Apr 25, 2024
…sfiorami delicatamente…
seen from Croatia
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Spain
seen from Croatia
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Brazil
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Croatia
seen from Canada
seen from Italy
seen from Brazil
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
…sfiorami delicatamente…
Pelles suicide note
"Excuse the blood, but I have slit my wrists and neck. It was the intention that I would die in the woods so that it would take a few days before I was possibly found.
I belong in the woods and have always done so. No one will understand the reason for this anyway. To give some semblance of an explanation I'm not a human, this is just a dream and soon I will awake.
It was too cold and the blood was coagulating all the time, plus my new knife is too dull. If I don't succeed dying to the knife I will blow all the shit out of my skull. Yet I do not know. I left all my lyrics by "Let the good times roll" -- plus the rest of the money. Whoever finds it gets the fucking thing. As a last salutation may I present "Life Eternal".
Do whatever you want with the fucking thing. Pelle.
I didn't come up with this now, but seventeen years ago."
he's so silly
« Il n'y a rien de plus profond que la peau… », disait Paul Valéry.
The Healer has the Bloodiest Hands
March of Pain 2026 | Pelle Masterlist | LOC Masterlist | Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog | Requests
Summary: You find Pelle trying to clean his bloodstained carpet
Warning: Angst, Self Harm, Blood, Whump Piece
This is Day 7 of my March of Pain writing challenge, where I post a whump piece inspired by a list of prompts every day. Prompt: Bloodstains WC: 459 Words
𝙲𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 || 𝙿𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎 ||
A/n: I would have folded for this man
Warnings:Explicit Sexual Content · Ritual Sex · Fertility Rite · Cult Dynamics · Implied Exhibitionism · Oral Sex (f!receiving) · Penetrative Sex · Possessive/Protective Pelle · Power Imbalance Themes · Consensual Ritual · Drug Use (Implied/Minor) · Religious Undertones · Aftercare · Reader-Insert · Midsommar Setting
The first time you saw Pelle was not in the village, but at your university. You remember how his voice had seemed softer than the others, his smile patient. He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t crowded you the way Mark or even Christian sometimes did when they cornered you in conversation. Pelle had simply listened. When he spoke, his words wrapped around you like warmth, his gaze lingering as if you were a secret he already knew.
So when he invited you to Sweden, it had felt different coming from him. Not pressure. Not persuasion. Almost… inevitable.
Now, weeks later, you stand at the edge of a great bonfire in Hårga, the air pungent with smoke and herbs. The flames climb toward the midnight sky, throwing sparks into the air like fireflies. The entire commune circles, their white garments glowing orange in the light, their chanting swelling until it feels like the earth itself is humming.
You don’t understand all the words, but you don’t need to. Every set of eyes is on you. The elders step forward, wreaths crowning their heads, and announce—through Pelle’s careful translation—that you must seal your place in the community. A fertility rite. A binding of body and spirit to prove your belonging.
You feel your pulse pound against your throat. Their gazes don’t feel cruel; they feel heavy with expectation, reverence, hunger. Before you can speak, Pelle steps forward.
“I will be her partner,” he says, his voice deep, certain. The chants grow louder in approval.
Pelle turns to you, his hand brushing against yours. The firelight flickers across his face, shadows painting his jaw, his lips curved with quiet possession. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispers, low enough that only you can hear. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you. Always.”
Your breath catches, and when you nod—small, trembling—it’s all the permission he needs.
The villagers part, making space on the grass near the fire. You’re acutely aware of their chanting, of the way their voices rise and fall in rhythm like the beat of a thousand hearts. Pelle kneels in front of you first, reverent, as if you are some goddess descended into his keeping. He presses his lips to your palm, then your wrist, his blue eyes never leaving yours.
When he lays you back, the grass is soft beneath you, the sky vast and endless overhead. Pelle’s hands are gentle but firm, sliding along your waist, tugging at the ties of your dress. The fabric parts, baring your skin to the firelight. Gasps ripple through the circle as if your body itself is an offering. You flush, but Pelle leans close, his lips brushing your ear.
“Don’t look at them. Look at me,” he commands softly. “Only me.”
And you do. His gaze is consuming, blue eyes blazing as though the fire has taken root inside him. When his mouth closes over your breast, you arch, a gasp torn from your lips. His tongue circles, slow, deliberate, before his teeth catch your nipple in a sharp tease. The chants quicken with your breath.
His hands spread your thighs, fingers stroking over the thin barrier of your undergarments until you’re trembling. Then they’re gone, tugged aside, leaving you bared beneath the burning sky. Pelle exhales shakily at the sight of you, his reverence shifting into hunger.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs. “Perfect for me.”
