bad intentions | c

laurel loves the sound of her name on another's lips; doesn't matter why they're using it. doesn't matter if irritation is cracking it in two. doesn't matter if laughter is painting it gold. she loves the the acknowledgment;


' you'll have ten more before you can miss it, '    she says because it sounds true and because guilt is a language she doesn't understand. apologies are a foreign language she'll never learn. any attempt will leave her fumbling, and laurel is a creature of grace. the best cytis will get is a stilled hand.

nothing else will be broken as long as she's appeased.

' now tell me why i have to come all this way just to see you? '    another question, another serrated edge. but it's softening, dulling. he has a pretty face and something she wants, and it's enough to remind her to play nice.    ' i've been stuck dancing with poor excuses for partners, and i can only imagine it's because i've upset you. '    less question, more assumption. real or not real? her brow is quirked, but perhaps it's a show of exaggeration.

' i can't believe you would deny me the enjoyment of your company for anything less. '

cocked brow returns to place, and laurel contemplates the size of his head. if she continues — if she weaves compliments like a crown for him to wear — will he be useless on the dance floor? ... a sigh crosses her lips, and she amends it with a shrug.

' i can start sending love notes, if it will make you happy, '    she says, though she won't. of course, she won't. if she's giving him attention, she expects his undivided in return. anything else is useless.


' but i become lethargic if you're gone too long. it's better if you find me — i can barely see if you're not there to light the way. '    there is finality in the click of her teeth.

her bones are restless. her skin is itching. already, laurel is ready to reach out and infect her current company. too many words are passing between them, and her body is feeling left out.

' if you can spare the time, i know a little place. '    a pause. she rolls the next statement around on her tongue before trying it aloud.    ' i'll wait while you change. '

"give me five minutes,”      he says, and she's already rolling her wrist. leather band. crystal plated face. the watch hasn't worked since she stepped on the island, but it doesn't matter, she thinks. the effect is the same. the impatience. the insinuation that her time is valuable.

and, perhaps, it is. a party never truly commences until laurel arrives. if she's late, it holds things up.

cytis leaves, though, so she eventually forgoes pretense, shaking out her hands, patting her pockets, forgetting conceit for other things. hair tie found, laurel runs her fingers through loose strands of pink and draws them forward. head tilted down — body arched — she gathers a high ponytail and spends the next few minutes smoothing flyaways.

                "now, take me to this 'little place' of yours."

his return is heralded with pomp; laurel refrains from commenting on it. there are more important things than poking holes in an ego she prefers to inflate. head cocked, she spares a whisper more than a cursory glance to see if his attire is up to par — even a goddess of parties has standards — and then closes the distance between them.

’ they're a little cold. ‘      the only warning laurel offers before raising her hands, cupping palms to his cheeks, brushing fingers along the curve of his jawline.


’ tell me, darling, if i should wear my gloves this time. ‘       the only show of courtesy she's found stored beneath her ribs. and only for him. and only for this time.