I’ve finally started writing down my life experience and reflecting on how my introduction to Per’s life changed me in the most normal yet sometimes absurd ways.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot, but not in the “internet weird” direction, but as a neighbourhood kid that I didn’t know much about.
In my opinion, our culture has popularised the dehumanisation of media and the conception of life & death itself. Nowadays, “we” look at each other or those millions of people on the internet, and “we” don’t see real human beings.
The Overton Window towards people’s death or suicide has worked. So it’s no longer bothering anybody when, on a daily basis, the internet floods with thousands of “kys” comments.
What does all of that mean if talking about Per? He was a victim of his own time. As Dmitry Medvedev once said: “I can only tell you one thing: no one will ever go back to 2007…” Oh, and that means that even if you could go back to 1991, you couldn’t help or even try to save him. Because of his deep emotional pain, because of the amount of pressure from the religious society of the country he lived in. And also, it was not that common knowledge that his sort of “troubles” were solvable.
Now “we” do have a lot of ways of coping with depression, PTSD, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies. Sertraline became a real thing only after 1991, as it was only then when it was accidentally invented as an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor). Nowadays it’s one of the most popular antidepressants.
But back when Per was still living, there was no such common thing as therapy. He was born in a society that practiced castration on mentally disabled people, and it ended only after 1976 (the last registered medical operation was around 1976). The mood amongst people in Sweden was not positive towards mental disorders, and so those who had some sort of disorders were stigmatised because of it.
Oh, and yet I’ve forgotten to mention that Per had an episode of clinical death and bullying, which made him obsessed with death. Suicidomania was one of his character traits. I can’t claim anything for sure, but I firmly believe in his comorbidity.
Per lived already 34 years ago, and as we know, it was intense, like it always is. So it’s extremely difficult to collect all the data from the pre-public internet world. But I’ll try my best to do what I can. The story of how he lived, how he died, and what we have now, 34 years later, has forever changed my way of looking at things.
I’ll try to write more about “that specific photo” of him later and what lesson I’ve learned from it. Don’t blame yourself for maybe owning it; I guess your experience is just right behind next door.
I’m not doing my research to prove anything; I’m just trying to destigmatise people and their pain (myself included) because nobody wants to die, they only want to stop hurting. It’s not funny or even cool if you thought of suicide because of him. It’s not human-like to make fun of someone who felt disconnected and alone that much, so they committed suicide because of Per.
And if you thinking of suicide - he’ll never see your pain and feelings and how edgy your tshirt looks, but those who still breathe will. Be careful with yourself and others.
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A/N: Y'all. This one's got it all. Angst, Fluff, Smut. This was a request that spiralled into something that has consumed my thoughts all day.
Summary: Øystein is being a dick during practice and Pelle starts to think that you deserve someone better than him. You rush over there to talk to him, and it turns into something different entirely.
Warning: NSFW, Unprotected P in V
When you first met Pelle, Euronymous had a little bit of a crush on you and had always been bitter that you hadn’t given him the time of day and were instead enamoured by his strange bandmate, regardless of his off-putting hobbies and demeanor. Once you and Pelle have been dating for a few months and things start looking a little serious, he starts making snide remarks when you’re not around.
“That girl is so far out of your league, it’s not even fucking funny,” Euronymous muttered at the tail end of practice one afternoon.
Pelle had asked if you could come (more like told them that you were coming) to their next gig to hang out backstage. Hellhammer and Necrobutcher had both nodded immediately, but Euronymous couldn’t help but comment.
“I know.” Pelle shrugged, looking unbothered for the most part. He even had a faint smile on his lips.
“I mean seriously.” He straightened, a little annoyed by the singer's lack of reaction. “Where do you think that’s going to go? You think she’s going to want to bring you home to her parents? That she’ll marry you or something?”
Pelle hadn’t really thought that far ahead. He’d just been enjoying your time together. Sure, he asked himself why you bothered with him, pretty often in fact, but having you around was reassuring in a way that he didn’t fully understand.
Euronymous could see the moment that Pelle had faltered and latched onto it.
“Has she seen your arms?” He’d asked, ignoring the looks of disbelief from his other bandmates. “What do you think is going to happen when she sees that mess, huh?”
Pelle subconsciously started rubbing his arms through the sleeves of his flannel, spiralling inside his head.
“She deserves better.”
“Øystein.” Jorn finally interjected, shooting him a look of disappointed anger. “What the hell’s wrong with you, man. Leave him alone.”
“I’m just saying.” Euronymous held his hands up in mock surrender and turned his attention back to his instrument, smirking softly to himself.
Pelle was supposed to call you after practice. At least, that’s what he’d told you when you’d gone home the night before. He’d meant it too.
But now, all he could think about was what Euronymous had said.
He went straight to his room and fell into his bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t outright shown you his arms. He wore long sleeves around you in an effort to hide the scars marring them, but you’d seen them. Of course you had. Sometimes his sleeves rode up and you’d catch a glimpse. The first time, it had felt like your heart had stopped in your chest. You hadn’t commented on it, not wanting to upset him. You’d figured that he’d tell you about them when he was ready.
It would probably be easier if he just left you alone and let you get on with your life. You didn’t need all the dark things inside of him. He felt selfish for ever thinking that it would be okay.
When Pelle didn’t call, you weren’t all that worried initially.
Practice might’ve run late, or maybe he was hanging out with the rest of the band, and calling you had slipped his mind.
You sat by the phone all afternoon, trying not to overthink it but you’d read the same page of your book a hundred times just trying to focus on anything other than the dead silence.
By the time the sun went down, your feelings were, admittedly, a little hurt.
You gave him until the following afternoon before calling yourself.
It was Jan who picked up the phone.
“Hey,” You muttered into the receiver, gnawing on your bottom lip, “Is Pelle around? He was supposed to call me yesterday.”
You cringed, hearing how whiny and desperate you sounded.
“Yeah uh-” Jan sighed tiredly on the other end, “listen, I think he’s in one of his moods. Øystein was really being a dick yesterday at practice.”
“Oh,” you frowned, immediately feeling stupid. “What was he saying?”
“He was talking about you.” you could practically hear him grimacing through the speaker “stuff about you being out of his league and just overall being an asshole about it. I think it really got to him.”
“Oh,” the word sounded completely different this time around, your tone had shifted into disbelief “I’m gonna drive up there.”
“That would probably be good.”
You shrugged on your coat and ducked outside, beelining for your beaten-up car, heart racing in your chest. You thought about how Pelle must be feeling on the drive up to the secluded house and felt an ache deep in your chest.
The front door was always unlocked, so you didn’t bother knocking and let yourself in, heading straight for the stairs.
You burst into Pelle’s room, inhaling sharply when you found him staring up at the ceiling blankly.
“Pelle?” You called out to him softly, shutting the door behind you.
Your voice immediately drew his attention, and he sat up to look at you.
His eyes lit up momentarily, then dulled when Øystein’s words replayed inside of his head.
You closed the distance between the two of you and sat on the bed next to him, so close that the sides of your thighs were touching.
“I missed you,” you breathed, looking up at him. “I always miss you when you're not around, did you know that?”
Pelle met your gaze for a moment and let himself believe you for a half-second before his eyes darted away.
“You shouldn’t.” He muttered under his breath, frowning hard, “I’m not good.”
“Sure you are.” You knocked your shoulder into his gently, trying your best not to start crying now that you could see just how upset he was. It broke your heart to know that he thought so poorly of himself. “You’re kinda shit talking my favorite person right now.”
He looked over at you again briefly, eyes full of disbelief and maybe even a little bit of hope.
“Yeah.” you nodded, smiling softly as you brushed his hair out of his face.
“You’re my favorite too.” The words would spill out of his mouth without meaning to, ghosting through the air in a hushed whisper.
