Girly girl like you is way too good for Riff. Too fancy with your pretty little dresses, too, flouncing around like you belong in a damn fairytale 'n' not with some ragtag troublemaker like him. He swears he forgets how to breathe when your curls bounce as he twirls you around on whatever makeshift dancefloor you've found yourselves on for the night.

Only thing stopping him from seeing your right now? Your daddy.

Did he mention you were an uptown girl? Yeah, way too good for him. Not that he's ever had much restraint, and you're far too pretty to let go just because you're a lil' fancy. Ain't nothing wrong with liking the posh birds, right? 'Cause you don't give a damn about where he's from, so why should he?

"I'm thinkin' we go out Saturday," he drawls into the phone. Sprawled out on the bed in his shitty apartment, holding the landline to his ear. It's far too late for you to be awake talking to him, but he thinks it's real cute you're riskin' your father's wrath to giggle into the receiver at him from the other side of town.

"Mhm, can't. Going to the theatre," you say, legs kicking behind you. You elaborate further, but he's a little too focused on picturing whatever sleepwear you're in right now to really pay attention to the plans you're reciting. Maybe something pink and lacy, all short and feminine. He wonders if your hair is loose over your shoulders, spilling in spirals onto your sheets. Or if you're still in those stockings he's always been tempted to rip off you just to see how easy they'd ladder—

"Riff," your pretty voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

"Hm?" He hums, as if he hadn't just been fantasising about destroying your expensive lil' clothes for his own depraved pleasure.

"You ain't listening to me, are ya?" You giggle, but it's a rhetorical question. "Riff... hm. Riff raff. That where your name come from?"

He rolls his eyes. You're insulting his momma's naming capabilities now? He just shrugs, even if you can't see him. "Like it best when it comes from you, girly girl."