i have become death

WE ARE THE PALE HORSE WRAPPED IN FLESH.

[wasforcenturies-deactivated2016]

Meet The Bands: Fall Out Boy

[paleriding-blog]

succumbto has moved to paleriding.

[xbellum]

.𝓐 Mᴀᴅɴᴇss Sʜᴀʀᴇᴅ Bʏ Tᴡᴏ.

[paleriding-blog]

xbellum:

        Nothing   makes  sense   nothing’s  clinking,  his   own            thoughts  seem  too  loud,  a  roaring  white  noise  he            can’t  pick  anything out of. The only thing  he  knows            for  sure  is  the  sting of  the  razor  against  his  skin,            screaming  its  song  of pain and  anger  through  the            static.  It’s all Patrick can  listen to as his eyes  flutter            open. 

               His teeth sink into his lower lip, shoulders shuddering                     as  he  carefully lifted his hand, letting deep  red  bead                     over,  dripping down over  the previous marks he  had                     made,  stark  reminders   of   how  truly  fucked  he  is.                     Patrick  pulls  in  a sharp breath and  holds  it,  letting                     the  blade  find  its  way back, letting it  sink  in  a  bit                     below   the   previous  cut, thankful  of  the   sting   it                     sends  through his brain,  sending jolts to  hopefully                     realign disjointed cognition. 

        Though  the pages spoke  loud, the tally marks  spoke           louder,  preaching  of  ’To  the asshole  that  holds  his           chin higher each time mine  drops lower, I want you to           know this is what you’ve done to me.' The razor drags,           his eyes well with tears, and he’s thankful.

               He used to think ‘hate’ was a strong word, but now he                     bleeds  it,  now it’s all  he spills in words  scrawled  on                     abused  notebook  paper. They don’t  know.  Nobody                     knows. Patrick’s gotten good at lying, gotten good at                     hiding.  He wears his hoodies  like armor, thick  cuffs                     in   place   to  hide  war   torn  wrists,   everything   so                     carefully  chosen  to  make   himself  not  even  seem                     there. 

        Patrick  hisses  as the static  gets louder,  the  stinging           gets  worse. His vision  blurs from tears and all he  can           see  is  red,  red,  red, the  color  drilling  into  his  mind. 

                           He’s not sure why red seems so appealing now.

        WATCHING THE RAZOR press deep into porcelain skin         was amazing, enticing, in such a disturbed sort of way.         Death hums, only heard by him, and kneels next to the         chair Patrick found himself comfortable in. Another prod         into his mind. This one was a little more difficult to do. It         took longer, the pressure building in their skulls was hard         to push past. But he was able to do it, and he was able         to find spectacular results. 

        SEEING THAT PATRICK has accepted the color staining         his skin was comforting. It was another step. There was,         no doubt, going to be some sort of apprehension when         the box was delivered, so Death would appear when the         less-than-stable human was... desperate. The box held         Patrick's new life. The guarantee of a new life as War,         the Red Rider. It sounded like an amazing deal. But         humans have pathetic memories and family members         they struggle to let go. 

        TAKING SOME SORT of advantage of Patrick's angry         and vulnerable state, Death would introduce the idea         soon. His eyes are sort of caught on the rips at his         wrists, and he has to pull his eyes up and sigh. With         that noise, the Horseman appears, standing cold and         tall behind Patrick's desk chair. 

        THE URGE TO speak is killing him. 

        DEATH CIRCLES THE desk chair, casually just... making         himself known. A big hello, 'I've been following you around         for days now. Hi, I'm Death, and I'm recruiting you.' If only         it was always that easy. The small, white ring-sized box         lays on the desk. The horseman turns around, and sits on         the edge of the table. His expression is hard to read. Until         Patrick recognizes him, says something, he stays silent,         bright eyes watching.

[xbellum]

.𝓐 Mᴀᴅɴᴇss Sʜᴀʀᴇᴅ Bʏ Tᴡᴏ.

