#pelle

[crisalide-imperfetta]

…sfiorami delicatamente…

[deadcryptiid]

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."

[lucydixon]

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

You'd barely made it two steps into Pelle's room before the smell of copper hit you.

He was on his hands and knees, hunched over the ratty carpet with a coarse haired brush in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. He froze when he heard the sharp intake of breath fall from your lips.

"Hjärtat" He breathed, wide eyes full of guilt "You weren't supposed to see."

"If I don't see, it hasn't happened?" You frowned and swallowed hard. "Is that what you think?"

"I didn't want to worry you." Pelle muttered softly "It's just a little bit. I'm cleaning it."

"I'm always worried." Your smile was pained. Wobbly. "what happened, my love?"

He shrugged, eyes darting down to the bloodstained carpet as his brows pulled together slightly. As if he really didn't know what had happened.

It wasn't outside the relm of possibility.

Sometimes, you found Pelle with fresh wounds and a vacant look on his face. It was easier to get him cleaned up when he got like that. Your tears could run freely without worrying about making him feel bad. That was never the point. You just wished he didn't feel the need to drag a blade over his skin.

It was an old song and dance between the two of you. You'd find him bloodied and clean him up. He'd let you. Weave his bony figers between yours when you were finished and brush his thumb over your knuckles as some kind of apology.

He'd told you once that there were shadows in his blood. That they'd sing to him if he set them free and spill secrets just for him. It was hard to be angry after that.

There was no part of Pelle that would ever want you to be afraid. He didn't mean to terrify you on stage with broken glass cradled in his hands. Didn't mean to make you cry when he went a little too deep and then refused to go to the hospital after.

He'd bleed for anything if it held him the right way.

You couldn't blame him for that. Not really. You'd known what you'd signed up for when you started hanging around him. Knew what hid beneath his sleeves long before you coaxed them up his arms and helped him shrug off his shirt before bed.

Pelle was quietly ill and in no way ready to adress it.

So, all you could do once you'd' gotten over the intial shock was roll up your own sleeves and settle next to him on the stained carpet. Help, and be glad that he was letting you. Bear the weight of his body leaning into yours. A quiet reassurance that he was there.

Warm and alive.

Dividers and Banners by me. for more graphics, check out my side-blog @dividers-are-us

Taglist: @shokihomin @empttys0uls @rhadnjv @slvt4subchratt

[caparbia]

« Il n'y a rien de plus profond que la peau… », disait Paul Valéry.

[diana-io]

Si accarezzava, sapendo indossare ogni centimetro della sua pelle…

[volodiunacapinera]

♠️… basta un frammento di pelle per accendere l’immaginazione, un dettaglio che svela senza mostrare…

[punti-disutura]

“Nel proprio corpo si sta così stretti che ogni tanto vien voglia di far scoppiare le cuciture, di darsi l'illusione di saltar fuori dalla propria pelle.”

Simone de Beauvoir, I mandarini.