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Mama used to tell him he'd find a nice girl to marry and have kids with one day. (Well, that was probably before she caught him disemboweling the neighbor's cat.) When she wasn't coddling that damn dog. Or maybe it was Nana who told him that. When she wasn't sending him out to get smokes for her behind Mom and Dad's backs.
Cletus can't remember. Anyway, who gives a shit?
Point is, Cletus did end up married, and he's got a few kids running around too, much like Mama (or Nana) said he would. Sure, they weren't married in a church, but he still has a wife all the same. And yeah, the kids weren't born via the traditional process and most of the time they both hate the little shits' guts (the sentiment is mutual) but hey, no one said he would have liked any human children he may have had. Cletus wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
There's no one else for him. No one with a beauty as savage as hers, no one that understands him better, no one more perfect for him. She is his Other, after all.
A pleased rumble reverberates through her as she listens in on his train of thought, coursing through his body as well. Even now that she's formed a frame of her own, so they can become an interconnected heap of tangled limbs, there is no hiding his thoughts from her. Not that he would have wanted to.
There is something very relaxing about it: not having to make the effort of translating his thoughts into sentences or speaking them out loud, not having to care about the risk of a potential misunderstanding – she knows everything he wants to say, practically before he tells her.
Just like she knows how much he likes kneeling between the spread legs of this form of hers like this, tongue dipping inside the folds of her cunt and tasting her. She's not like other women, Red. She doesn't moan at having his tongue lap at the ample wetness between her legs, she doesn't breathe heavily (hell, she doesn't breathe at all), her hands don't pull him towards her by the hair, her thighs don't tremble as he licks all the way up to her clit. She doesn't move a whole lot save for her claws clenching at the sheets of their latest victim's bed, and the constantly flowing tendrils that go through the skin of his back, connecting them. The sole sounds coming from her are some low-frequency hisses and growls of approval, the vocal indicator that she likes this.
She likes this, but ultimately has no need to be eaten out to feel good the same way other women do. Red likes this because he does. (Told him it's because her nervous system is not as sensitive on its own. Whatever that means.) So this is for him too. Just like the way she tailors her body to his desires is for him. The sweet juices dripping from her cunt are only ever made just so he can taste them – and to better help welcome his cock later on. That strong, cloying flavor of hers, just for him. The thought alone scratches itches he didn't even know he had.
Cletus hums, pressing in further, flattening his tongue against her hole, and at that her lower body does give a twitch of anticipation. He’s not the type of man to drag things out usually – his hard-on is already straining against the sheets – but she just tastes so good that sometimes he can't bring himself to get on with it: sweeter than any other woman, thicker, more syrupy.
At times he thinks that he could live just like this: off of her. She already passes nutrients on to him whenever they don't have the time for him to grab a bite the old human way. He feels like he could feed on just that and her. (But then again, pancakes can be pretty good too, depending on the place they find themselves in.)
When his tongue enters her with just the very slightest hint of resistance, he groans from the back of his throat, dick rubbing further against the mattress, as he finds her so open and hot and wet for him. She keens, clenching somewhat around his tongue, pushing her hips up towards his face, though not thrusting any more after that. Just staying still. It's not really the friction that she's after, just the fullness.
He tongue-fucks her for a bit, listening to the little noises she makes until she cries out in real frustration. This isn't – can't be – the main course for her, after all.
Cletus. More. Give me more.
A single red tendril travels across his body, first across his back, then his torso and then lower, trying to get his attention. He feels how she aches for him. That's okay. He aches for her too.
I hear you, darlin'.
Red squirms when he pulls away with her slick trickling down his chin, not enjoying the loss. He licks away all that his tongue can reach, before diving in again hungrily, this time to suck on her clit. This doesn't do much for her, the thing might as well be there just for show, and they would probably both be better off if he just fucked her, but it's her fault for making it so damn pretty like the rest of her. Red whines as he keeps teasing the little nub between lips and teeth, less because of the physical sensation, and more so because of what's not being given to her, sharp claws having already long shredded the sheets she had been clutching onto. (Which, considering together they can tear through flesh and bone without breaking a sweat, is a rather mild-mannered reaction.)
