RED RUM

SUMMARY: He chuckles darkly, lapping up the remaining blood adhering Matthew's raw wrists, "Little Red, Little Red—you shouldn't have played with the Big Bad."

PART I

Dressed in Red

Light feet padded against the dense, forest ground. Blonde wavy tresses sailed amongst the wind, stray curls sticking to the sweat slickened, pallid cheeks. His heart bashed repeatedly against his ribcage, trying to silence the chills of fear pumping through his veins. Indigo eyes contract in horror.

"Matthew, Matthew, Matthew, Matthew, Matt—"

Bouncing off every tree, shrill chants of his name, echo throughout the woods. Quickened heavy thumps pursue after him, not even half a mile away. He knows they're getting closer. He knows, he knows, he knows—

Muscles palpitate, flexing with adrenaline as his nostrils flare to catch some air. Matthew wasn't sure how long he had been running; wasn't even sure if he was even still running. His skull was teeming with mystification, his mind drunk on anxiety.

Within the depths of his conscious, he could feel himself reaching safety. At least, that's what he thought he was telling himself. Any words that formed in his head were incoherent and twisted into images of morbid destinies he feared would come upon him.

As Matthew narrowly side-stepped the trunk of an aged tree, his gorgeous and alert indigo eyes never caught sight of the bulky shadowing looming close behind. His chest tightened heart on verge of failing him any minute now.

It wasn't until an outsized hand clad in a dark glove, snatched him by a cluster of his golden locks, slamming his head against the side of the elderly tree. Matthew yelped, the whole left side of his face being scraped by the rough bark. Abnormal sized splinters invaded his unblemished skin, digging into his flesh.

"Tell me, Matvey, why did you choose to run?"

Matthew groaned; receiving a sharp clout to his side and painful blow to his torso. The hand engulfed his skull, cradling it tenderly, wounding his golden curls around their hefty finger. His face collided once more with the trunk of the tree; again, again, again, and again—each time harsher than the last.

Every time Matthew's head was shoved into the tree, aggrieved cries ripped from his dry throat, his punisher would recite the taunting question: "Why did you run?" But he'd never get the chance to answer, his mouth clogged with blood and wood.

After what seemed like forever, the tortured blond was peeled off the tree—which was caked in his blood—the nauseating sound of flesh being torn off reaching Matthew's right ear. The left part of his once darling face was mutilated; his swollen cheek swaddled with large gashes, darkened warm liquid oozing from them. His eye was shut tightly, splinters crowding the corners of it. Bloated and abused lips parted slightly, beads of red drabbling down his scarred chin. His bare feet, which dangled over an oversized root, were inflamed and bruised, coated in dried blood.

He struggled to whimper when a hot blast of breathe ghosted the unmarred features of his face. Shivers raced down his spine when a nose nuzzled against his own, slightly bent one. A knot twisted in his gut when he felt jagged fangs graze his trembling skin. Bile caught in his throat as pointed claws poked from the fabric of gloves that gripped his hair firmly, burrowing their way into his scalp. Matthew stiffened at the animalistic growl that rumbled beneath the chest that was pressed closely into his shoulder.

"You should know; that those who run, Matvey," it was spoken in a low tone, incising through the chilling night air, "never get very far."

And the night said no more.


Nimble, but nervous fingers tugged at the cumbersome, burgundy pull-over—a white maple leaf woven into the center—as Matthew Williams stood awkwardly before the full length mirror hanging in the hallway of his house. Those timid digits glided across his cheeks, pushing his falling spectacles back in place. Both arms returned to his sides, unnaturally delicate hands finding their way into the pockets of his worn-out jeans. A pink muscle darted out hurriedly to wet his lips, innocent indigo eyes observing his appearance in his reflection.

A tiny sigh was emitted from his glistening lips. He didn't like what he saw, yet it would have to do.

Matthew abruptly turned away from the mirror, shuffling uncertainly down the foyer; his head lowered so that his lengthy curls would drape over his face and block out the seemingly thousands of portraits that hung solemnly on each side of the hall. He halted— automatically adjusting the fine plush carpeting that had bunched together, with the heel of sneaker—eyes drifting toward the matured grandfather clock that waited impatiently for him beside the entrance of his vacant abode.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, breaking out into a run for the door. He couldn't be late again. Just because Gupta shrugged off the last seventeen times he had been late, didn't mean he was just going to over look his unpunctuality an eighteenth time…

"I'll be home late, your dinner is in the microwave!" the blond hollered, unbolting the door swiftly and grabbing his keys off surface of the small table, usually the place for bills and junk mail.

"Who?" the single word ricocheted off the paper-thin walls of the unfilled house, barely responding to Matthew's statement on time—

But it was already too late, for the door was slammed shut.


Just for a heads up, NO VAMPIRES. XD But you could've all guessed that, right? And Pairings are undecided as of now, but suggestions are welcomed. c: