Little Demon in the Details

by Nordika Night

I put zero effort into my appearance today, wanting to be moody and broody in my hoodie and sweats, but my wild hair matches the vibe, and my puffy eyes show that zero effort doesn’t apply to my sleep schedule. As in, it takes me a fuck ton of effort to be able to sleep.

“I’d rather make you scream; help you claw your way to the top. You’ll need an attitude adjustment to get there, but I don’t mind using your own tools against you.” I grab his stool and pull it closer to me. “I won’t fuck you unless you’re begging for it, and we both know your pride won’t let you beg. Guess we’re at an impasse.”

I hate pitying myself, but I’m only human.

My chest wants to warm at that, but my diminished worth reminds me I’m nothing but a hindrance and an annoyance.

My skin is on fire and my thoughts won’t slow down. They’re all too negative and hateful to be productive, and the longer I simmer in them, the more hostile I’ll become.

My teeth chatter with how hard I’m trembling. They don’t notice. No one ever notices. My mind leaves the apartment to delve into different realities where I’m the joke of my own life, and then it comes back to the apartment, reminding me I have no right to be here.

I’m unworthy. I’m nobody. I’m unwanted. I’m scared. Nobody sees me.

“Tell me what kind of help you need.” All the help. Or don’t help me. Let me die. Let me go. My mind is running, running, running, unable to latch onto a command. I’m telling it to stop, but it won’t listen. I have no authority over my own brain, and now I’m spinning out to space with no tether.

Remind me I’m nobody but look at me while you do it. Show me what caring looks like and let me decide if it’s real. See me.

but he’s living with the cards he was dealt, and to be honest, I think he’s just trying to survive without losing himself.

Trauma floods my brain, reminding me how unworthy and completely forgettable I am. Ignore him. Story of my life. Ben doesn’t exist. Ben wasn’t there. Ben isn’t coming. Go hide Ben. Make sure Ben isn’t in the shoot. Turn off Ben’s mic. Ignore Ben. He’s just acting out; ignore him.

Don’t forget me. Don’t ignore me. See me for who I am and notice me because I’m worthy. Look through the bullshit and accept all my broken. Someone. Please. See me.

I do not want to do that. I hate taking ownership of my fuck ups.

He’s just a boy who wants to be seen.

“What do you want out of life?” He opens his mouth on a quick-witted reply and then closes it. After a major internal debate that looks like it hurts his brain, he eventually says, “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

I will never ignore you. I almost died right then and there. Everyone ignores me. Everyone.

Feisty little hoodlum on the streets, lingerie wearing badass in the sheets. Literal perfection. I really hope he begs for sex soon.

my little brat.

I’m kind of in love with it, but then again, I love his hoodies and sweatpants, too. The guy can wear no wrong. I wonder what kind of panties he’s got on under there.

Oh, this is fun. When his bratty attitude isn’t aimed at me, I’m rather fond of it. I think I’m fond of it regardless of where it’s aimed, to be honest.

“I don’t cuddle,” I say, backing up towards him. Backing up so far that my ass hits his groin and my back hits his chest. “I hate cuddling.” “Okay,” he says, half asleep. I back up a little more because… “I’ll be your wall, Mercer.”

“You should come with a warning label. Little Demon: All. The. Hazards. All of them. I’m sewing it in all your clothes.”

Nothing feels like me anymore. I can’t decide on a style.

I’m so good at lying to myself.

“Don’t believe him, man. He sucks at kitchen utensils. If he ever threatens you with a dagger, run for your life, but kitchen products are generally a safe threat.”

He’s offering himself up as mine—mine to have, to use, to worship, to punish, to praise. Just mine. I’ve never seen a person more worthy of all my attention.

I want to dominate the fuck out of him and treat him like the brat he is, but it’s our first time and I want to treasure him like the good little boy he so badly wants to be.

“Such a good boy, Mercer.” “Call me a demon,” he rasps, lust dripping from his voice. “My demon. Mine.” “Mm, yes.”

Fuck me like I’m invincible and treat me like the mouthy brat I am.

“Blake…” Don’t leave me. Don’t ignore me. Don’t walk away from me.

Like a song you swear you’ve never heard before; you can’t sing the lyrics, but you know the music. It’s a vibe or a feeling, maybe a sixth sense. It’s knowing and not knowing together. Someone is clawing their way to my surface, and I think I want to let him.