The roaming tendril squeezes his cock in a display of her urgency. He's tortured them long enough.
If she really wanted to, she could have climbed on him and fucked herself on him till he was seeing stars, coming in her dry. But she won't. Most of the time, Red doesn't mind letting him have the first say in things, whether inside or outside the bedroom. She does mind this, though.
The tendril squeezes his cock harder, hard enough to cause him to shudder.
Cletus...
Alright, alright.
He lifts his head, pausing to appreciate the picture before him: her body is mostly limp, head fallen to the side, mouth open and salivating, the tiny snarls coming out giving the illusion that she's breathing heavily, long, wet, pink tongue lolled out on the mattress. Her white, pupilless eyes only seem empty, as though they aren't focusing on anything in particular, but he knows all of her attention is on him.
"Sorry, sweetheart". He takes one of her hands in his, unlatching it from the ruined sheets. "Y'know I can't help it, you're so pretty..." His thumb runs across her razor-edged claws, the weapons that she gifts him when they are one, and his mouth places a kiss on each.
Red makes a sound that's neither a growl nor a gasp, a small tremor in her hand, and if she could blush, she probably would. Cletus grins, remembering how she used to literally melt in his arms when he first started calling her pretty.
As much disdain as he holds for social norms, he's well-aware that she doesn't fit the conventional idea of beauty. When her figure is not an amorphous mass, it's masculine and almost never really feminine, with toned limbs and a fairly muscular torso, often a mirror of his own body. She doesn't have a mane of hair to wave around, or lips that she can paint, or breasts that she can show off. She is the most captivating creature Cletus has laid eyes on regardless. With her slick, blood-red skin that reminds him of exposed muscle adorned with the ever-changing pattern of black veins, the various squirming tendrils of all shapes and forms that always emerge from her body, the dark claws and teeth that can sever entire limbs easier than a knife can cut through a boiled egg. There's a possessive kind of pride he takes in how dangerous and terrifying people find her to be (and by extension, them).
Yeah, theoretically she could add a few more feminizing touches to this form if she sensed he really wanted her to, but he doesn't see much of a point. It'd take more energy out of her, and this works out more than fine. It's not like Cletus has missed seeing a pair of tits that much. Shriek had great tits – and so what? He wanted to rip her head off her shoulders when he found out she'd been trying to kill people behind his back. (Red would never go around killing people behind his back.)
The tiniest hint of doubt is projected onto his mind. She used to tell him he's wrong, that she doesn't even look like a woman, but it's been a good while since she's learned to accept how Cletus sees her.
He pushes himself up, aligning their bodies, a hand cupping her cheek.
"Okay, now you're just fishin' for compliments, aren't you?" He's happy to indulge her though. How could he not be? "Yeah, you are. You're my pretty girl..."
Her little growls turn into pleased purrs, and her long tongue runs over his lips, which he parts to let her in without a second thought. Her spit is mostly tasteless, but her tongue is big and flexible and can do all kinds of maneuvers no other woman's can. She also doesn't break the kiss until he does. No need to pull away if you've got no need for oxygen.
Cletus feels her arms encircle him, holding him tight as though they never want to let him go. Which would sound way too sappy and flat out stupid in any other situation, but it's true.
There haven't really been a whole lot of women to have crossed his life. During his first few years at St. Estes there was little Alice. Four, maybe five years older than him. Prettiest girl in that shithole. Too bad a while after they actually got to talk he had to push her in front of a speeding bus. Then there was Molly, who dumped him when he dropped out of high school at eleventh grade. He hasn't seen her since. Then there was this girl when he was in his mid-twenties, whose name Cletus absolutely can't remember for the life of him. (He didn't kill her, that's for sure. He would've remembered if he did. Probably.) She stuck around for a few months, that he remembers. And after that there was Shriek. So, not a very impressive streak all in all, for a man pushing forty.
Out of all of them, Shriek definitely came closer to what he's looking for, no doubt about it: someone who shares the same bloodlust and love for chaos as him. Someone he hadn't actually imagined he'd even find. The first year or so with her? It was amazing.
