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“Heyyyyyy, Jaggy boy~” the bald fuck sang from the top of the stairwell behind Jagger, his voice bouncing off the concrete like he didn’t give a single shit who heard it — like blowing someone’s cover was just part of a joke. He just wanted to be in and out. Is that too much to fucking ask for?
Apparent-fucking-ly.
It was bad enough that he was in the fuckass hideout, it reeked like a locker room that had been sealed shut and left to rot with the layers of sweat, admittedly expensive booze, and about thirty different deodorants sprayed over the top like that fixed anything. To top it all off, every now and then, with the tilt of his head, his nose was assaulted with the sharp notes of someone’s overused fucking perfume, making it way worse instead of better. The air felt thick and humid, and it clung to his lungs like smoke.
He didn’t even smoke, but he was going to end up with fucked up lungs just cause of this place.
Oh, and the lights, fuck the lights.
The fluorescent strips overhead flickered and buzzed constantly, like a mosquito trapped right next to his ear. It made his teeth itch the longer he was there.
You’d think that they’d put a bit of care into a hideout that held enough stash to probably buy a city, but of-fucking-course they couldn’t be bothered to upkeep with shithole.
Jagger didn’t look up at first; instead, he dragged a scarred hand through the stash he’d been sorting, the sharp, skunky stench of weed clinging to his fingers. He couldn’t help but roll his half-lidded eyes as he moved to pile the tiny plastic bags of life-ruiners into his duffel.
Why is this motherfucker always like this?
The last few bags crinkled sharply as he shoved the bags harder than necessary, the sound cutting through the room along with the footsteps leisurely making their way down.
He never had a fucking break with this dude.
Finally, Jagger turned, shoulders already tense and fixing a tired, irritated glare at the figure descending the stairwell.
What the fuck did he do to deserve one of the core members to stick to his ass all the time?
His jaw ticked.
Four years. Four years of this shit, and it still managed to crawl under his skin like day one.
The only reason he hasn’t booked it already is cause the pay’s good… the guys usually mind their own fucking business. Sure, it’s one of the best gangs in the city, if not the best, but what the fuck made him agree to be mentored by Vinny Piss-stone.
The thought came with a familiar tightness in his chest, something halfway between regret and resentment… o-kay, maybe there was a hint of gratitude, but he wasn’t gonna tell anyone that.
Why did it take this arsehole take forever to get down the goddamn stairs? Why couldn’t he just email him or something so he could ignore him?
Jagger let out an audible sigh, already fed up with Vinny’s bullshit despite it being the first time he’d seen him in exactly 73 hours. Yes, he was fucking counting. Any time away from his Italian bowlingball head was a godsend.
At the rate he was making him work, he was gonna end up like him just from the fucking stress.
Baldness isn’t a fucking choice.
Sure, Vinny fast-tracked him, pushed him up the ranks faster than his fuckass pizza joint could deliver an order by dragging him into meetings he had no business being in and got his name out there.
But it didn’t make up for shit.
Vinny’d throw him in the forefront of the gang wars when he was too lazy to use his own fucking name and kept treating him like a duckling instead of someone who was carrying more bodies than some of the more senior members combined.
Why does he always take his sweetass time? I’ve got places to be.
The thought dug in deeper with every second that stretched, every hollow echo of footsteps that should’ve already been here. The buzzing lights overhead only made it worse — time dragging, sound stretching, everything in this godforsaken place working against his patience.
Vinny Pistone finally came into view, rolling his shoulders like he’s just finished a light jog instead of wasting his time.
He seemed nonchalant as he leaned against the staircase spandel, yet the slight, relentless tap of his fingers drumming against his crossed arms gave him away.
Jagger’s eyes narrowed slightly, irritation settling deeper into his bones. He knew exactly what he wanted. Knew the rhythm of it better than he wanted to admit. And if it had been anything else — anything else — he would’ve walked already. Left Vinny talking to himself in this damp, stinking hole.
