might well have been the smoothest silk.

Straightening up again, he began unbuckling his belt, the berserker drugs doing nothing to stop the trembling in his fingers, trembling not born of pain or injury but of excitement and lust. He fumbled with the zipper and soon his combat-issue pants were around his ankles. He stood there, a grotesque spectacle, pressing the imp against the rock with one hand, his own marine flag standing at full salute. He grabbed the imp's wrist and pressed it above her head, her struggles not as resolute as before, and slid his tongue around and around what passed for her right nipple. He felt the imp shudder slightly, and flung her down onto the warm stone floor, straddling her as he took in her full form.

He bent over her momentarily stunned form and quickly slid his erect cock into the imp's cunt. The walls of her pussy were tight, but he soon achieved a rhythmic pounding motion. The ineffectual struggling the imp put up soon began to stop, and she began responding to his sexual assault. Her unblinking cluster of eyes turnereflection of his carnal desire their depths. The claws in her fingertips retracted as he released his hold on her arms, and she seemed to smile up at him, forcing a rictus grin on to her face that it was never built to hold. She grasped him with her hands, supporting his torso on either side, and then holding them behind his back to push him in her harder. He lost himself even further in the violent pangs of animal passion.

The couple adjusted their positions, rolling Taylor to the ground as the imp sat astride him. She propped up her body by splaying her arms to the sides as she started sliding herself up and down Taylor's slick shaft. As he felt himself coming closer and closer to the edge, he grabbed the imp's waist and started adding his own thrusting and pumping to her own efforts.

With one final thrust Taylor felt himself reach the brink, and as climax bore down on him the red haze returned. The contractions rippled through his body and he thought of what brought him here, the billions dead, the fierce battles that raged around him day after day, the blood and pus and bile that had soaked his clothes for months as he battled an endless army in the most horrible place imaginable. This creature was one of them, this imp that he had been drawn in by, and as he looked up at her once more, no longer did he see a fellow living being, but another cog in the enormous demonic machine that was responsible for all the evil in the world. As the final spasms washed through him, his lust was displaced by a incredible disgust and hatred, hatred towards this... thing on top of him, as well as for what he was doing. The creature looked down at him, not understanding, and with deliberate speed he reached up and wrenched its head a full 180 degrees, a sickening series of crunches affirming that the creature was now dead. He pushed the beat off of him and gasped for air. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to keep moving. He had a long way to go.


Source : the late impse.cx

 

[Rövtomte]

It takes a true degenerate to want to bang the undead.

Spoiler

View attachment 52861

A crackling ball of lightning caught Taylor's shoulder as he took a rolling dive across the ground in front of the tall pillars that stood guard in front of the compound that looked for all the world like a human skull. The structure was impossibly large, embedded into the volcanic surface of Hell. The all-too-familiar bloated red gasballs that floated across the bloodied battlefield drew a curse, and he put away the shotgun and grasped the chaingun that had become his trusted ally against the quickly approaching airborne menace. They moved faster than they looked capable of; that he had learned, and there would not be much time left before he would have to engage them in closer quarters.

He stood up, snarling wordlessly. The chaingun slung under an arm spat controlled fire. He had to deflate as many of the incoming fiends as he possibly could, while dodging or trying to absorb the vicious waves of charged projectiles. It was going to be close, he saw, because he was starting to run low on ammo, while the wave of cacodemons still looked close to endless. At last his chaingun spun empty, and he threw the useless weapon to the ground and drew the chainsaw, darting in to a turned floating head and daring to hold the chainsaw to the demon as it ripped through the thick hide that held the demons' coherence. In, and out ... in, and out, and the dead cacodemons piled up around him until at last, some minutes later that might as well have been hours later, he stood alone and unchallenged amongst the strewn bodies of his enemies.

Then he staggered, uncertain, and had to clutch one of the tall pillars that rose claw-like to the sky to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. He knew that he had taken serious injuries: his hand came away bloody as he wiped sweat from his forehead, and a sharp insistent pain in his midsection told him that he had used up all of his luck.

He looked to the backpack he had shrugged loose to the ground before he began this fight, and half-crawled, half-walked to it, seeking out that one package of last resort. The supply officer had issued him, and every one of the other marines, a dire warning on the use of the berserker pack. The ampoules contained within had the power, when combined, to start triggering all sorts of physiological effects, both desired and adverse. He had become well familiar with the red haze that would fall over his vision, that rush of strength and sense of power it imparted, and the insanely fast healing that would take place as the medicine coursed through his body. He would need all of it now, he thought, as he stared at the imposing building in front of him.