But even Shriek wasn't without problems. She understands him, sure, but she doesn't understand. She loves to kill, she loves a good rampage, but she couldn't predict just how much her initiatives would infuriate him, or when would or wouldn't be the right time to talk to him during a murder spree. Plus, she's had a career of sorts before him, she still goes around doing this gig and that when they're not together. At the end of the day, she can just as easily have a good life without him. Just like the others before her could.
Red understands everything that she doesn't because Red knows. Red wants whatever he wants. What's more, Red can't live without him. She needs him to communicate, she needs him to move, she needs him to feed, she needs him to survive. Just like he does.
The moment he slips inside of her is more incredible than he can probably put to words. It's the inability to think about anything else. The feeling that he's right where he's supposed to be. It's completeness. And she feels it too.
With her, there is no awkwardness, no fumbling, no need for condoms or preparation of any kind, no danger that he'll hurt her if he just can't wait anymore and pushes his dick in her in one go. (In fact, she likes it better that way.)
The sounds they make mingle together, echoing through the ruined and bloody bedroom. She holds on to him even tighter, the heels of her feet pushing against his lower back, drawing him in until they're as close as they can be with her remaining solid, and he can't not pause to take in how good she feels around him, how her insides hug his cock just right, how – unlike the usual cool slickness of her skin – she is searing hot inside, how all of it is just for him.
For you. Only for you. Her voice in his mind repeats as he starts moving.
"What can I say..." He groans, hips thrusting back and forth at an erratic, gradually accelerating pace. "I'm a lucky guy..."
Cletus places a kiss on the corner of her mouth, which twitches in agreement, in an almost-grin and the next thing he feels is her tongue running over his cheek.
Her hiss is like a rattle of steel trailing against concrete each time he drives himself in her, as she receives every bit of his pleasure and makes it her own too. It's not really the friction or the penetration part that does it for her, though: there are no sensations unique to her, Red feels what he feels, as it happens when it comes to everything else.
There's no feeling good for her like this without him, she can't even cum on her own. But he'd be lying if he said that he's not just as dependent on her. Cletus doesn't remember the last time he got hard for someone or something that wasn't her. He's not sure if he even can anymore and honestly, he doesn't give a crap. There's no way he could ever go back to having sex with humans now, even if he wanted to.
Removing her hands from his back and sitting up on his haunches, he lifts her legs, bending them until she's nearly folded in half. Mostly she lets him arrange her limbs however he pleases, uncaring if the line between eagerness and roughness is blurred. It's not as though she has joints that can become cramped, or bones that can be broken.
Cletus starts thrusting anew, enjoying the view of her wet cunt clamped around his cock. However, Red has other ideas.
"Not like this". Her voice is even, betraying little of the need she feels, a stark contrast to how his own would sound right now if he tried to speak. "Lift me up".
He doesn't like the idea of having to stop so much, but he likes giving her what she wants (sometimes she also knows his body better than he does). Lifting her is no hard feat – she's not weightless but she's by no means heavy either – and soon enough she is on his lap. He sighs as he feels his dick sink deeper inside her in this position when she is seated all the way down.
"It feels better this way". Red says, her arms resting on his shoulders.
He gives a non-committal hum at first, grabbing her by the waist to guide her up and down his cock. "…Right...You're always right..." He could just let her ride him, and it'd feel amazing, but he likes handling her too. Lucky him, Red likes both. So long as she's getting her hole filled by his dick, she cares little about differences as subtle as this.
Her skin is solid, if a little damp beneath his fingertips, but still maintains a realistic softness to it when he squeezes her waist or grabs a handful of her ass, a lot less rigid than it feels from the outside when it covers him. Her tongue is warm and slick as it slithers up his neck like a snake, as though it has a mind of its own, lingering over his carotid for a second as it does, and he's sure she is feeling his pulse from the inside out. Cletus arches up to her, letting her lick all over the underside of his jaw, until she reaches his open mouth again. He remembers how the feeling of her tongue (literally) wrapped around his length comes only second to the feeling of being inside her. He moans as they kiss, the sound only adding to the downright obscene mixture of sloppy, wet noises they make as he bounces her on his cock.
"What are we going to do with them?"