When he presses his mouth between your thighs, you can’t bite back the cry. His tongue moves with worshipful precision, lapping at you, circling your clit until your hips buck helplessly against him. He pins you down with strong hands, groaning into you like he’s starving. Every flick, every suck is accompanied by the steady rhythm of chants and the crackling roar of the fire.
Your release builds too fast, too sharp, and when it crashes over you, you shatter. The fire seems to blaze higher, voices rising in ecstatic cries as if your pleasure fuels the ritual itself. Pelle doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, thighs slick, body spent against the earth.
Then he’s above you, undoing the ties of his own garment. For the first time, you see him fully bare, the firelight gilding the hard lines of his body. His cock is thick, flushed, already aching for you. He strokes himself once, twice, eyes locked on your face.
“This isn’t for them,” he says, voice rough with need. “This is me claiming what’s mine.”
The blunt head presses against your entrance, and when he pushes in, your breath leaves you in a broken moan. He fills you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you until every nerve is alive with him. Pelle buries himself fully, hips flush to yours, and bows his head to kiss you.
The kiss is desperate, consuming, his tongue tasting of smoke and salt. He moves then, slow at first, each thrust measured and deep. The chants around you shift, voices crying out in time with his hips. You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin as he drives harder, faster, until the world blurs.
Every thrust feels like devotion, possession, worship and ruin all at once. His breath hitches against your neck, his voice breaking through the haze: “Mine. You’re mine. No one else will ever touch you like this.”
Your climax rips through you, sudden and feral, and Pelle follows, groaning against your mouth as he spills into you. He doesn’t pull away. He stays inside you, holding you tight, as though to brand you with his body.
The chants reach a fever pitch, then soften, fading into a low hum as the ritual ends.
When the crowd disperses, leaving only embers and the lingering scent of smoke, Pelle gathers you in his arms. He wraps his discarded robe around you, shielding your body from the cool night.
His lips brush your temple. “Rest now, älskling. You belong here. You belong to me.”
The fire burns low, but his warmth is enough.
You wake to a weight at your side and the taste of smoke and something sweet on your lips. Dawn has softened the night’s edges into pearled gray; the bonfire is gone, only a ring of cold stones and a few fat embers clinging to yesterday’s heat. The village is already moving — soft footfalls on packed earth, low voices in the hush before the sun fully lifts — but for a long, all-too-precious moment you simply breathe him in.
Pelle’s chest rises and falls against your back. He holds you like he’s afraid if he loosens his grip you might float away, and when you turn into his arms the world rights itself. Up close in the pale morning he seems younger and older at once: sun-kissed freckles along his nose, the faint sheen where sweat dried into the lines of his collarbones, his hair mussed from sleep. There’s no longer any of the showman’s polish you half-expected — just the man who made you feel claimed, and safe, and impossibly wanted.
Around you the village moves through its own quiet rituals. Women carry bowls of porridge, elders move in stately pairs to the small stone altars, children scuttle between legs with wreaths and bones of last night’s offerings. As you sit up you feel the cool of the grass on your bare thighs; Pelle’s robe is still pooled around both of you, and when he reaches to take the robe from your shoulders his fingers pause at your collarbone as if memorizing the place where his mouth had been.
They look at you differently now. It’s not leering, not crude curiosity — it’s reverent, almost devotional. Someone brushes past with a bowl and dips a spoon into it before offering it to you with a slight bow. An old woman you couldn’t have named the night before rests a hand to your cheek with surprising tenderness and murmurs a blessing in a language you don’t speak. Each small motion tells you what the bonfire already wanted you to understand: you are woven into them now. You are part of this web.
Pelle watches each exchange with a soft glow in his eyes until one of the younger men — a lean fellow with honey-colored hair and a smile that’s more bravado than kindness — hangs back a little too close, laughing easily at something he says and letting his hand drift an inch closer to your knee than feels polite. You feel the misplacement in your stomach before Pelle does; you see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the quiet that fences itself between you and the man.
“Good morning,” the man says, voice too bright. He reaches out, a hand hovering as if to touch your hair.
Pelle doesn’t speak at first. He stands, fluid and cat-quick, the robe falling from his shoulders. The younger man’s smile falters as Pelle’s hand lands over yours — not harsh, but not casual, either. The world narrows to the press of Pelle’s palm, the pressure of his fingers over your knuckles as if he’s physically claiming them.
“You should mind your manners,” Pelle says softly, almost conversational, and with that quiet tone the man steps back. Where last night’s possessiveness was volcanic, this is merciless in its calm. The laughter dies. The man grins with a brittle edge and steps away, muttering something that dies in the morning noise.
Pelle sits back down slowly as if to show there was never a threat; the movement is casual but the message is iron. He kisses your temple, the action small and near-sacred. “They only mean welcome,” he tells you. “But they will know how to respect you. And if they do not —” his teeth flash in a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes — “I will remind them.”