Taylor flung open the top of the pack and pulled out handfuls of ampoules, spreading them out on the ground. He glanced at the labels on the vials as he removed the hypodermic syringe from its pouch in the lid. Lidocaine. Benzedrine. Psylocin. Morphedenol. One by one he inserted them into the syringe, guiding with trembling hands the targeting probe over the pulsing vein below his bicep. As the clear liquids drained into his bloodstream he felt his muscles tightening, his sinews becoming taut. His heart beat furiously, and a strange sense of peace momently flooded through Taylor's body, before he felt the berserk beginning to kick in. It started at the tips of his fingers and toes, the tingling hypersensitivity of awakened nerve endings spreading up through his limbs, up his chest, until he could almost feel it welling up inside his brain, as the throes of the sudden fury rose like mercury to the top of his skull, almost as if it was ready to pop like a thermometer pushed beyond its limits. There was no more pain now, or perhaps there was nothing but pain -- there was no difference. He wasn't a human, he wasn't a mortal frail being broken and bleeding, he was a god, an angel of death, an unstoppable force against whom even the Devil himself would soon cower.

Rising to his feet, first unsteadily, but then with growing skill and ease, Taylor took a quick survey of his numerous injuries. Turning his bloodshot eyes towards the enormous deaths-head before him, then began to limp, then walk, then run, then sprint, into its gaping maw. He had left his provisions behind. He didn't need them; an empty chaingun and a near-broken chainsaw were worthless now. His vision warped and blurred as he leaped over the enormous statue's teeth, racing down into its gullet. Imps! Twenty, no, twenty-four of them, were perched inside, waiting for him, beckoning for his approach. With magical gestures, clouds of flame began springing forth from their outstretched hands, but Taylor was too quick for them, jumping and diving and weaving through the balls of fire, like an unstoppable juggernaut. His clenched fist, made of tempered steel, weighing a thousand pounds but light as a feather, hung back as he raced to meet the first of the creatures, before whipping forward, driving right through the ugly beast's head, blood and brain exploding from the imp's face as it flew back ten feet. More fire, more flame. The imps cackled and screamed, Taylor spun like a whirling dervish, the inertia of his fists never subsiding, connecting with jaws and eye sockets and horns, cracking and ripping and shattering the demon's vile forms, the rakes of their claws mere tickles. The two dozen imps quickly were reduced to piles on the floor, and for the first time in what seemed like hours Taylor inhaled, the red haze in his vision diminishing a shade, as the amorphous forms around him congealed into definite shapes, and he saw one last imp before him, cowering behind a pillar.

Momentarily confused, he stood there and stared through the bloody haze that clouded his vision at the lone imp that hid, crouching, behind the pillar that held at its tip a still-beating heart, and wondering why he had not killed it already, with the rest. Suddenly his breath caught, and he realized with his heightened sense of smell that the horned creature there was female, seeing also for the first time, at the same time, the small rounded breasts tipped not by wickedly sharp bone but by rounded nubs of calcified deposits, that all the angles of the male imp form softened into a feminine shape, and he was so gloriously aware that it was female. He realized that the magnificent creature that was attempting to hide from his fury was frightened of him, and hot blood coursed through his body, arousing him. Hardly believing what he was doing, he stepped towards the imp, which looked to be of an age that he thought no more than just into full adulthood. In shock, responding purely to his instinctual hormonal desires, he pulled the imp to her clawed feet and, as she stoodhere trembling, his roving hungry gaze crawled up one side of her leathery body and down the other, drinking in what his eyes beheld.

Tightly grasping the she-imp by the shoulders, he spun her around, flinging her against the uneven wall. Through the rough, cobbled surface of her skin, he could feel the spiked protrusions scraping against the wall as the imp struggled slightly against his mighty grip. His glance darted between the imp's eight spiderlike eyes, pure black, reminding him of pools of still water. The imp stared back at him, panting heavily, jerking unsuccessfully against the iron grip of the marine, seeming to wonder why she was not yet dead. Taylor could tell that the imp was scared. It was a expression he'd seen countless times from the dim eyes of every demon or zombie he'd slaughtered, the haze lifting a split second before they expired, when the grim realization of their impending death momentarily vaulted their conciousness out of the fog of their decaying brains. But this one was different.

His vision pumped red with every heartbeat. For endless months he'd battled the spawns of Hell, with no more human contact than the occasional corpse. For months he had been alone, desperately alone; it was not the thought of death which filled his mind with terror in the quiet hours, for he'd long expected to die. Instead it was the thought that he would never again connect with another human being, another sentient creature. For what seemed like forever he'd only communed with the demons of Hell, and even their vain attempts to destroy him could have held solace if he'd detected a note of real intelligence behind their actions instead of the puppetry of a distant power, animating their flesh with the merest semblance of order needed for action. But in this imp that he held here, he detected -- he thought he detected -- a gleam of real intelligence, if not of a soul then whatever passed for such a thing down here in Hell. Could he connect with this imp? With this- female? His fingers dug into the thick hide of the creature, which snarled with anewed fear and rage. Taylor relished the moment. Here was another real living thing, not just an avatar, but something that he could almost feel thinking, neuronal impulses somehow sparking inside that demon head of hers.

