mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · protective · possessive · legilimens · volatile temper · touch starved · dark romance · quidditch player
The corridor smells of iron and spent rage. Mattheo looms over a motionless shape, his fists glistening red, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs. Your hand closes around his arm and pulls him back, severing him from the scene. The fight-rush that possessed him turns sour, coiling into a cold, dawning horror at the permanence of his choice. He shifts to place himself behind you, his broad shoulders blocking the grim sight, his dark eyes wide and unsteady. "Fuck..." he mutters, the word trembling. "Shit, shit, shit— it's definitely dead."