It takes him a moment to register she asked a question to begin with, and all he ends up giving as a response is an unfocused, questioning noise.
"Them". She clarifies by projecting the images of the corpses strung out about the huge apartment in his mind. The rich-people party that they crushed. Or enriched, depending on how you look at it.
"... Anythin'... Anythin' you want". She's come up with something, and though just about anything would sound good right now, because of how awesome everything feels, there wouldn't be a reason not to appease her in any different situation.
"Let's slice them open. All of them. More than a dozen corpses around. Leave them open for everyone to see and take their intestines". She is all around him: thin, red tendrils emerging from her back roaming all over his body, squirming and sometimes lightly squeezing, as if making sure he stays in place. Like there's anywhere else he'd rather be.
"Fuck, baby..." He groans, his dick giving an eager twitch at the gory mental image that she feeds him.
"Chop their guts into pieces. Rearrange them in the living room, right across the door, make them form words...Our signature..."
"Don't stop, baby, don't stop..." His eyelids droop shut, so he can lose himself in the very plausible picture. She always knows just what to say.
"It's gonna make headlines all over the country... No one's seen a crime so brutal since our last kill... They'll be cowering in fear like children... They'll all know our name".
He feels her writhe underneath his skin, the parts of her that haven't left his body – they're both so close.
"Fffuck..." And then he can't hold back and neither of them wants him to. Holding onto her so tight it nearly hurts, he bucks his hips up again while she meets him halfway through the thrust, and then that's it.
Red lets out a shrill, enthusiastic sound as they both come, clenching down on him even harder, taking every last bit of his load. When he cums it's always inside and she loves it. (She rarely lets him cum unless it's in her or in her mouth these days. Either way, she basically swallows it.) Her claws dig into his skin, her tendrils squeeze and he guesses someone else might've felt constricted and whatnot, but having her wrapped around him in any way is only relaxing.
While they're coming down from it, he's the only one trying to catch his breath, but she's not silent altogether. She purrs as they lie back down on the crumpled, torn sheets, licking up beads of sweat from his neck.
Sometimes, just for fun, he wonders how Mama would take it if she ever met Red. Sure, it's impossible seeing as the bitch is dead right now, but it'd be funny to see how terrified out of her mind she'd be the first (and only) time she'd meet her daughter-in-law, his very own Mrs. Kasady. Mama would witness firsthand how successful they are in their field of work, a far cry it may be from the life she might have envisioned for him. Oh, how the color would drain from her face even through the full mask of makeup that she always wore, eyes shrinking and mouth agape in pure horror as she stared at their sharp, predatory grin and muscular body tower over her. She'd be even more terrified than when Cletus got rid of her precious little doggy. It'd be the last thing she'd see. Well, a guy can dream.
"The cops will be here soon". Red tells him solemnly. She's running one of her clawed hands through his hair, starting from above his forehead over and over again whenever her hand meets his nape. His hair has always fascinated her. Maybe it's the red-orange color that got him into so much trouble as a kid, or maybe it's the texture that she's unable to completely replicate. Maybe it's both.
"Yeah, I can hear". Even with the commotion of the busy streets down below he can clearly hear the loud sirens in the distance approaching through the open, wide, window wall. At least one of the neighbors downstairs heard the commotion earlier.
"But we don't have anything to show them yet... Our work isn't complete". She says in an almost plaintive tone.
"C'mon, these guys are just the first batch". He props himself up on his elbows to better look at her. "We kill these ones first an' then we got all the time in the world to make somethin' pretty out of them 'till backup arrives". It's not like these cops know who they're dealing with. Not yet.
"So these are just the home delivery? I like it".
Cletus gets to his feet, and gradually she loses her form, melting away into fluid biomass that covers the entirety of his otherwise bare body as smoothly and effortlessly as she's done countless times before.
Every movement or thought stops being distinctly his or hers and becomes theirs. (Though, there wasn't all that much distinction to begin with.) One being. One. Isn't that what the priest says at weddings? The husband and the wife are one from now on?
Claws and teeth and tendrils ready, waiting for his next horde of victims, Carnage is as complete a being as he'll ever be.