You could protest, but you don’t. You like the idea of being protected like this. Part of you, threadbare and honest from nights of being unseen, soaks greedily at the sensation of being desired and defended in equal measure.
Later, while the village sets out for the day’s harvest and ritual chores, Pelle takes you by the hand and guides you to a small, low building by the edge of the green where women tend herbs and weave. He’s domestic in his movements here: gentle, deliberate. An older woman there — the same who blessed you at dawn — hands Pelle a small bowl of warm milk with honey and a linen cloth. Pelle takes both and leads you to a wooden bench in a sun-splashed window, the light turning his skin to amber.
He washes you with the cloth like he’s performing a sacrament. His touch is careful: wiping away the night’s sweat, the smudges of ash from the fire, the sticky remains of last night’s offerings. When he dips his fingers into the honeyed milk and hawks it off your lip with the same reverence he’d given your mouth under the stars, you want to laugh at how effusive the feeling is — at how small, domestic, and utterly intimate it becomes. The honey trickles down your chin; Pelle swipes it away with his thumb and licks it, eyes locked to yours in a way that makes your chest hum.
“Eat,” he says, pressing the bowl toward you. He feeds you, offering spoonful after spoonful, and the food is so simple and so full of fragrance and warmth that it grounds you. The village hums around you in the familiar cadence of work, but your world is this bench, this bowl, this man.
You tell him — finally, in halting, coffee-thick English — about the university apartment you left behind, about the kissing that never included feelings, about the way home used to mean a place you could fall into without looking over your shoulder. Pelle listens like he is gathering each small weight and folding it into him, making space. He answers in the sing-song English the commune taught him, words circling soft, but when he speaks Swedish the vowels wrap around your name in a way that makes you want to learn them all.
“You will have that here,” he promises, the vow both private and public. “Part of this is not letting you fall through cracks.”
By mid-morning the sun is high, and the village is brisk with labor. People cast frequent glances without prying. Children show you how to weave petals into the ends of their hair and pridefully present you with a small crown of midsummer flowers — a simple thing, but when Pelle says, “You wear it,” it feels like coronation. You let him place it on your head; it tilts, and you laugh, and the village laughs with you.
Not everything is gentle. There are questions, the kind that flit like uneasy birds: “Will you stay?” “Are you sure?” “What weight do you bring?” The elders seem content, their expressions unreadable. Some of the younger villagers are more obvious in their curiosity — they tilt their heads when you walk past, stare at the swollen memory of last night like they are cataloging it. But each time a gaze lingers, Pelle’s presence moves to your side with the same quiet dominance as before. He does not shout, he does not shame; he simply positions himself as anchor.
That afternoon a visiting family from a nearby hamlet arrives, drawn, they say, by the news of the rites. They bring with them a subtle formality and a young woman who watches you with a mixture of frank interest and envy. The woman has eyes that flicker like she’s searching for weaknesses. Later, as the two of you are handed work — threading garlands into the rafters — the woman leans close, voice soft and too familiar.
“You are new,” she says, smile like a knife. “It must be strange.”
“It is,” you admit. “But it is also… safe.”
The woman hums and makes a move, too intimate, the kind of touch that should have been innocent but lands on the underside of your wrist with a suggestion. Your body is small and practiced with deflection, but before you can move, Pelle’s hand clamps over your wrist. It’s gentle at first, then a quiet iron begins to show in the set of his fingers.
“You do not touch her,” he says flatly. No threat; only a law. The woman’s smile thins. Behind her, the visiting man clears his throat and offers an embarrassed apology that feels like sandpaper on plague-sore skin. Pelle lets your wrist go and slides an arm around your waist as if to claim the space in a way that reads both intimate and unequivocal. The woman retreats, but you see clearly the price paid: a chill as if the village’s warmth had closed against her.
That night Pelle takes you to a quiet alcove near the stream. There’s a small wooden bench and an overturned trough for washing; he fills it with warm water, sets it between your legs, and washes your feet with the same unhurried care he had shown in the morning. The moon slices silver across the ripples. The world is hushed and soft. You feel like a secret being kept safely in a pocket.
“Do you regret it?” you ask suddenly, surprised by the tremor of honesty in your voice. Regret feels like an old sweater that might one day be pulled back over your head; you are terrified of waking and finding yourself alone again.
Pelle looks at you, and for a breath he looks like he might smile — wistful, fond, an ache behind it. “No,” he says simply. “I do not regret. I could not have known you before I met you, but since I have, I cannot imagine anything else.” His fingers trace your ankle. “You fit where you do not belong. That is the best kind of joining.”
