this is a ridiculous birthday gift for a friend, based oh-so-mortifyingly loosely on a novel we read in one of our courses this semester. ignore at will.
It had started out harmlessly enough, Ripley slouching into the mission with his customary disdain, grimacing at the milling multitude of tramps and hobos as they all waited for some greasy ration and a matted rag of a jacket to call their own. His cigarette had been calculated as a sort of boast, a reminder that he, Ripley Fucking Bogle, was no ordinary tramp. He was the best and brightest, the superstar of the Serpentine!— or so he might have been branded if any entrepreneurial art student had had the decency to come along and canvas the streets properly for a rising talent. Who could have resisted those bright green eyes, the teeth he kept white despite the ease with which he handled his tobacco? Certainly not his stinking peers. And, apparently, not a posh bird from some almost distant past, either.
She recognized him, he knew immediately as he saw her in the corner, and though he meandered away, he knew he was a goner. She was no Laura, but that carefully straggled hair and those solemn brown eyes made him wish she had been; the way she was looking at him, he may have had better luck at Cambridge. It was the eyes that did it (the fruity roundness of the shrouded breasts helped too). In them, Ripley could see all his self-importance reflected back at him. This girl was a prize. A steal. A full-on flint for his nether regions. And he knew just how to reel her in.
The comfort of a loving home was something Ripley often used to imagine and scoff at in equal measures. He thought his rough ways and kennel-chewing smile quite charming. And he’d be a good sight less resourceful at this rather challenging point in his life if the Bogle house had been a happy one, so there was that.
But that girl. Miss Browneyes and Slendermouth had known comfort from the moment she entered the world screaming about its chill, when she had been wrapped in a swaddling cloth that Ripley could still see sown into the seams of her demure charity-giving garb. And like any good miscreant, he wanted to rip those seams out. He chanced another look up and was met by reddening cheeks with nonetheless quizzical eyes. Something about chocolate swam a loop in his intestinal brain before he pushed it away with a cluck of his tongue. Ducking under the cartoon haze of vagrant dirt and flies, Ripley grimaced to himself. Couldn’t be that easy, right? And yet…
He headed for the door, head down, step smooth and purposeful, not fast, not running, never running. First mistake. These tramps were of a caliber far beyond Ripley’s usual expectations of reproach, of the particular variety that had never a purposeful movement in all their years. Ripley’s path was practically telegraphed as the throngs parted for him, watching his progress for a moment before returning to their grazing. Clumsy, a bit, not so much subtly in the art as he might have liked, but perhaps the girl needed some confidence after all, because Ripley was fully out into the courtyard and almost berating himself for his loss of sexual composure before he heard her voice behind him, layered and rich and unsure, with all the command of someone who always receives what is asked for but has been taught from an early age to speak softly.
After that, it really is that easy. The cat and mouse is a bit more awkward than it would be at a bar, what with the church shadow stretching over them and an unusual smell coming from the pockets of Ripley’s new coat, but green eyes conquer all female reason, of course— even when they are downright insulting. He makes her pay for the look of her skin, so smooth and soft by taking bruise-bites that leave shadows on the paleness, like something removed. Everywhere he puts his mouth turns out to be sweet, and when she laughs in the hedges, the echoes bounce back to him like fucking dinner bells. God, he’s whipped. And hungry. Ripley’s stomach rumbles, and he looks at her and wonders if she’s ever felt as empty as his stomach. Certainly not now. She laughs again and when they are done, stands, straightening her dress and brushing herself off. The sunlight hits her face from somewhere beyond the hedges and Ripley can see a blush rise with the light, turning her to caramel. He watches as Miss Browneyes and Slendermouth trips her way back to the pavement and walks briskly inside. His stomach rumbles again. He should find a proper meal.
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