He couldn't pass the opportunity. How long had it been now? Months? Years? He faintly recalled the last time, the quick breathing, flesh pressing together, grunts and moans. He'd never quite resigned himself to the thought that he'd never experience it again, but here was a creature -- a woman? -- that seemed real to him. Or, at least, real. Moving one hand over her throat, he began shrugging off the outer layer of his combat armor.

Yet, in the back of his mind, the last remaining small shred of rationality told him that his steady stream of thoughts were nothing but small justification for what he was about to do. He was about to enjoy what he had not for so long, as the chemicals and hormones coursing through his body have left him no choice but to do. He could not stop now, no more than he could have stopped killing the group of imps just moments earlier that now lay dead at his feet. That his intended victim wasn't even human was nothing more than a vague passing concern as his sanity's last gasp fled in the face of the chemical-induced berserk state and he pressed himself against the imp.

She sensed his intent, and redoubled her attempts to struggle against Taylor's hot body. Her claws flicked in and out of their sheaths at her fingertips as she fought him with renewed vigor. But under the influence of the berserker pack, he was too strong, too fast, too determined to let her push him away. His arms suffered numerous scores, all of which were ignored as he pressed the imp's arms out to either side and held them down. She snarled and bit at him but he held his face away from her jaw. He bent his head towards the swell of her breasts and started licking at her pebbled skin. It was not soft like the skin of the women he'd been with before, in what seemed like a past life now, but at this moment he did not care--indeed, at this point her skin might well have been the smoothest silk.

Straightening up again, he began unbuckling his belt, the berserker drugs doing nothing to stop the trembling in his fingers, trembling not born of pain or injury but of excitement and lust. He fumbled with the zipper and soon his combat-issue pants were around his ankles. He stood there, a grotesque spectacle, pressing the imp against the rock with one hand, his own marine flag standing at full salute. He grabbed the imp's wrist and pressed it above her head, her struggles not as resolute as before, and slid his tongue around and around what passed for her right nipple. He felt the imp shudder slightly, and flung her down onto the warm stone floor, straddling her as he took in her full form.

He bent over her momentarily stunned form and quickly slid his erect cock into the imp's cunt. The walls of her pussy were tight, but he soon achieved a rhythmic pounding motion. The ineffectual struggling the imp put up soon began to stop, and she began responding to his sexual assault. Her unblinking cluster of eyes turnereflection of his carnal desire their depths. The claws in her fingertips retracted as he released his hold on her arms, and she seemed to smile up at him, forcing a rictus grin on to her face that it was never built to hold. She grasped him with her hands, supporting his torso on either side, and then holding them behind his back to push him in her harder. He lost himself even further in the violent pangs of animal passion.

The couple adjusted their positions, rolling Taylor to the ground as the imp sat astride him. She propped up her body by splaying her arms to the sides as she started sliding herself up and down Taylor's slick shaft. As he felt himself coming closer and closer to the edge, he grabbed the imp's waist and started adding his own thrusting and pumping to her own efforts.

With one final thrust Taylor felt himself reach the brink, and as climax bore down on him the red haze returned. The contractions rippled through his body and he thought of what brought him here, the billions dead, the fierce battles that raged around him day after day, the blood and pus and bile that had soaked his clothes for months as he battled an endless army in the most horrible place imaginable. This creature was one of them, this imp that he had been drawn in by, and as he looked up at her once more, no longer did he see a fellow living being, but another cog in the enormous demonic machine that was responsible for all the evil in the world. As the final spasms washed through him, his lust was displaced by a incredible disgust and hatred, hatred towards this... thing on top of him, as well as for what he was doing. The creature looked down at him, not understanding, and with deliberate speed he reached up and wrenched its head a full 180 degrees, a sickening series of crunches affirming that the creature was now dead. He pushed the beat off of him and gasped for air. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to keep moving. He had a long way to go.


Source : the late impse.cx

Why?

 

[Hag]

It takes a true degenerate to want to bang the undead.

Spoiler

View attachment 52861

A crackling ball of lightning caught Taylor's shoulder as he took a rolling dive across the ground in front of the tall pillars that stood guard in front of the compound that looked for all the world like a human skull. The structure was impossibly large, embedded into the volcanic surface of Hell. The all-too-familiar bloated red gasballs that floated across the bloodied battlefield drew a curse, and he put away the shotgun and grasped the chaingun that had become his trusted ally against the quickly approaching airborne menace. They moved faster than they looked capable of; that he had learned, and there would not be much time left before he would have to engage them in closer quarters.