When his mouth finds yours this time it is softer than the fierce claiming of the night before but no less urgent. Skin against skin, the taste of freshwater and iron, and the small sound you make in the hollow of your throat: pleasure, yes, but also the relief of being chosen.
He slides his robe open. He presses himself to you, slow and intimate, and the ease of his body against yours says what words do not. You move together as if you are answering a song you both learned the night before. This is not performance. There’s no crowd, no ritual overlaying the motion — only the two of you and the steady rush of the stream. His hands find places he has claimed and explores others as if committing them to memory.
When he enters you it’s warm and languid, the motion perfectly attuned to your breath. Your bodies fit around one another the way puzzle pieces do — small edges and long curves meeting in a satisfying lock. Pelle’s hands cradle your jaw; his eyes watch your face as if he’s savoring your reaction like food. The pleasure is quieter than last night’s fever; it’s a deep, satisfying thrum that hums along your spine and sinks into your bones.
Between strokes he presses his forehead to yours. “You are my light,” he whispers, and the words are not grandiose in the way of myth — they are private, direct, a vow.
You come together, slow and certain, and afterward lie tangled with the moon bleaching your limbs. The village breathes around you as if holding a secret that both includes and protects you. Pelle’s forearm across your ribs is a home no one else can map.
Over the following days the rhythm tightens into comfortable liturgy. You wake early to help with weaving, learning their songs in a language you fumble through, sitting close to Pelle during long communal meals. People offer you tasks and small gifts — a carved wooden spoon, a spool of linen thread, a fat, sleep-purring cat that winds around your ankles like an offering. A child gives you a tiny carved figure of a woman with a crown, and Pelle tucks it into your palm with a soft, private smile.
There are moments of disquiet, too. You overhear hushed conversations about the permanence of your binding, questions about children and lineage and what exactly an outsider brings to this hidden place. Those conversations are like ripples across the otherwise placid pond; they do not touch you directly, but their presence sharpens the edges of your day.
When doubts creep in — as they are wont to do, a raw and human thing — Pelle addresses them honestly. One afternoon, sitting beneath the gnarl of an old oak while the village hums with harvest, you voice a fear that has stalled under your tongue for weeks: “What if I am taken back? What if I am expected to be… more than I am?”
Pelle’s fingers find yours, knotting with the same simple permanence he gives everything now. “Then we will choose, together,” he says. “If you do not want the things they ask of you, I will stand with you to refuse them. If you want to learn, we will learn. You will never be pushed beyond what you say yes to.” His mouth finds your knuckle and presses a kiss there — a seal. “But you must promise to tell me. Always.”
It feels like a small covenant, but after everything, small covenants become the most binding. You promise. The berries in his beard taste faintly of the field where you picked them earlier; the sun sets warm on the horizon like a slow-moving ember.
Weeks pass and the world you left behind fades like a photograph left in the rain: edges blurring, colors running into a new palette. You are not naive — there is the knowledge that this life is other, and that their rituals hold rules you haven’t read yet. But there is also the steady luxury of being noticed, of having your boundaries learned and honored. Pelle’s possessiveness is a sheath, yes, but one that keeps you safe from the sharpness you once accepted as normal. He learns the fine art of guarding without extinguishing.
On a cool evening some time later, when the harvest festivals have grown into deeper rhythms and the nights settle into the long hush of autumn, Pelle draws a small sigil in the palm of your hand with a stick dipped in the blood-red of crushed berries. It is a simple pattern, curling and looping in a way that looks like both a rune and a question mark. He traces it with a finger, humming a note you’ve come to find comforting.
“This is how they mark joining,” he explains. “Not to own you, but to remember. So when we are old and the children ask, we can say: we chose one another.”
You look at your hand and then up at him. The weight of everything settles in a comfortable, fierce way. You reach out and place your own mark over his with the same berry-stain, mirroring the curl. The symmetry feels like a promise, equal parts howling and tender.
“Chosen,” you say, and he smiles — the big, disarming grin that, even now, makes your knees soften. “Chosen,” he echoes.
In the quiet that follows there is no need for ceremony. The village goes on, the world spins, and you lie with Pelle in the low crook of a worn tree, fingers laced, the future a hundred possible paths unfurling like the woven threads at your feet. You know not all of them will be easy; some will be sharp and demanding and will test the thing you both just pledged to hold. But for the first time in a very long while, you welcome the challenge — because you are not alone.
And when the moon rides high and the silver light slants through the branches, Pelle’s hand finds the place at your throat where his lips have been, and he kisses it — a soft, private benediction. “Mine,” he says again, not to claim, but to remember. You close your eyes against the hush of the field, against the chorus of crickets and distant voices, and for the first time your chest feels steadily full.
♠️… basta un frammento di pelle per accendere l’immaginazione, un dettaglio che svela senza mostrare…