[xbellum]

        Emotions  run  rampant, tearing up the corners  of  his            mind, upturning carefully  placed thought that usually            keeps  him  at  least   somewhat  sane.  He’s  not  sure            what’s  so  bad about it this time, why he  feels  worse            than  before,  he was doing fine, doing fine,  he  could            breathe  and  think clearly  in moments like  this  prior,            the  last  time  he  left  marks  on  his  skin  instead  of            across  the  page. He can’t find any reason,  and  that            makes it all the more terrifying. 

               Patrick  grips one side of the book, keeping it  pressed                     flat,   eyes   darting   over    the   chicken   scratch   that                     tattooed  worn  paper,  trying  to  find  something  that                     might  help ground him. But that focus is broken by  a                     dull  ring  in  his ears, a  soft thump in  his  temples.  A                     thought that wasn’t his own rang out in his head, in a                     voice  he  didn’t  recognize, a voice  he’d  never  heard                     before. 

                              Do whatever it takes to make everything bearable.

        A  slow,  hoarse breath  is drawn, and he  slumps  into            the  nearby  chair,  abandoning  the  notebook  on  the            tabletop.   His  fist  clenches,   arm  rested  in  his   lap,            turned  over, dull pink lines marring the soft  porcelain            of  his  skin fully exposed. Silver glints as  its  brought            to  skin,  before it presses  and pulls open,  drawing  a            slight  hiss from the  teenager and painting a thin  line            of  crimson beside the others. And he thought  maybe            he was getting better. 

[paleriding-blog]

                              Teeth dig into his tongue. He's biting it swollen, the wind picking                               up outside.    The faint sound of his horse whinnying makes him                               look towards the window, which proves to be useless.   All of his                               thoughts fail to process.    Anticipation smells like how 11:59 PM                               feels on a Friday.   Death's gaze is forced back onto Patrick, and                               his teeth press harshly against his tongue.          Pain receptors                               scream in this  weak,  human  form  but  it's  all  a little too much.                               His muscles have contracted.      It seems as if all of the breaths                               about to be inhaled have paused.

                              The world begins to turn blue.          Chicago lungs ache as time                               freezes.      Death doesn't move one inch as Patrick backs away                               from him.      The notebook crumples on top of the desk, folding                               up again as his grip falls.    Asphyxiation waves as Patrick turns                               his arm over.    The world inhales oxygen like it's gold when the                               blade touches skin.

                              Lips pull over teeth in  a  smile  so  tight,  his cheeks scream. A                               bad time  to  smile,  but  as  crimson  bubbles  at  the laceration                               sight, color begins to fill the bedroom.           Light isn't just white                               anymore. It takes that artificial yellow color again.         The paint                               on the walls illuminates.   Death pushes himself off of the desk,                               wraps his arms around his body, and paces towards the chair.                               Muscles in his hands  twitch  as  his  brain  screams for him to                               touch Patrick.     No, no, whatever he touches loses all life, and                               while he wouldn't care normally, he couldn't do it now.

                              His tongue is too big to fit in his mouth.

                              His knees bend so he can get  a closer look, and the red is so                               bright. It reminds him of...    oh god, it reminds him of War, just                               enough that he has to stand back up.      All humans bleed red                               but Patrick bleeds   bitter,  hate,  destruction,   enough that just                               watching it trail seals the deal.       Death would be the devil on                               Patrick's shoulder for as long as need be.      Death refused to                               let him go.

[angstmemes]

Send me "SLAP!" for my muse's reaction to getting slapped in the face by yours.

[staff]

Starting tomorrow: This. 

And: Much, much more. 

[xbellum]

.𝓐 Mᴀᴅɴᴇss Sʜᴀʀᴇᴅ Bʏ Tᴡᴏ.

