a killer instinct was coined in the early boxing world as a protective, cold mentality that surges to one's consciousness and turns one into a vicious defense practitioner.
everyone has a killer instinct.
for harry styles, that ruthless mentality...
"What's this?" I playfully glance down at the pink robe over his inked olive skin, pinching at the fluffy material between my thumb and index finger.
A soft smirk curls on his lips as he snickers at me under his breath, scrunching his nose up slightly to contain it as his head tilts to pierce his exhausted gaze into mine. "What's this one's story?" He exhaustedly mumbles, and I can only shrug without true words to describe the sheer pain unleashed across the canvas.
The dark hues invent an ovular mirror of sorts, reflecting back a horrifying ghost of a soul with its hands pressed to the mirror – desperate to escape the hell that exists in the past it's trapped in.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Don't know," I untruthfully mumble under my breath as gaze down at the darkness drying across the canvas.
He just hums, examining my features while boring his gaze into my soul practically. "Huh, so what are you going to do with all these paintings?" He curiously murmurs.
I just glance back down at it, and blow out a weak raspberry at the thought. "Think I'll sell them," I mumble under my breath.
"All of them?" He whispers, and I just hum as I glance up to find his eyebrows pinched together at my words.
Examining me further, those piercing green eyes scan over my face. "What're you doing up? Hm?" He inquires while he reaches over, slipping on the dangling pieces of raven hair over my face to tuck behind my ear.
"Couldn't sleep," I truthfully tell him while his green eyes drop to my cheek, humming deeply as he drags his thumb across my cheekbone to deliberately rub something off my skin.
"Why not?" He mumbles, stifling back a small yawn which has my stomach twisting in the slightest.
"I'm alright, Harry, go back to sleep," I softly request, but he just shakes his head adamantly while glancing down at my painting before me.
Unable to look me in the eyes in his exhausted apprehension, "can't without you," he raspily admits to only warm the heaviness hung in my chest.
His eyes lift back up to mine, staring at me as if those simple words didn't just fall from his lips. "Talk to me, love," he requests. I just swallow thickly in my own pent-up frustration welling in my chaotic mind.
Sighing under my breath with a subtle shrug, his curiosity caves before me with a small exhale. "Alright, I'll be back then," he casually mumbles as my eyes instantly trace down to watch his abdomen muscles flex as he sits himself back up.
A strained exhale leaves his lips as he gets up to his feet, exposing the ink on his knees and his tiger tattoo inked into his toned thigh above me.
I stammer on words as he treks out of the room, and I scoff under my breath while mumbling words under my breath. I toss the paintbrush into the inky water translucent through the liter-sized mason jar, roughed-up from the years of my own form of escapism.