He stood up, snarling wordlessly. The chaingun slung under an arm spat controlled fire. He had to deflate as many of the incoming fiends as he possibly could, while dodging or trying to absorb the vicious waves of charged projectiles. It was going to be close, he saw, because he was starting to run low on ammo, while the wave of cacodemons still looked close to endless. At last his chaingun spun empty, and he threw the useless weapon to the ground and drew the chainsaw, darting in to a turned floating head and daring to hold the chainsaw to the demon as it ripped through the thick hide that held the demons' coherence. In, and out ... in, and out, and the dead cacodemons piled up around him until at last, some minutes later that might as well have been hours later, he stood alone and unchallenged amongst the strewn bodies of his enemies.

Then he staggered, uncertain, and had to clutch one of the tall pillars that rose claw-like to the sky to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. He knew that he had taken serious injuries: his hand came away bloody as he wiped sweat from his forehead, and a sharp insistent pain in his midsection told him that he had used up all of his luck.

He looked to the backpack he had shrugged loose to the ground before he began this fight, and half-crawled, half-walked to it, seeking out that one package of last resort. The supply officer had issued him, and every one of the other marines, a dire warning on the use of the berserker pack. The ampoules contained within had the power, when combined, to start triggering all sorts of physiological effects, both desired and adverse. He had become well familiar with the red haze that would fall over his vision, that rush of strength and sense of power it imparted, and the insanely fast healing that would take place as the medicine coursed through his body. He would need all of it now, he thought, as he stared at the imposing building in front of him.

Taylor flung open the top of the pack and pulled out handfuls of ampoules, spreading them out on the ground. He glanced at the labels on the vials as he removed the hypodermic syringe from its pouch in the lid. Lidocaine. Benzedrine. Psylocin. Morphedenol. One by one he inserted them into the syringe, guiding with trembling hands the targeting probe over the pulsing vein below his bicep. As the clear liquids drained into his bloodstream he felt his muscles tightening, his sinews becoming taut. His heart beat furiously, and a strange sense of peace momently flooded through Taylor's body, before he felt the berserk beginning to kick in. It started at the tips of his fingers and toes, the tingling hypersensitivity of awakened nerve endings spreading up through his limbs, up his chest, until he could almost feel it welling up inside his brain, as the throes of the sudden fury rose like mercury to the top of his skull, almost as if it was ready to pop like a thermometer pushed beyond its limits. There was no more pain now, or perhaps there was nothing but pain -- there was no difference. He wasn't a human, he wasn't a mortal frail being broken and bleeding, he was a god, an angel of death, an unstoppable force against whom even the Devil himself would soon cower.

Rising to his feet, first unsteadily, but then with growing skill and ease, Taylor took a quick survey of his numerous injuries. Turning his bloodshot eyes towards the enormous deaths-head before him, then began to limp, then walk, then run, then sprint, into its gaping maw. He had left his provisions behind. He didn't need them; an empty chaingun and a near-broken chainsaw were worthless now. His vision warped and blurred as he leaped over the enormous statue's teeth, racing down into its gullet. Imps! Twenty, no, twenty-four of them, were perched inside, waiting for him, beckoning for his approach. With magical gestures, clouds of flame began springing forth from their outstretched hands, but Taylor was too quick for them, jumping and diving and weaving through the balls of fire, like an unstoppable juggernaut. His clenched fist, made of tempered steel, weighing a thousand pounds but light as a feather, hung back as he raced to meet the first of the creatures, before whipping forward, driving right through the ugly beast's head, blood and brain exploding from the imp's face as it flew back ten feet. More fire, more flame. The imps cackled and screamed, Taylor spun like a whirling dervish, the inertia of his fists never subsiding, connecting with jaws and eye sockets and horns, cracking and ripping and shattering the demon's vile forms, the rakes of their claws mere tickles. The two dozen imps quickly were reduced to piles on the floor, and for the first time in what seemed like hours Taylor inhaled, the red haze in his vision diminishing a shade, as the amorphous forms around him congealed into definite shapes, and he saw one last imp before him, cowering behind a pillar.

Momentarily confused, he stood there and stared through the bloody haze that clouded his vision at the lone imp that hid, crouching, behind the pillar that held at its tip a still-beating heart, and wondering why he had not killed it already, with the rest. Suddenly his breath caught, and he realized with his heightened sense of smell that the horned creature there was female, seeing also for the first time, at the same time, the small rounded breasts tipped not by wickedly sharp bone but by rounded nubs of calcified deposits, that all the angles of the male imp form softened into a feminine shape, and he was so gloriously aware that it was female. He realized that the magnificent creature that was attempting to hide from his fury was frightened of him, and hot blood coursed through his body, arousing him. Hardly believing what he was doing, he stepped towards the imp, which looked to be of an age that he thought no more than just into full adulthood. In shock, responding purely to his instinctual hormonal desires, he pulled the imp to her clawed feet and, as she stoodhere trembling, his roving hungry gaze crawled up one side of her leathery body and down the other, drinking in what his eyes beheld.