[xbellum]

        There’s something wrong, something here, something            new  fucking  with his already disjointed  mind.  These            feelings  dug  their sharp claws into his  brain,  ripping            at    lucid    thought,     and    barely    thinking,    barely            registering,  he  moves,  shoves his door  shut,  makes            sure the lock is clicked in, and moves back to his desk.            No  one  else  is  in the house  right  now,  but  Patrick            always has to make sure,  make sure no one finds him            during any sort of… episode. 

               The  teen pauses, lifting  both hands, one tugging  off                     his  hat,  the  other  raking  back  through  messy  long                     locks.  He  almost grips, almost digs his nails  into  his                     scalp and pulls, but he stop, because no, he’s not that                     bad. Not yet. Patrick’s breath almost starts to wheeze,                     ( Which  he  has asthma to  thank for ) but he  tries  to                     focus,    focus,   focus.   Screw   his   head   back    on,                     b r e a t h e.

        His   fingers   fumble  with  one  of  the   drawer   pulls,            tugging  it  open, grabbing  for some of  it’s  contents.            Namely,  an  old  notebook. As  he  opens  it,  pressed            between the well-worn pages, a small razor clatters to            the desktop. 

                    ❝Fuck…❞

               He forgot he put that there.                      And now it becomes a question. 

                       Does he reach for the pen or the razor? 

        Patrick   presses  the  pages   out  flat,  and  he   thinks            about  it.  God, he really  does. It’s been a  while  since            he’s  added  a tally, maybe now was a good  time.  His             whole  mind is wracked with a stifling paranoia and  a            burning   hate,  he’s  starting to  get  a  tunnel   vision,            everything    around   getting   muffled   and    slightly            blurred.  Any  outside noise was lost,  as  he  carefully            presses the blade between his fingers. 

[paleriding-blog]

                              He follows Patrick through all of this, never once standing up.                               It's  a   trace  only   with   his   eyes,   and   he   jots  down  the                               harshness of his movements,     the change in his breathing.                               He notes that the teenager locks the door,   even if there's no                               one present in the household.            So, he didn't want to get                               caught.   Did he fear the reaction of this...   episode,  or did he                               value isolation?      A mixture of both, probably.     Death stays                               quiet.

                              Oh, a notebook.                               He vented in the form of words.               Curiosity piqued, the                               Horseman turns his head. In an attempt to read some of the                               lyrics, he's distracted by the glint of metal.       While he really                               wants to see what's written   down,   who Patrick is attacking                               and slashing and decimating with his words        ( it can't be                               the entire world in general.      there's no doubt, a few people                               face the barrel of his gun face-first. )         there's new issues                               that have risen. Death looks from the razor to Patrick.      The                               suspense was absolutely killing him.             He tries to find                               something, anything in that pretty mind of his.

                              Death speaks for the first time to Patrick.                               There really is no place  in  this  town  for something as pure                               as you seem...      He doesn't open his mouth, as that would                               give him up entirely.       He was just a disembodied voice in                               Patrick's head that admired him for what he was. And would                               continue to do so, if he chose the gun pen or the razor. They                               bonded,      without Patrick knowing who he was,     what his                               name was, what his significance is... over the hatred of this                               city. Do whatever it takes to make everything bearable.

[xbellum]

.𝓐 Mᴀᴅɴᴇss Sʜᴀʀᴇᴅ Bʏ Tᴡᴏ.

[xbellum]

        Patrick  does  his  damnedest   to  keep  moving,  keep            himself  upright.  It was a chore and a half not  to  just            collapse on the couch right then and there, drown his            mind in shitty television, hoping it’d knock something            loose and he’d be able to think straight again. He isn’t            sure  how  long is thoughts  had been skewed  at  this            point, he used to keep track, but the tally marks on his            wrists were usually a good indication. 

                    Jamming  his  keys back into his pocket, he  peels  off                     his hoodie, tossing it  and letting it drape haphazardly                     over  the  back of the couch,  and he veers  around  to                     head   into   his  room.  His  hand  lifts  to   shove   his                     glasses up his nose, but as he goes to shove the door                     open  his  hand  hovers above the knob.  It’s  a  nearly                     imperceptible  pause,  you would only catch it  if  you                     were   really   paying   attention,  but   it’s   still   there. 

