[ bellamy doesn't joke. he's not the funny one, the witty one, or the one who can walk into a room and instantly brighten it. he isn't monty, with his sunny quips, his endearing anecdotes. bellamy's that ball of darkness that often invades a room — it's how he sees himself, believing that he's akin to what makes flowers droop and wilt. ]
[ joking around with her has never made him feel like that, even though he has, at times, thought she drooped because of him taking it one step too far. asking for flowers, it seems, hasn't been him moving them in a way that's displeasing for her. ]
[ one of his hands drifts beneath her shirt on her back, slowly sliding up her spine. his fingers linger near the small of her back, though, as if he needs to memorise the scar there. he waits for her to release his lips before he gazes up at her. ] What colour?
no subject
[ joking around with her has never made him feel like that, even though he has, at times, thought she drooped because of him taking it one step too far. asking for flowers, it seems, hasn't been him moving them in a way that's displeasing for her. ]
[ one of his hands drifts beneath her shirt on her back, slowly sliding up her spine. his fingers linger near the small of her back, though, as if he needs to memorise the scar there. he waits for her to release his lips before he gazes up at her. ] What colour?