Tightly grasping the she-imp by the shoulders, he spun her around, flinging her against the uneven wall. Through the rough, cobbled surface of her skin, he could feel the spiked protrusions scraping against the wall as the imp struggled slightly against his mighty grip. His glance darted between the imp's eight spiderlike eyes, pure black, reminding him of pools of still water. The imp stared back at him, panting heavily, jerking unsuccessfully against the iron grip of the marine, seeming to wonder why she was not yet dead. Taylor could tell that the imp was scared. It was a expression he'd seen countless times from the dim eyes of every demon or zombie he'd slaughtered, the haze lifting a split second before they expired, when the grim realization of their impending death momentarily vaulted their conciousness out of the fog of their decaying brains. But this one was different.

His vision pumped red with every heartbeat. For endless months he'd battled the spawns of Hell, with no more human contact than the occasional corpse. For months he had been alone, desperately alone; it was not the thought of death which filled his mind with terror in the quiet hours, for he'd long expected to die. Instead it was the thought that he would never again connect with another human being, another sentient creature. For what seemed like forever he'd only communed with the demons of Hell, and even their vain attempts to destroy him could have held solace if he'd detected a note of real intelligence behind their actions instead of the puppetry of a distant power, animating their flesh with the merest semblance of order needed for action. But in this imp that he held here, he detected -- he thought he detected -- a gleam of real intelligence, if not of a soul then whatever passed for such a thing down here in Hell. Could he connect with this imp? With this- female? His fingers dug into the thick hide of the creature, which snarled with anewed fear and rage. Taylor relished the moment. Here was another real living thing, not just an avatar, but something that he could almost feel thinking, neuronal impulses somehow sparking inside that demon head of hers.

He couldn't pass the opportunity. How long had it been now? Months? Years? He faintly recalled the last time, the quick breathing, flesh pressing together, grunts and moans. He'd never quite resigned himself to the thought that he'd never experience it again, but here was a creature -- a woman? -- that seemed real to him. Or, at least, real. Moving one hand over her throat, he began shrugging off the outer layer of his combat armor.

Yet, in the back of his mind, the last remaining small shred of rationality told him that his steady stream of thoughts were nothing but small justification for what he was about to do. He was about to enjoy what he had not for so long, as the chemicals and hormones coursing through his body have left him no choice but to do. He could not stop now, no more than he could have stopped killing the group of imps just moments earlier that now lay dead at his feet. That his intended victim wasn't even human was nothing more than a vague passing concern as his sanity's last gasp fled in the face of the chemical-induced berserk state and he pressed himself against the imp.

She sensed his intent, and redoubled her attempts to struggle against Taylor's hot body. Her claws flicked in and out of their sheaths at her fingertips as she fought him with renewed vigor. But under the influence of the berserker pack, he was too strong, too fast, too determined to let her push him away. His arms suffered numerous scores, all of which were ignored as he pressed the imp's arms out to either side and held them down. She snarled and bit at him but he held his face away from her jaw. He bent his head towards the swell of her breasts and started licking at her pebbled skin. It was not soft like the skin of the women he'd been with before, in what seemed like a past life now, but at this moment he did not care--indeed, at this point her skin might well have been the smoothest silk.

Straightening up again, he began unbuckling his belt, the berserker drugs doing nothing to stop the trembling in his fingers, trembling not born of pain or injury but of excitement and lust. He fumbled with the zipper and soon his combat-issue pants were around his ankles. He stood there, a grotesque spectacle, pressing the imp against the rock with one hand, his own marine flag standing at full salute. He grabbed the imp's wrist and pressed it above her head, her struggles not as resolute as before, and slid his tongue around and around what passed for her right nipple. He felt the imp shudder slightly, and flung her down onto the warm stone floor, straddling her as he took in her full form.

He bent over her momentarily stunned form and quickly slid his erect cock into the imp's cunt. The walls of her pussy were tight, but he soon achieved a rhythmic pounding motion. The ineffectual struggling the imp put up soon began to stop, and she began responding to his sexual assault. Her unblinking cluster of eyes turnereflection of his carnal desire their depths. The claws in her fingertips retracted as he released his hold on her arms, and she seemed to smile up at him, forcing a rictus grin on to her face that it was never built to hold. She grasped him with her hands, supporting his torso on either side, and then holding them behind his back to push him in her harder. He lost himself even further in the violent pangs of animal passion.