“You look like shit,” Vinny said, a smirk tugging at his mouth like he wasn’t the one about to ask for a favour.
Jagger didn’t even bother giving him a proper response — just a slow roll of his eyes and a low grunt, his expression screaming, "Get to the fucking point, old man."
Vinny ignored his lack of reply; he didn’t need one anyway. “We’ve got beef with the clowns later.”
Yeah, we always do. What’s fucking new?
Jagger leaned back, weight settling into one hip, raising a single brow. “So what?”
Vinny’s gaze sharpened just slightly. “You got short-term memory or something? We’ve got a deal.”
“Yeah,” Jagger shot back dryly, “and I don’t remember shit without the magic word.”
“Dickhead.”
A corner of Jagger’s mouth twitched. “It ain’t that one.”
For a split second, something flickered across Vinny’s face — annoyance, maybe. Then it was gone, replaced with that same controlled calm.
“You know what,” Vinny muttered, pushing off the railing, “I’m gonna go ask Zaceed.”
Jagger’s eye twitched, sharp and immediate.
“That bitch can’t do shit right,” he snapped, straightening slightly, irritation bleeding through. “And you know it.”
Vinny let out a long, suffering sigh, dragging a hand down his face like he was the one being inconvenienced. “I’ll pay you double.”
There it was.
Jagger didn’t let it show — not properly — but something inside him clicked into place. Easy money. Familiar job. And a front-row seat to the usual chaos.
His lucky fucking day.
He gave a small nod, letting out a short, bitter — fuck, he hopes it sounds bitter — laugh slip out, “You ever get tired of sending me to babysit that psycho?”
“Not after that first time,” Vinny said, and this time there was no smirk. Vinny's steely eyes lit up with a vengeance with protective urges every time he mentioned it. Fuck knows how much the man ranted when it happened. The pacing, the barely-contained fury that had spilt out of him back then. Didn’t help that Taco piled on.
It took Jagger an entire day of listening — of nodding, of pretending to give a shit — before he finally figured out why Vinny had been so pissed about a clown being pissed on. It was a daily occurrence; what was so special about it? The clowns usually get shit on — literally — so the new leader got off easy.
It’s not like she didn’t get revenge; now they have one more dick-less member in CG.
Anyways, of course, the new leader of the clowns just had to be the secret daughter of his mentor. It was just his fucking luck.
Still… after that first babysitting job, he hadn’t exactly complained. Not really. Bitched about it to Vinny, sure, he kept up appearances, kept the irritation believable to keep him off his back. He didn’t need to know about his business… daughter or not.
His fingers twitched faintly at his side, a restless energy sparking under his skin. He forced his expression to stay neutral, swallowing down the hint of a smile threatening to curl at his lips at the mere thought of her despite the fact his bandana covered the lower half of his face. Bald fucker could make out his expression from miles away.
It was the same job every couple weeks. Snatch her, stash her, keep her entertained — contained — enough for her not to cut his dick off too, keep her nice and safe till the worst of the battle was over with.
And then let her go again. Fuck, he hated letting her go. But fuck he loved seeing her go…
So, here he was again.
Same job. Same goddamn tension, just packed tighter this time — sealed in with them like the stale, metallic air of the shipping container.
The walls were tight. Corrugated steel, dented and scratched to hell, trapping every sound and bouncing it back twice as sharp. The faint tang of rust mixed with old oil and salt clung to the space, like this thing had crossed oceans before ending up here as a glorified cage. The only light came from a small battery lamp hooked onto a nail, casting a weak, yellow glow that swayed whenever the container shifted—just enough to make the shadows crawl along the walls.
No windows. No way out but the heavy doors behind him.
And right now, that precious cargo was her.
Why the fuck did CG decide to have the battle at the harbour? His arse hurt already.
Jagger sat sprawled on a wooden crate across from her, one boot planted, the other lazily hooked against the edge, posture loose as if he owned the space. Like he wasn’t guarding one of the most volatile people in the city.
