
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11102016.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      SKAM_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Even_Bech_Næsheim/Isak_Valtersen
  Character:
      Even_Bech_Næsheim, Original_Characters, Original_Male_Character(s),
      Original_Female_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Rape/Non-con_Elements, Attempted_Rape/Non-Con, Prostitution, Forced
      Orgasm, Drugs, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drunk_Sex, Strippers
      &_Strip_Clubs, Anal_Sex, Underage_Sex, Sexual_Abuse, Sexual_Violence
  Series:
      Part 2 of Stop-Motion_Mind.
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-06-06 Words: 1719
****** Knees, pried open. ******
by seeking
Summary
     "So, so pretty." he slurs the words deep down his throat. "Always so
     beautiful for us Even, don't be shy" and he knows every word so well.
     Dancing fingers, prying his knees open as if he is the only book
     their eyes have ever craved to gasp over.
     Red blotches stain the vast pale skin, stretched over his bones like
     a thin sheet. Yet his body is touched by all the wrong people, and
     this sheet cannot protect him from the intrusion.
     Their names stay in his throat, where they moaned and whispered it.
     As he lays still, sometimes enjoying it. Sometimes not.
     Day after day.
Notes
     Hello, so just as a forewarning, this may be an extremely triggering
     one-shot. So please do not read if it may trigger you, as it will go
     over very hard topics in detail (Rape, prostitution, etc). IMPORTANT:
     this one-shot is 100% connected to my other fanfiction called "I've
     Got Issues". I decided to write this as a backstory for Even, since
     that fic is written from Isak's point of view. If you read this one-
     shot then I would recommend reading my fic so it will make sense, or
     vice versa if you read my fic then read this so everything from the
     latest chapter will click.
     Thankyou so much as always for reading, and please comment your
     thoughts.
     (ALSO: this was not spellchecked or read over again so sorry if it is
     not good, it did not come out how I wanted it to but, eh?)
     (also i will write more if people like this)
                                                                               
                    Even
===============================================================================
 