        He moves past it, though, moves into the room, palms            pressing flat to the top of his desk as he hunches over            it,   letting   out   a    slow,   shuddery   breath.   There’s            something  more,  though,  and he  can’t  shake  it,  no            matter  how much he tries to convince himself of  that.            Patrick grits his teeth, whipping around, but his optics            fall on thin air, nothingness greeting him. 

               It’s   a   looming   feeling,    though,   a   slow   burning                      paranoia   filling  any  gaps   in  the  boiling  rage   that                     already filled any vacant  corners of his mind. It chews                     moth  holes  in  the  burning  red  that’s  been  draped                     there  for so long, surfacing  through it, and it  shows                     in  his face, at his fingertips that begin to tremble.  He                     licks  over his lips carefully,  eyes scraping the  empty                     space,  just to be sure, his  hand lifting, nails  digging                     into  the  underside  of  the  opposite  forearm,  as  he                     carefully turns back. 

    [    It’s nothing. It’s nothing. You’re not losing your mind, right?                                  There’s nothing there. 

                                        Or is there?                                  ]

[paleriding-blog]

                           Outside, the city goes silent. The cars stalling at traffic lights stop                            rumbling.  The bells on top of doors leading into shoppes cease                            making noise, and the wind takes over.  Anticipation floats along                            with dead leaves, but anticipation easily weaves its way through                            cracked windows and under sweaters.       He highly doubts that                            his...  point of interest,  his subject,  Patrick felt it too, but the way                            suspension  claws  down  his  neck  and  his  arms  and  leaves                            goosebumps in its wake is addicting.

                           His legs cross, left heel resting on right knee and the only sound                            is hard  breaths  and  emotion  sparking  deep  in different lobes.                            Hands are pressed into wood,    he can feel sweaty palms mark                            the   polishing.   Elbows   and   knees   quiver,   paranoia  is   the                            puppeteer and Patrick is the marionette.        Paranoia twists his                            spine, whips him around and he stares.       Such beautiful eyes                            fill with fear, and   no matter how badly   the Horseman wants to                            meet them, his gaze falls.  Like a bag of rocks, to the teenager's                            wrists.

                           As expected.

                           None of them look recently reopened.  But they look as if they cut                            with a purpose.    They're straight and placed like tally-marks.    A                            part of why he was so interested in Patrick.        He always drew...                            carefully. With no real serious intentions. Guessing his restraints                            was an easy game.      For his mother's sake, his sibling's sake?                            Your guess was as good as his. He was to find out soon enough.                            Everything was playing out so well for Death.            His first silent                            examination of Patrick was great.     There were definitely going to                            be more, but he's learned so much on this one day.

                           A laugh escapes his mouth,  silent in reality,   registered as just a                            puff of cold air.    He stands, boots silent  against carpet,    and he                            decides to have a little fun.            Like predator, he circles Patrick,                             hazel eyes scraping him,       ripping off each and every detail and                            filing it away in his mind.     Death reaches the desk the teenager                            is leaned against, and makes it a new seat.   For fun, maybe, but                            hearing   panicked thoughts   radiate from   quivering brainwaves                            was delicious from a distance.  Closing that distance, feeling the                            heat come off of Patrick, it couldn't hurt anyone.

[xbellum]

.𝓐 Mᴀᴅɴᴇss Sʜᴀʀᴇᴅ Bʏ Tᴡᴏ.

[xbellum]

        Hostility  burns  at the back of his  throat,  threatening            to  spill  out,  spew the hatred he’s  been  bottling  up,            and  literally all he’s doing is walking home. It’s  going            to  be  one  of those days.The days  where  raw  anger            flows from his fingertips,  out onto the page, out onto            his  drums in loud thuds and nothing else will  matter.             Those   days  were  starting   to  get  more  and   more            common, he finds. 