The couple adjusted their positions, rolling Taylor to the ground as the imp sat astride him. She propped up her body by splaying her arms to the sides as she started sliding herself up and down Taylor's slick shaft. As he felt himself coming closer and closer to the edge, he grabbed the imp's waist and started adding his own thrusting and pumping to her own efforts.

With one final thrust Taylor felt himself reach the brink, and as climax bore down on him the red haze returned. The contractions rippled through his body and he thought of what brought him here, the billions dead, the fierce battles that raged around him day after day, the blood and pus and bile that had soaked his clothes for months as he battled an endless army in the most horrible place imaginable. This creature was one of them, this imp that he had been drawn in by, and as he looked up at her once more, no longer did he see a fellow living being, but another cog in the enormous demonic machine that was responsible for all the evil in the world. As the final spasms washed through him, his lust was displaced by a incredible disgust and hatred, hatred towards this... thing on top of him, as well as for what he was doing. The creature looked down at him, not understanding, and with deliberate speed he reached up and wrenched its head a full 180 degrees, a sickening series of crunches affirming that the creature was now dead. He pushed the beat off of him and gasped for air. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to keep moving. He had a long way to go.


Source : the late impse.cx

Why?

 

[ERYFKRAD]

It takes a true degenerate to want to bang the undead.

Spoiler

View attachment 52861

A crackling ball of lightning caught Taylor's shoulder as he took a rolling dive across the ground in front of the tall pillars that stood guard in front of the compound that looked for all the world like a human skull. The structure was impossibly large, embedded into the volcanic surface of Hell. The all-too-familiar bloated red gasballs that floated across the bloodied battlefield drew a curse, and he put away the shotgun and grasped the chaingun that had become his trusted ally against the quickly approaching airborne menace. They moved faster than they looked capable of; that he had learned, and there would not be much time left before he would have to engage them in closer quarters.

He stood up, snarling wordlessly. The chaingun slung under an arm spat controlled fire. He had to deflate as many of the incoming fiends as he possibly could, while dodging or trying to absorb the vicious waves of charged projectiles. It was going to be close, he saw, because he was starting to run low on ammo, while the wave of cacodemons still looked close to endless. At last his chaingun spun empty, and he threw the useless weapon to the ground and drew the chainsaw, darting in to a turned floating head and daring to hold the chainsaw to the demon as it ripped through the thick hide that held the demons' coherence. In, and out ... in, and out, and the dead cacodemons piled up around him until at last, some minutes later that might as well have been hours later, he stood alone and unchallenged amongst the strewn bodies of his enemies.

Then he staggered, uncertain, and had to clutch one of the tall pillars that rose claw-like to the sky to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. He knew that he had taken serious injuries: his hand came away bloody as he wiped sweat from his forehead, and a sharp insistent pain in his midsection told him that he had used up all of his luck.

He looked to the backpack he had shrugged loose to the ground before he began this fight, and half-crawled, half-walked to it, seeking out that one package of last resort. The supply officer had issued him, and every one of the other marines, a dire warning on the use of the berserker pack. The ampoules contained within had the power, when combined, to start triggering all sorts of physiological effects, both desired and adverse. He had become well familiar with the red haze that would fall over his vision, that rush of strength and sense of power it imparted, and the insanely fast healing that would take place as the medicine coursed through his body. He would need all of it now, he thought, as he stared at the imposing building in front of him.

Taylor flung open the top of the pack and pulled out handfuls of ampoules, spreading them out on the ground. He glanced at the labels on the vials as he removed the hypodermic syringe from its pouch in the lid. Lidocaine. Benzedrine. Psylocin. Morphedenol. One by one he inserted them into the syringe, guiding with trembling hands the targeting probe over the pulsing vein below his bicep. As the clear liquids drained into his bloodstream he felt his muscles tightening, his sinews becoming taut. His heart beat furiously, and a strange sense of peace momently flooded through Taylor's body, before he felt the berserk beginning to kick in. It started at the tips of his fingers and toes, the tingling hypersensitivity of awakened nerve endings spreading up through his limbs, up his chest, until he could almost feel it welling up inside his brain, as the throes of the sudden fury rose like mercury to the top of his skull, almost as if it was ready to pop like a thermometer pushed beyond its limits. There was no more pain now, or perhaps there was nothing but pain -- there was no difference. He wasn't a human, he wasn't a mortal frail being broken and bleeding, he was a god, an angel of death, an unstoppable force against whom even the Devil himself would soon cower.