Hiccups, Queen of the Clowns. The Whack-a-moler. Ray-fucking-Mond.
She was tied to a metal chair, dead centre in the container, rope digging into her wrists. Masked face staring at him like she’d gut him the second she’d get the chance.
He grinned at her, leaning forward, manoeuvring to have both feet firmly on the ground.
“You make big talk for a clown, ya know?” he drawled, voice echoing off the steel walls, louder than it should’ve been in a space this small. His bronze eyes dragged over her slowly, deliberately. “Don’t get why you’re off-limits… you’re like a little bunny.”
“Shut up.” The words came sharp, cutting through the hum of the container like a blade.
His grin only widened.
“Ha—” he scoffed, shifting forward slightly on the crate, wood creaking under his weight. “Nahhhh, you don’t get to tell me what to do, little miss teacup.”
“Shut. Your. Face.”
Each word hit harder, tension coiling tight in her voice, in her shoulders, in the way the chair legs scraped faintly against the metal floor when she shifted.
“Whatcha gonna do?” he leaned more, elbow braced on his knee, closing the space just enough to feel it. The container suddenly seemed smaller. Hotter. “Hm?”
He knew exactly what she was doing. How could he not when he’s taking in every detail of her constantly? He noticed when she arched her back ever-so-slightly to get the tiny pocket knife from her bra strap, slowly sawing her way through the bright blue ropes chafing against her wrists. Knew that she was ready to break free and punch him straight in the nose.
He loved that she was so fucking feisty.
"How to Catch a Rabbit" by @Zypressq
He had no clue she’d already slipped a knife free, no clue she was sawing through the stubborn threads biting into her skin, no clue that every second he kept running his mouth just brought him closer to getting decked in that annoyingly perfect nose.
God, she hated him.
Who gave the right for this yuckface to be a handsome motheryucker? Someone had sculpted him just to yuck her over — sharp lines, short, messy hair, yucking skin-tight tank top with tattoos on display, streaked with drying blood that only made them stand out more. A complete piece of yuck from Chang Bang… and somehow still—
Yucking unfair.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Hiccups murmured, voice softening, slipping into something lighter. Teasing, she bit the corner of her lip, lashes lowering just enough as she looked up at him through them. “Come here and find out what I can do… handsome.”
She preened internally as his eyes dragged over her again, slower this time — less bite, more weight. Less mockery… more consideration. The kind that lingered a second too long before snapping back like he’d caught himself slipping.
Yeah.
Got you, yuckbag.
A muscle ticked in his jaw, tension tightening his expression for just a fraction before he leaned back instead of forward, putting space between them as if it was intentional. Her attention briefly distracted by the way his gold chain swung onto his muscular chest.
“Don’t think I will, sweetheart,” he said, voice still light, but there was something underneath it now. Something held back. “I like where I’m sat.” That cocky smirk slid back into place like armour. “You already got your claws in me.”
Satisfaction curled low in her gut. Because yeah — he could pretend all he wanted. But she could see it. The sight of the blood streaked across his skin in thin lines where she’d caught him earlier, standing out against ink and muscle in a way that made her stomach flip for all the wrong reasons.
He had no right looking like that. No yucking right.
Sure, he has tied her up, but she wasn’t the one who was worse off from it… If he hadn’t tossed her hammer halfway across the damn harbour earlier, he’d be in a hell of a worse state than a few claw marks and bruises.
Served him right.
Anyways, where were the yucks she called her crew? Queen of the clowns, her yuck, might as well be a rookie with how slow they are to find her.
Another strand gave way.
“Hmm,” she hummed. She could feel it now — the ropes loosening, barely holding. Just a few more careful movements and—
“Shame,” she continued, voice lilting, casual, like her pulse wasn’t picking up, “I woulda helped you pass the time bettah… how long you gonna keep me here anyways?” She shifts in the chair like she was stretching, arching her back just enough to ease the strain — and just enough to pull his attention exactly where she wanted it, his gaze drifting back to the valley of cleavage on display. That's why I wear this top… she thought smugly. You’re soooo predicament, you always look...