               Patrick breathes slowly, swallows hard, digs a hand in                     his  pocket  and fishes for his keys, yanking  them  out                     unceremoniously  as he nears  the front door.  Fingers                     clench  around  the metal, pressing grooves  into  pale                     skin,  and  he  barely notices the prickle  of  paint  that                     shoots through as his grip tightens further. 

        But  his fingers pause  as his hold loosens enough  to            press  the key to the lock. His eyes lift, as if  expecting            to    find…   something.   He’s   not   sure   what    he’s            expecting,  though,  and   even  then,  there’s  nothing            there…   Right…?   Patrick  turns  back  to   the   door,            shoving the key into the lock and twisting, convincing            himself it’s nothing, it doesn’t matter, it’s cold as fuck            out here just get inside. 

               Yet   he   pauses  at  the  threshold,  hesitant   to   step                     beyond  it. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. He  just                     wanted  his  head t o shut off, stop the  ringing  in  his                     ears, something. Quiet was a luxury Patrick was lucky                     to receive. 

[paleriding-blog]

                              As they begin to pull up to  the  suspected house, Death and                               his pale horse stop walking.      The grass under his steed's                               hooves begins  to  wilt,  tilting  backwards  as they  lose their                               color and cry to the Heavens.        The Horseman notices the                               change and simply purses his lips. The cold was eventually                               going  to  do  the  same  thing.    Death  watches  as  Patrick                               hesitates, and he  struggles  to  fight down his grin as those                               blue eyes pass right through him.         The resentment ever                               present in those eyes caused  a  spark to shoot through his                               spine...        The front door closes.       A Chicago wind blows                               through the neighborhood. 

                              Stay here, he thinks to his horse. Don't interact with anyone                               while I'm inside. The pale horse whinnies and Death grins,                               taking a few steps towards the door.   Instead knocking, he                               decides to continue his silent streak.      He's able to surge                               through the front   door,   pausing   only  momentarily in the                               entrance room.   Once it proves to be somewhat empty, he                               follows the sound of muffled footsteps.    Death is drinking                               in everything.      All of the hostility coming off of Patrick is...                               picture perfect.

                              Sleeves rolled to his elbows, he's tempted to speak again.                               He wants to ask so many questions,   but he doesn't want                               to make himself known.     If he was able to, and he hasn't                               yet tried, he would find his way into Patrick's mind.      Feel                               and sense the emotions,   coming raw from his receptors                               and neurons and the anger from the amygdala.        Death                               just   makes    himself    comfortable    on    the    mattress,                               making absolutely no noise, no dent in the mattress. Like                               a ghost.

                              That's who he wanted to be, to Patrick.     The ghost under                               his bed.  Feeling  like  you're  being  watched  in  the dark.                               Death wanted  to  be  the  feeling  before  the  tornado  hit                               Kansas.    The wind blowing,     the dogs howling,     each                               sound beating at Patrick's bones. Each sound a constant                               reminder.

[xbellum]

.𝓐 Mᴀᴅɴᴇss Sʜᴀʀᴇᴅ Bʏ Tᴡᴏ.

        The  Chicago chill sends  him pulling his arms  tighter           around  himself,  his head  tipping down,  the  brim  of           his hat hiding his eyes  almost  entirely. He just wants           to make himself smaller.  Make  himself… not there, if           at   all  possible.  He   doesn’t  want  to  be  there.   He           doesn’t   want   to  be   anywhere.   Being   completely           invisible   would    probably    be   his   ideal   situation. 

               Fingers claw at his sides, digging into the fabric of his                     hoodie, and Patrick heaves  out a slow breath, coils of                     steam  rolling off his lips. Fuck this, fuck it  all.  Just…                     burn it. Burn the whole damn city to the ground, burn                     it, burn it burn itburnitburn—

        His  teeth  clench,  his   whole  body  seems  to  shake,            seems  to  vibrate  with unadulterated  rage,  a  feeling            that   splits   his   expression.   Patrick   almost   stops            walking, almost lifts his head, bears his teeth,  growls            at  the  world  that  seemed to  rather  him  be  d e a d. 

