"Your hair is...." Charisma has never been his strong suit. Taking in general has never been proved to be his forte. He can give rallying speeches, commanding violence, just fine. But for you? The minute it comes to trying to tell you even the slightest bit how it feels to love you so entirely, to feel incomplete without you, he's hopeless.

At the moment, he's sitting with baited breath as he tries to think about what to say next. How can he say your hair reminds him of the pale glow of the moon, held in contrast to the boisterous gleam of the sun? A duller but softer glow in comparison to the sun's glaring beam that refuses to relent. Instead, you have a glow that he could stare at for as long as it is permitted by the powers that be?

How can he find the words to detail how his mind no longer races in panic thinking about his own safety, but instead the safety of you whenever his blood is spilled? How each time the pain of Venom tears through his body, leading him to a blind rage of adrenaline, he fights for the thought of your smile to try and ground himself where before he was left with a gutteral scream as his muscles spasmed?

He's had you by his side for a while now, through some thick and thin for both of you. But he still can't find the words. And he doesn't think he'll ever be able to. "-very pretty."

Stupid. He feels stupid. Like an oaf. A meathead in contrast as he stares at you. You're so eloquent, you've got such a way with words.

He doesn't know why you stay with him when he seems so lousy in comparison to you. He's already handed you the bouquet of flowers he attempted to pick, though the stems are twisted to the point of breaking from his obscene grip. He internalizes a soft whine, dejection hidden under his mask as he looks you over. Attempting to gauge your reaction on the entire ordeal.