“Then what else is there to worry about?” Your fingertips grazed his cheek as your foreheads rested against one another.
“You deserve someone better.” Pelle sighed, looking distraught at the prospect of you being anywhere but right there in his bed, staring into his soul the way that you were.
“Pelle.” You frowned. He could feel your brows pulling together against his skin. “I don’t want anyone else. I’m never gonna want anyone else.”
“What if you get sick of me?” There was a slight creak in his voice.
“I could never.” You told him with so much conviction that he breathed a shaky sigh of relief despite still feeling beyond insecure. “Not in a million years.”
You reached out to cradle his face in your hands and pulled back slightly to peck him on the nose, then the cheeks.
“I love you.”
Pelle’s entire body felt like it was burning.
He wondered for a moment if he’d heard you right, but the look of adoration in your eyes told him that he had.
You loved him?
How such a beautiful creature could hold him in such regard, despite his many flaws, was beyond his understanding.
Completely overwhelmed with emotion, but unable to verbalise his feelings, Pelle closed the short distance between you and kissed you.
It started off gentle.
A peck on the lips, followed by both of you pulling back slightly to look into each other's eyes, foreheads pressed together, before your lips reconnected, moving against one another softly.
You cradled each other's faces, pouring everything unsaid into the kiss until it became frantic.
The desire to get as close as possible overwhelmed you both.
Without even thinking about it, you crawled into Pelle’s lap and straddled him.
His eyes widened slightly, but he found himself wrapping his arms around you to pull you even closer, releasing a shaky breath.
The two of you had never made out like this.
You’d never really made out at all.
Every kiss you’d shared had been soft and sweet, a complete contrast to the hungry, desperate way that you were clinging to eachother while your lips engulfed one another.
Pelle’s fingers grazed the exposed skin where your shirt had ridden up, and you inhaled sharply, not used to the feeling. He retracted his hand immediately, eyes wide with panic, thinking he’d ruined the kiss that he’d quickly been losing himself in.
You snatched his hand and put it back, crashing your lips against his again, pulling his bottom lip in between your teeth gently.
He groaned into your mouth, hands slipping up the back of your shirt. One rested on your lower back while the other ventured up your spine, pressing you into him.
Your hips started to move, and Pelle thought for a second that he’d died and gone to heaven.
He’d never felt anything like it.
He hadn’t even realized that he was hard, too caught up in the kissing, but it was now painfully obvious. His cock strained against his jeans under you, pulsating with need.
His eyes rolled back, and his kissing got sloppy in between gasps and moans.
There was this inherent need to get even closer.
As if you could read his mind, you pulled back slightly and peeled your shirt off, eyes locked onto his to make sure that this was okay.
He glanced down at your bare chest, unfazed by the fact that you weren’t wearing a bra, in awe.
Tits in magazines and Øystein’s VHS tapes had never done anything for him.
But now, he was unable to tear his gaze away.
Without having to think about it, he cupped them in his hands, and you made a sound he couldn’t describe. It was enough to convince him to keep going. Your back arched slightly, pressing them further into his hands.
Pelle leaned forward and pressed his lips to your collarbone softly before looking up at you.
His eyes were dark with want.
You’d never seen him like this.
Wetness pooled in between your thighs as you nodded eagerly.
He worked his way down your chest with his mouth, sloppy and wet as his mouth trailed over the tops of your breasts. His teeth grazed your nipple on one side, and you hissed, grinding your hips down into his.
Pelle moaned into your chest, grabbing you by the hips to keep you from moving any further.
That felt way too good.
Your hands glided over his shoulders, gently nudging his flannel down his arms.
Pelle wasn’t even thinking about the scars all over his body. All he could think about was your bare skin against his, so he helped you get it the rest of the way off, then peeled off his t-shirt.
Immediately, he pulled your body flush against his, overwhelmed momentarily by the feeling of your bare tits on his chest as your foreheads pressed together once again.
Your arms were draped over his shoulders as you stared directly into his eyes.