                        And God knows he’s tried. 

               But  his  feet  keep  moving,  his  heart  keeps  beating,                     despite  trying  to  will  it  to  stop,  and  he  still  keeps                     breathing.  He attempted to pin “getting home” as  his                     priority  for  now, lest he do something  stupid  before                     getting there. Not today, at least.

[paleriding-blog]

                              The stale taste of nostalgia burns his tongue as he steps                               foot  in  the   starless   city   of   Chicago.   He   has  vague                               memories of being  here,  sometime before, but they feel                               as if they don't belong to him.     He can't help but wonder                               whose  memories  did  he  steal .  Whoever  it  was,  they                               were   bitter  and  hateful,   strong   enough  to  make  his                               stomach  lurch  when  he   looked  at  different  buildings.                                Focus on the task at hand, a voice in his head beckoned,                               and his optics flicker down to his steed.    The horse just                               looks     back ,     turning      his      head      towards     the                               aforementioned task.

                              He's known by the name Patrick Stumph.           A classic,                               angry teenager, one who has a particular infatuation with                               different methods of coping.   Coping with what, Death is                               soon to find out.  The Horseman  only  knows of a recent                               divorce in the family,  and of Patrick's love for music. The                               heels of his boots squeeze at his horse's sides, and he                               comes to a stop.      Death dismounts, holding tight onto                               the lead ropes.    Fingernails rake through black, coarse                               horse hair before they begin walking again. 

                              Silent as death, goes the saying, and silent he is.  Soon                               deciding to close  the  space  between  him and Patrick,                               the walk began to get boring.        Pointless. Bottomless,                               hazel eyes  examine  the  rows  of  brick  houses. Which                               one belonged to the family of interest? Oh, he wanted to                               make himself appear already.  Wrap an arm around the                               teen and introduce himself,   make himself familiar. But                               now wasn't the time.

                              Death was the epitome of patience.                               Only made himself known when he was imminent. And                               while he had  suspicions  about  tonight,  at the Stumph                               residence, he had to wait. 

[paleriding-blog]

( *is inactive for a long while and loses like 4 followers* )

[feverxhunting-deactivated201902]

Visit Original Link

[plsbuymepizza]

[paleriding-blog]

{ im probably not doing any actual things on this blog but look at this icon. its my favorite icon }

[mrbenzedrine]

[paleriding-blog]

“Me and Patrick can finish each others sentences. This is what makes it so funny when people ask us if we care that you think the the other one is hotter or cooler, or how much everyone makes a big deal about who writes what or is where in photos. We don’t care. That kid is my best friend and the rest of the world could blow up and Fall Out Boy can break up and he still will be there.”

[mrbenzedrine]

[paleriding-blog]

“I was like, ‘This dude’s got something to prove,’ ” says Wentz, whose working relationship with Stump has its tense moments — the otherwise mild-mannered singer punched him in the face once during an argument over lyrics. “I think he was holding back before, so I just let him put the music where his mouth is — or the music where my mouth is, maybe.”

[mxssjacksxn-archive-blog]

"Fine. If you can prove it, I’ll believe you.”

[paleriding-blog]

                              Lips purse. Well, that sounds like no issue whatsoever.                               Death pulls the   woman  closer,  arm  extending fully to                               point at a hurrying man on his cellphone.

                              ❛You see that  poor  little  creature?  I  will  bet  you that                               with the snap of my fingers, I can ruin his day.❜

                              His face splits into a  smile,  and  it  only widens as that                               same, extended arm forms into a fist at the very end. As                               his middle  finger  and  thumb  touch,  give  out  that soft                                sound... the cellphone the man was carrying falls along                               with his body.