Rising to his feet, first unsteadily, but then with growing skill and ease, Taylor took a quick survey of his numerous injuries. Turning his bloodshot eyes towards the enormous deaths-head before him, then began to limp, then walk, then run, then sprint, into its gaping maw. He had left his provisions behind. He didn't need them; an empty chaingun and a near-broken chainsaw were worthless now. His vision warped and blurred as he leaped over the enormous statue's teeth, racing down into its gullet. Imps! Twenty, no, twenty-four of them, were perched inside, waiting for him, beckoning for his approach. With magical gestures, clouds of flame began springing forth from their outstretched hands, but Taylor was too quick for them, jumping and diving and weaving through the balls of fire, like an unstoppable juggernaut. His clenched fist, made of tempered steel, weighing a thousand pounds but light as a feather, hung back as he raced to meet the first of the creatures, before whipping forward, driving right through the ugly beast's head, blood and brain exploding from the imp's face as it flew back ten feet. More fire, more flame. The imps cackled and screamed, Taylor spun like a whirling dervish, the inertia of his fists never subsiding, connecting with jaws and eye sockets and horns, cracking and ripping and shattering the demon's vile forms, the rakes of their claws mere tickles. The two dozen imps quickly were reduced to piles on the floor, and for the first time in what seemed like hours Taylor inhaled, the red haze in his vision diminishing a shade, as the amorphous forms around him congealed into definite shapes, and he saw one last imp before him, cowering behind a pillar.

Momentarily confused, he stood there and stared through the bloody haze that clouded his vision at the lone imp that hid, crouching, behind the pillar that held at its tip a still-beating heart, and wondering why he had not killed it already, with the rest. Suddenly his breath caught, and he realized with his heightened sense of smell that the horned creature there was female, seeing also for the first time, at the same time, the small rounded breasts tipped not by wickedly sharp bone but by rounded nubs of calcified deposits, that all the angles of the male imp form softened into a feminine shape, and he was so gloriously aware that it was female. He realized that the magnificent creature that was attempting to hide from his fury was frightened of him, and hot blood coursed through his body, arousing him. Hardly believing what he was doing, he stepped towards the imp, which looked to be of an age that he thought no more than just into full adulthood. In shock, responding purely to his instinctual hormonal desires, he pulled the imp to her clawed feet and, as she stoodhere trembling, his roving hungry gaze crawled up one side of her leathery body and down the other, drinking in what his eyes beheld.

Tightly grasping the she-imp by the shoulders, he spun her around, flinging her against the uneven wall. Through the rough, cobbled surface of her skin, he could feel the spiked protrusions scraping against the wall as the imp struggled slightly against his mighty grip. His glance darted between the imp's eight spiderlike eyes, pure black, reminding him of pools of still water. The imp stared back at him, panting heavily, jerking unsuccessfully against the iron grip of the marine, seeming to wonder why she was not yet dead. Taylor could tell that the imp was scared. It was a expression he'd seen countless times from the dim eyes of every demon or zombie he'd slaughtered, the haze lifting a split second before they expired, when the grim realization of their impending death momentarily vaulted their conciousness out of the fog of their decaying brains. But this one was different.

His vision pumped red with every heartbeat. For endless months he'd battled the spawns of Hell, with no more human contact than the occasional corpse. For months he had been alone, desperately alone; it was not the thought of death which filled his mind with terror in the quiet hours, for he'd long expected to die. Instead it was the thought that he would never again connect with another human being, another sentient creature. For what seemed like forever he'd only communed with the demons of Hell, and even their vain attempts to destroy him could have held solace if he'd detected a note of real intelligence behind their actions instead of the puppetry of a distant power, animating their flesh with the merest semblance of order needed for action. But in this imp that he held here, he detected -- he thought he detected -- a gleam of real intelligence, if not of a soul then whatever passed for such a thing down here in Hell. Could he connect with this imp? With this- female? His fingers dug into the thick hide of the creature, which snarled with anewed fear and rage. Taylor relished the moment. Here was another real living thing, not just an avatar, but something that he could almost feel thinking, neuronal impulses somehow sparking inside that demon head of hers.

He couldn't pass the opportunity. How long had it been now? Months? Years? He faintly recalled the last time, the quick breathing, flesh pressing together, grunts and moans. He'd never quite resigned himself to the thought that he'd never experience it again, but here was a creature -- a woman? -- that seemed real to him. Or, at least, real. Moving one hand over her throat, he began shrugging off the outer layer of his combat armor.

Yet, in the back of his mind, the last remaining small shred of rationality told him that his steady stream of thoughts were nothing but small justification for what he was about to do. He was about to enjoy what he had not for so long, as the chemicals and hormones coursing through his body have left him no choice but to do. He could not stop now, no more than he could have stopped killing the group of imps just moments earlier that now lay dead at his feet. That his intended victim wasn't even human was nothing more than a vague passing concern as his sanity's last gasp fled in the face of the chemical-induced berserk state and he pressed himself against the imp.