"So, so pretty." he slurs the words deep down his throat. "Always so beautiful
for us Even, don't be shy" and he knows every word so well.
Dancing fingers, prying his knees open as if he is the only book their eyes
have ever craved to gasp over.
Red blotches stain the vast pale skin, stretched over his bones like a thin
sheet. Yet his body is touched by all the wrong people, and this sheet cannot
protect him from the intrusion.
Their names stay in his throat, where they moaned and whispered it. As he lays
still, sometimes enjoying it. Sometimes not.
Day after day.
He is never asked how it feels because it never feels. At all. But he is so
afraid to lose the race that all he can do is continue to dance his pale
landscape beneath them, because he refuses to be alone.
So he won't be alone. Because it is not one human who drains him empty. It is
many, as many as they want. As many men who want to take.
Until he is empty.
So he allows himself to be told that he wants it, to be kissed with mutilating
lies, and for other's bodies to be forced into his own. Suffocated.
He inhales sharply, his nose completely pressed against the stained bedsheet
beneath him. The bed has seen many uses, night after night. He doesn't remember
the exact sequence of events which led him to become what he now existed as. A
whore. He knows himself as this, enough men have whispered it to him as their
bodies are forced into his own. 
Deep grunting moans as they push and shove. "You're quite the whore aren't
you?" a push. "Yes, you take it so well. Beautifully well, just like a good
whore" a shove. 
===============================================================================
     He waits in the dimly lit room, several other young boys around him in a
similar state. Clothes were strewn around the floor, used condoms and discarded
waste. 
He became aware of his problem when he turned 15, he woke up one night,
sweating and crying. Remembering the night his knees were pried open by another
man when he passed out after a party with his friends.  
After that day all he can remember thinking of is the feeling of being touched,
and being wanted. The constant craving for someone, anyone, to want him. To
need him. So he found it in the only way he could. Walking up to an abandoned
building one day after hearing of the insane parties that occurred nightly
there. His tendency to be self-destructive showed at its worst in these times,
when he couldn't stop his mind from screaming. He downed drinks and pills
floated past his soft, swollen lips. 
"I want you" he would moan into their mouths. Yet, he never really wanted them.
He just wanted the idea of them, the idea of having an infinite combination of
ways to love someone. But his mind was so garbled that it didn't matter if it
was someone. Or anyone.
So once the love stopped being love, it was out of his control. He kept coming
back night after night, slipping away from his bedroom window after saying
goodnight to his parents. It became a sick pattern, the need for the void
within him to be filled with someone else's flesh. And then the immediate
breakdown that followed. 
The nights of endless spinning thoughts and uncontrollable heart pulsing became
too much. The pills stopped making him float above the pain of the tight
fingers gripping his small hips. So he turned to anything he could wrap his
fingers around, anything that felt real and concrete. Anything that could make
him not. 
So the heroine followed. 
A man promised him drugs if he would sell his body, which he was far too used
to doing. So it seemed easy, almost too easy. After the first press of the
needle breaking through his sheet of vast pale skin, he could see the blood
pooling. Yet it was beautiful, so, so exquisite because he couldn't taste their
tongue on his lips anymore. He could no longer feel the tingling sensation
where the pads of their fingers indented him, breaking his blood vessels.
Pretty needles, always there for him. Just like people, it never mattered what
needle he used, or how often they changed. Because the same rushing pulse of
nirvana coursed through him the same every time. His arms scarred with holes,
wounding him. His arms showed the true battlefield his body had become. 
His parents never noticed, no one ever did. He stopped talking to others, or
attempting to reaching out. His mouth couldn't form sentences unless they were
broken moans or sighs. His limbs couldn't function unless they were pressing
the sharp tip of his next high through his vein. 
===============================================================================
     His foot taps restlessly against the cold linoleum floor, awaiting his
next customer. It was such a strange concept to him, these people were here to
buy him. 
He rubs his cold finger against the pock shaped scars running over his arms. He
cringed beneath the touch, he had become extremely sensitive to other's touches
in that area.
He knows he is no longer beautiful. He used to be. Tall, soft, blonde, his pale
skin was smooth from head to toe, covered in stars. When his addiction began he
could remember the feeling of knowing how badly men wanted him. Wanted to see
him naked, stripped of everything he had known. 
And while the men's attitudes for him never changed, he still finds himself
doubting whether they could truly want him. Weak, always waiting for the next
needle. A salty tear slid down the scars as a man yanked him from his spot
against the wall. 
Even pushes open his heavily-lidded eyes, black spots dancing. The withdrawal
had never been this bad before, because he had always found a way to get to the
drugs quickly and efficiently. But he hadn't sold himself for days. He hadn't
wanted to. It never felt good anymore, he just wanted to make someone else feel
good. Feel something. So he let them, and he never said no. No matter how badly
the shame and guilt ate at him. Becuase love had become a sin. He was a human
garbage bin, willing to accept endlessly. 
He laid limp, his body jerking up and down while the brooding man shoves and
shoves. Never giving. 
Rip me, rape me, suffocate my youth.
He only came to consciousness when he realized was throwing up, bile spilling
from his beautiful, giving lips. A man moved over him, and Even flinched.
Immediately expecting it to be another who would steal and leave. Even if he
had been, he would not have protested, because that would make it rape. And he
never wanted it to be rape, he just wanted love.
So when the man with the soft brown eyes lifted him from the floor and took him
to a soft couch, he was nearly startled by the lack of desperation. The
existence of compassion had become unfamiliar. "My name is Harriot," he said
gently, brushing the sweaty hair from Even's blindingly blue eyes. He was
letting out small hushes, rocking Even although he was over 6' foot.  
"Did you know that every seven years every cell in our body is replaced"
Harriot whispered. And Even could feel his tears dropping and dampening his
bare skin. Why is he crying? Is he hurt?  Suddenly Even was sad, because this
man didn't deserve to be sad. Only he deserved to be sad, because he could
never satisfy anyone enough. He could never be empty enough to disappear. 
"Don't cry" Even croaked, using all his power to release the two simple words. 
But these only made Harriot cry harder, "So one day you will have a body that
they never touched, one that you never gave up on" the man sobbed. His fingers
ran over Even's exposed scars, and he flinched. He quickly pulled away from his
sad strokes self-consciously, it had become a reflex.
===============================================================================
     He found himself unable to grow close to people, his initial thought when
meeting anyone knew was always "I am going to hurt you". And he would repeat it
to himself like a silent oath, because that is the one thing he knew as true,
and the one promise that would go unbroken. Because he only knew pain, and he
swallowed it down like a drug. Because maybe heroine wasn't what he loved so
much, nor sex, but the inevitable promise of pain which would surface from
them. 
Because he was a monster. Yet they still saw him as the same, ignoring his
scars, ignoring the fact that he never moaned, or yelled their names. 
Not all men were bad to him, he remembers one who just seemed plain sad. He
would always whisper poems as he worked his eyes over Even. Soaking in his
skin. 
"The most important conversations you'll have are with your fingers" he licked
a trail beneath Even's bellybutton, watching as his muscles contracted. 
"Sometimes, the only reason I know I am alive is when your chest heaves, heavy
and full of unspoken words. God, you are so beautiful." another push straight
into Even. He wriggled and his knees wanted to desperately to clamp shut, yet
this man treated him much better than many others. So they did not.
"Come for me" his cock was abused, forced to perform on the daily. Even when it
had no desire to release, it was forced. Hand after hand abused it until the
milky liquid splashed out.\
===============================================================================
 
     The hardest part was existing partially. 
To be broken and have to survive every waking moment as if he was whole. As if
countless men hadn't stolen him piece by piece every night since he turned 15.
He had become a concave shell, waiting for the seven years to pass as Harriot
said so that maybe, just maybe, he could feel a little less empty. 
Because his body ached with every touch, please don't touch me.
Voices rummaged through every vein in his body and yet he couldn't even
remember the first letter of at least half of their names. 
He was nameless, they were nameless. 
Consumer and product. 
 
 
 
 
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