The chair legs scraped faintly against the steel floor as the front lifted just slightly — just enough to tilt her balance. His hand shot out to catch it. The crate creaked as he lurched forward, grip firm, steadying the chair before it tipped — his hand landing between her legs to brace her properly.
Her breath hitched — barely there, but enough.
His fingers, rough and calloused, brushed against the exposed skin above her ripped thigh-highs, the contact brief but there.
A shiver threatened to crawl up her spine, and she crushed it down hard, jaw tightening as she forced her expression to stay exactly where she wanted it — cool, teasing, in control.
Even though everything in that moment felt anything but.
Yuck.
The space between them shrank, tension pulling tight like a wire ready to snap. The container suddenly felt smaller, hotter, the stale air thick with something unspoken — something that had been building every time they crossed paths, every jab, every look, every near-miss stacking on top of the last.
It never went away. It just got worse.
Hiccups cleared her throat, rolling her eyes at him, pretending to be unfazed. “How ya gonna entertain me then?” she replied, voice light, almost bored. “I got places to be, people to see.”
For a second — just a second — his expression shifted, and for a moment, she almost thinks the yucker looks jealous with the way his eyes narrowed just a fraction too much. The scoff that followed was sharper than before. He pulled his hand back like the contact had burned him, too, dragging it up to his neck, fingers hooking under the red bandana as he adjusted it. Why the yuck are his veins like that? She lets herself admire him for a second as he closes his eyes briefly.
He opens them again, umber eye piercing her. “What,” he muttered, voice lower, rougher around the edges, “missing your boyfriend, cupcake?”
Narrowing her eyes, she stares at him and frowns, confusion flashing across her face before irritation follows close behind.
“When the yuck did I get one of those?” she shot back, brows knitting. “I haven’t got time to drag some yuckbag around.”
His eyes narrow in return in suspicion, “Word on the street says you got one.”
She let out a scoff, sharp and dismissive. “Well, the streets wrong. I’ll give them the potty mouth treatment for lying.”
He leans further forward, just a bit closer, and she might be able to bite him.
“A clown’s been runnin’ his mouth,” he said, voice dropping, gaze locked on hers. “Says he’s got it goin’ with the clown queen.”
She stilled, just for a second, mentally running through names — idiots with too much confidence and not enough sense.
Little does she know, he knows exactly who it was, and he’s stalked that motherfuckers routine and was close to offing him himself.
“Name’s Bonkers or somethin’,” he continued, feigning thought. “Bonfire? Bonnydick? Bon—”
“Bon.” Hiccups barked out a laugh, sharp and sudden. “He’s dead.”
“Need help?” Jagger’s breath brushes against her lips, their noses nearly touching, the space between them razor-thin. She doesn’t notice.
Her mind was already elsewhere — already turning, already calculating exactly how that idiot had managed to spread that kind of rumour and how quickly she was going to make him regret it.
Already planning to kill the motheryucker, doesn’t that Yuckbag know how much yuck she goes through after rising the ranks and becoming Queen? He’s gonna have hell to pay.
Her irritation sharpened, and she poured it into the last strands of rope, sawing faster. In one fluid motion, she surged forward, the shift sudden and violent — the knife flashing up, pressing firm against Jagger’s throat, right against his Adam’s apple.
Steel to skin.
Her storm-grey eyes burned, alive with something electric, dangerous. “No time to waste,” she said, voice low, steady despite the fire behind it. “Not sorry to cut the show short.”
His pupils are blown wide, breath catching just slightly as adrenaline hits fast and hard. Excitement. Instinct. Something darker threading through it as he drinks in the blood thirsty look on her face. He knows it isn’t directed at him.
A slow, crooked grin tugged at his lips anyway, even with the blade pressed to his throat. “It’s a date, buttercup.”