There was something so tender and vulnerable in his gaze.
“Can we take our pants off?” he breathed suddenly, eyes widening slightly as if he was startled by his own request.
“Yeah.” You smiled softly, pecking him on the lips before you stood. “We can take our pants off.”
He watched you intently as you slipped out of your jeans, then your underwear, leaving you completely nude before him.
His lips parted slightly and he inhaled shakily.
At no point, as he clumsily undressed himself the rest of the way, still sitting on the edge of the mattress, did Pelle look away from you.
He was far too enamoured by your beauty to even consider being shy about his own nudity.
Slowly, you took a few steps forward and lowered yourself back into his lap.
Your dripping cunt brushed up against his weeping cock and you both let out low groans, immediately overwhelmed by the feeling.
You weren’t sure how far Pelle was ready to go and were doing all you could not to reach in between you to line him up with your entrance.
Instead, you cradled his face in your hands and kissed him softly, sighing happily into his mouth when his hands rested on your hips.
Slowly, the intensity of the kiss grew, and you pulled eachother closer until your bodies were flush against one another. Pelle’s fingers were digging into your hips hard enough that it would bruise, but you couldn’t care less because he was using his hold on you to guide your movements, sliding your cunt over his shaft.
You were so wet and it felt so fucking good just rubbing up against you that he wouldn’t mind doing it forever, but when he pulled a little too hard and his tip lined itself up with your dripping wet hole, he froze before it could slip into you, burying his face in your chest to stifle the muttered slew of curse words.
It took all of your self-control not to just impale yourself on his cock.
“Pelle?” You breathed, guiding his face away from your chest so you could look into his eyes. “Look at me.”
He did, shaking with desire, his arms wrapped around you tightly as his forehead rested against yours.
“Is this what you want?” You whispered, searching his eyes for any glimmer of uncertainty, but you found nothing.
Instead, you held his gaze while he nodded slightly and angled his hips a little better, pulling you down onto him slowly.
You gasped, feeling every inch of him sink into you, bit by bit, while Pelle fought not to look away from you, completely overwhelmed by the warmth and wetness engulfing his cock.
When his tip pressed up against your cervix and he bottomed out, he couldn’t even think.
His eyes screwed shut and he couldn’t stop himself from burying his face into your neck, panting raggedly.
You held the back of his neck with one hand while the other squeezed his bicep, fluttering around him as you got used to him being inside of you.
“You okay?” you asked shakily, once you felt like you could speak.
Pelle just nodded into your neck, pulling back slightly to look up at you.
“I’m gonna start moving.” You warned, raising your hips slowly.
He nodded, but his head immediately fell back in bliss as you lowered yourself back down.
His hips bucked up into you, and you whined at the feeling, grinding yourself down onto him.
Slowly, you worked up to an agonizingly slow rhythm, whimpering and groaning into each other's mouths once you could manage kissing.
At some point, Pelle lost all sense of control and started rutting into you from below. He was already lightheaded and the sounds you were making were making the whole experience a lot more intense and all he could think about was painting your insides with his cum.
He was muttering under his breath, half of it gibberish, while the other half was a combination of his mother tongue and curse words.
You quickly devolved into a writhing, mewling mess, clutching his body tightly to your chest as you teetered over the edge, then came crashing down, convulsing around his cock.
“Fuck.” he muttered against your throat as he neared his own climax with overwhelming speed, “Fuck, need you. I love you. I love you. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
His confession didn’t go unnoticed by you, but in your cockdrunk state, you had no ability to even process it immediately. All you could focus on was the spurts of hot cum being pumped into you at a sloppy, slowing, pace.
You clung to eachother, coming down from your respective highs.
Your breathing was ragged as your foreheads pressed up against one another. With flushed cheeks, you locked eyes.
There was so much love and adoration in that look that you could barely take it.
“I love you.” You muttered, leaning into him.
“I love you too.” Pelle breathed shakily, seeming to slump into you with exhaustion.
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