This is his confidence and his style. It’s his defiance to be different, but his compliance to belong. It’s begging for attention while being unsure if he’s worthy of it. It’s a statement that he’s Mercer Bentley Palmerston, and he’s no longer afraid. It’s conflicting and confusing and goddamn phenomenal, just like the complicated mess he is. It’s proof that he knows he’s seen by someone. By me.

“Oh, I want him to notice. I want him to know that while he neglected you, I accepted you. That he wasn’t strong enough to handle someone as fucking incredible as you, but I’m strong enough to embrace you. I want him to know that his fuck ups are my rewards. You, Mercer, are mine, and I want him to know it. I caught your relationship slip-up.”

I never realized good feels can be just as overbearing as bad ones.

“Tell me how to dominate you while never making you feel like you’re less than me. I want you to rise to the top of whatever you see for yourself in life. You’ve been beaten down since you were a kid, and I refuse to do that to you. Tell me the right way to give you what you need without ever making you feel worthless.”

I know he hasn’t said it, and it’s way too soon to even feel it, but Blake Carter loves me. I can feel it. I think it’s his love and attention that has this new version of me clawing to the surface, fighting tooth and nail to break free so I can become someone who accepts his love and knows how to love him back.

I’m all the strings, tangled up like webs. Pull the wrong one and I’ll go off the deep end, but keep tugging on them individually and he’ll get so caught in my mess he won’t be able to leave. Then he’ll resent me for it.

He’s dangerous because of the slow and deliberate way he undresses like I don’t warrant hurrying. He’s powerful because of the confidence he has in himself, but he’s even more powerful because of the confidence he has in me to handle whatever he throws at me. He’s a true bad boy because he asks me what I need and then delivers what I ask for. He doesn’t tiptoe around me, chicken out when I’m at my lowest, and he stands his ground when I try to manipulate him. The best part is that he doesn’t get offended when I win. Like in the shower that night. Blake is the ultimate bad boy because he knows how to handle himself and he does the work to make sure I’m handled like I want to be.

“What kind of attention did you want from me?” All of it. Undivided. Love. Understanding. I want him to see me and still look at me because I’m worthy of being looked at. I want him to look under my mask and understand why I wear it. I want him to notice me because every outward part of me shows the truth of all the inward parts of me, and then I want him to peel my layers back and still give me all his attention because the mess he finds underneath is still worth it.

“A smart, bratty little boy with so much fire, but no idea how to keep it burning. I’m going to make you burn, Mercer.”

“I respect you,” he tells me, making me whimper. “But I will fucking use you like you want to be used. I can do both. Understand?”

“Ben or Mercer?” “Mercer!” I yell, and with the declaration of my name, my real name, those tears fall down my cheeks and an anguished cry of self-love that hurts so fucking badly comes straight from my chest. “Mercer.”

“Don’t,” I beg him, crying harder. “Don’t ignore me.” “I’ll never ignore you,” he states. “Show yourself you can stand on your own two feet.” “I can’t. I can’t. Blake! I can’t!” My fingers go back to my mouth and my knees ache when I crash onto them. I look up at him, needing him to pick me up, hold me close, fill me full of him so I can breathe again. “Don’t leave me.” “I’ll never leave you, baby. Get up. Stand up, Mercer. Don’t let Ben win.”

“You’re going to ruin my life,” Blake says with a smile on his face. “And make it fucking fun. You’re going to be my brat when you want to be, my partner all the time, and my good little boy when you need to be reminded how fucking important you are. You know what I’m going to be for you?” I shake my head, crying again. Desperate to know what he’s going to be for me. Wondering if he’s as psychotic as I am, falling this hard this soon. “Everything. Yours. You fucking own me, Mercer. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Blake?” “Yeah, baby.” “Thanks for… seeing me.” He smiles at me, still sweaty and exhausted. “I’ll never stop looking, Mercer.”

he is my precious little baby and

But more than anything, I learned to listen to the gut instinct ingrained in me since birth. I became familiar with differentiating a gut feeling from fear. I know how to separate dread from actual instinct, and I’m capable of trusting my gut no matter my feelings on a situation.

Mercer Bentley is my only priority. Because I fucking love that little brat.

I’m nobody. I’m Ben.

Dead bodies are nothing to me, but this one… it’s mine. Mine to love. Mine to protect. Mine to own. And I never want to see it dead again.