She sensed his intent, and redoubled her attempts to struggle against Taylor's hot body. Her claws flicked in and out of their sheaths at her fingertips as she fought him with renewed vigor. But under the influence of the berserker pack, he was too strong, too fast, too determined to let her push him away. His arms suffered numerous scores, all of which were ignored as he pressed the imp's arms out to either side and held them down. She snarled and bit at him but he held his face away from her jaw. He bent his head towards the swell of her breasts and started licking at her pebbled skin. It was not soft like the skin of the women he'd been with before, in what seemed like a past life now, but at this moment he did not care--indeed, at this point her skin might well have been the smoothest silk.

Straightening up again, he began unbuckling his belt, the berserker drugs doing nothing to stop the trembling in his fingers, trembling not born of pain or injury but of excitement and lust. He fumbled with the zipper and soon his combat-issue pants were around his ankles. He stood there, a grotesque spectacle, pressing the imp against the rock with one hand, his own marine flag standing at full salute. He grabbed the imp's wrist and pressed it above her head, her struggles not as resolute as before, and slid his tongue around and around what passed for her right nipple. He felt the imp shudder slightly, and flung her down onto the warm stone floor, straddling her as he took in her full form.

He bent over her momentarily stunned form and quickly slid his erect cock into the imp's cunt. The walls of her pussy were tight, but he soon achieved a rhythmic pounding motion. The ineffectual struggling the imp put up soon began to stop, and she began responding to his sexual assault. Her unblinking cluster of eyes turnereflection of his carnal desire their depths. The claws in her fingertips retracted as he released his hold on her arms, and she seemed to smile up at him, forcing a rictus grin on to her face that it was never built to hold. She grasped him with her hands, supporting his torso on either side, and then holding them behind his back to push him in her harder. He lost himself even further in the violent pangs of animal passion.

The couple adjusted their positions, rolling Taylor to the ground as the imp sat astride him. She propped up her body by splaying her arms to the sides as she started sliding herself up and down Taylor's slick shaft. As he felt himself coming closer and closer to the edge, he grabbed the imp's waist and started adding his own thrusting and pumping to her own efforts.

With one final thrust Taylor felt himself reach the brink, and as climax bore down on him the red haze returned. The contractions rippled through his body and he thought of what brought him here, the billions dead, the fierce battles that raged around him day after day, the blood and pus and bile that had soaked his clothes for months as he battled an endless army in the most horrible place imaginable. This creature was one of them, this imp that he had been drawn in by, and as he looked up at her once more, no longer did he see a fellow living being, but another cog in the enormous demonic machine that was responsible for all the evil in the world. As the final spasms washed through him, his lust was displaced by a incredible disgust and hatred, hatred towards this... thing on top of him, as well as for what he was doing. The creature looked down at him, not understanding, and with deliberate speed he reached up and wrenched its head a full 180 degrees, a sickening series of crunches affirming that the creature was now dead. He pushed the beat off of him and gasped for air. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to keep moving. He had a long way to go.


Source : the late impse.cx

Why?

You're going in the Book of Grudges bruv.

 

[Avantre]

Sierra united

This panel (or panels, really, they weren't all on the same singular panel) was actually livestreamed, if anyone wants the nostalgia bait. If you need an RPG hook, the second-from-left guy in the white long sleeved shirt (hiding behind another guy) is Neal Hallford who worked on Betrayal at Krondor.

 

[JarlFrank]

 

[Saldrone]

 

[KörangarTheMighty]

It's especially horrible because in Morrowind, the vampirism disease was called Porphyric Hemophilia.
The name references vampires' habit of drinking blood, but it doesn't straight up tell you "lol this is the vampire disease".

Another example of Oblivion's dumbing down of LITERALLY EVERYTHING about the Elder Scrolls.

Except it didn't. That's Skyrim's doing.

 

[NecroLord]

I literally never used this thing.
Ok, maybe twice, but that's just it.
Who needs it when you've got the almighty Regeneration Aug?

 

[NecroLord]

It's especially horrible because in Morrowind, the vampirism disease was called Porphyric Hemophilia.
The name references vampires' habit of drinking blood, but it doesn't straight up tell you "lol this is the vampire disease".

Another example of Oblivion's dumbing down of LITERALLY EVERYTHING about the Elder Scrolls.

Except it didn't. That's Skyrim's doing.

More like Porphyric Homophobia.
LMAO.

 

[Infinitron]

 

[Infinitron]

 

[Pika-Cthulhu]

 

[Taka-Haradin puolipeikko]

 

[JarlFrank]

 

[Taka-Haradin puolipeikko]

Source of it is the Karen, isn't it?

 

[Darth Roxor]

that's a doom 1 map with a mancubus, terrible meme

 

[Alex]

that's a doom 1 map with a mancubus, terrible meme

Why do you think she's sensing negative energy.

 

[Fedora Master]