❛ you crossed over a line, and you are never crossing back. ❜
* bates motel prompts : accepting. @thleadr.
penance composes a guise, brows bend until his complexion adorns a frown enunciating the abyss procured had he to leave alexandria. spencer clutches a gut, the crude stitch of it barely concealing the spill that once disguised alexandria’s street with a prince’s ichor. position is adjusted & he pushes himself skyward, visions aligned. the infirmary bed proved a distasteful place to discuss spencer’s providence, alas, here they were. two foes oppose, one maimed & bloodied, the other righteous. hadn’t they suffered enough of the decay, without turning on each other?
fear blooms, flush’d lip pools scarlet at his incessant gnawing, a blemish of red wine upon white sheets: a habit acquired in hastened heartbeat, in questioned nerve. pleading with the monarch would prove fruitless, spencer knew. he recalled the moment his mother exiled previous residents, the knowledge that both would waltz into the palms of death irked him so. it was his turn. ❝ but ---- ❞ fickle chime is foreign to spencer, he scarcely recognises own voice. he’s sickly, made discernible by the pallor of sunken flesh. he’d surely die, but perhaps he deserved such a tragedy writ. ❝ this place... it’s all i know... ❞