spiicii

[spiicii]

SUMMERSLAM: NIGHT TWO | 08.03.25

[spiicii]

It’ll be out this week babes don’t worry 💙

soo..@spiicii can we get part 4 of boy toy since sugerdaddy seth won

(im begging mother feed uss)

[spiicii]

For the cuck!Cody series with RKO …

(poll is only a day because I’m almost finished with the story, so please vote!)

Tags: @terrortwinunicorn @southerngirl41 @sharmelasworld @jazzyboo123-blog1 @sykokittyy @caralinda0914 @kianaleani @madhatterbri @xbriexx @neurodivergentempress @aureliacorvina @stacys-momxx @beccalynns-world @fafomama @onlyangel4 @femdisa @partypoison00 @vanissillier @ladygagaswifey @spiicii @teamchasezwrites @moonlightsinner @damianpriestfangirl82 @goldnhabitx @admpage

[spiicii]

rum and coke

jimmy uso x fem reader. rated e. drabble.

summary: you had always loved the dichotomy of opposites. yin and yang; the one that defined the other while taking nothing from it. true balance. when you first met jimmy, it felt like some part of you knew he was the perfect complement, a tender foil. warnings: smut, eating out, unprotected p in v, light emotional hurt/comfort if you squint, sex under the influence

a/n: i was writing this concurrently with my first jimmy fic and i wasn't planning to really focus on it much yet but it became very very sweet and special to me and i wanted to see it through now as opposed to later. i hope you enjoy!

You had always loved the dichotomy of opposites. Yin and yang; the one that defined the other while taking nothing from it. True balance.

When you first met Jimmy, it felt like some part of you knew he was the perfect complement, a tender foil.

There was a vibrance and lightness to him that you had always loved, and at times envied, too. You always held on just a little too long, a little too tight, to everything you cared about, and melancholia came naturally to you. Neither one was a better way to be than the other, they were just different.

The two of you were different, in ways people sometimes liked to point out indelicately.

People with a greater tendency to be extroverts would often make jokes about how the two of you together were all about the attraction of opposites. Inherently not an objective statement on right or wrong, but to you, there was a very clear implied preference which left you to feel ashamed.

Sometimes it encouraged you to curl even tighter into yourself, go a little quieter and stay a little closer to center, while you watched Jimmy move fearlessly with a brightness that rivaled the sun.

When the two of you were alone, you were more comfortable being yourself. Still shy, still introverted, but less conscious of it. You could do something silly or ridiculous with him that didn’t ask you to be someone you weren’t. He could be peaceful and present with you intentionally without questioning if you wanted him to be someone different.

It took time and practice, but you had found that common ground together.

It didn’t exist in a vacuum, however. There were things that still shook your confidence, moments where it seemed like people still looked at you as someone he put up with.

Tonight, you and Jimmy had gone out to a bar with a few coupled friends. The drinks were shitty, the temperature was stiflingly hot, and your outfit was certainly not comfortable. You were here, though, because of him. Because this was fun for him, and with him, you could find the pocket where you fit in an environment that wasn’t made for you.  

At first, it was just one of your friends teasing you innocently enough that they were surprised to see you there. Then, after a few drinks, it was a jab at how Jimmy must have promised you a boring night in to make up for tonight. Finally, the crescendo came in the form of a stranger—a woman who approached Jimmy at the bar while he got you a refill, and you watched how easily she fit there. With him.

You were quiet on the ride home, and eagerly dropped onto the couch with a sigh as soon as you got through the door.

The straps on your heels felt like too much of a puzzle to solve right now, so the next best thing was propping your legs up on the arm of the couch to take the pressure off your feet.

“Nah, nah, don’t get comfy there. You’re gonna be wanting the bed soon, and we’ll both be too tired to do anything about it,” Jimmy insisted. He took one of your hands to get you sitting upright, but then instead of helping you to your feet, he swept you up in his arms and held you to his chest. “I gotchu, mama.”

“Be careful,” you murmured, resting your head against his collarbone. You could feel the steady beat of his pulse and the glaze of sweat beneath his shirt. He smelled so good, earthy and warm with a hint of spice.

When he chuckled, you felt the vibration in his chest against your cheek. “I will, got me the most precious cargo.”

Jimmy deposited you gently onto your shared bed, helping you lie back with a steadying palm at the base of your spine, and then got on his knees in front of you. Before you could ask what he was doing, you felt him caress your ankles, his fingertips tracing the path of your heels’ intricate lacing up your calves.

“Baby,” you reproved softly, “you don’t have to do that. I’ll get them off in a bit when I can stand up again.”

His knuckles dragged softly over your bare skin, and you couldn’t help the shiver that moved through you. “Lemme do it.”

You sighed with faux-indignance, but didn’t fight him any further.

Seemingly placated, Jimmy resumed his overly careful ministrations. “You look so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured with a slow, heavy tongue. “You a goddess in this dress. Don’t think I coulda lasted much longer out there, playing like I wasn’t fiendin’ for my girl.”

The startling rasp of his beard against your knee prompted you to prop yourself on your elbows so you could see him. He was nuzzling you gently, and it seemed to be an absentminded act of self-soothing for him, his eyelids droopy and his lips slightly parted.

A gentle smile spread across your lips, and you opened your mouth to say something sweet in return, but instead what came out was, “Does being with me make you happy?”

“What the hell you askin’ something like that for?” It wasn’t dismissive, per se, but he treated it like a transitory curiosity that would be gone by morning, a short-lived hypothetical.

“Do I make you happy? Even though I’m boring?”

Looking up at you with innocently wide eyes, Jimmy blinked slowly in confusion. His long eyelashes looked like delicate lace, and cast pretty, shadowed patterns on the skin beneath. “What’d you mean? I’m fuckin’ sprung, mama. You got me on a leash, and I want it.”

Your already tender heart had thawed too much from the alcohol to handle such a raw declaration. He presented it as something so simple, like a casual, objective fact.

He had gotten one shoe free and set aside and started on the other when he suddenly looked up sharply. His eyebrows were drawn in tight and his lips were turned down in a small frown. “And what’d you mean boring? Someone say that to you?”

“Come on, baby. You don’t have to pretend.” A traitorous lump rose in your throat and couldn’t be swallowed down. “I know I’m not like you.”

“That’s one of the best things about you.” Maybe you were tipsier than you thought, but you honestly couldn’t tell if that was a joke.

“You heard what our friends were saying about me tonight. And I…I saw you talking to that girl at the bar.”

Jimmy groaned softly and tipped forward against you. His face came to rest in supplication on the softness of your thighs. “Baby, I swear, I ain’t even—”

“No. No, I know.” His sigh of relief ruffled the hem of your dress softly. “I just meant…you looked happy.”

“Yeah, I like talkin’ to people.” He shrugged as much as he was able in the position he was in. “‘Specially when we all drinkin’ and communin’ and shit.” The movement of his lips against you as he spoke and the ghost of breath in the seam between your legs combined to overwhelm your body. Goosebumps erupted over your skin.

You laughed, bringing a hand up to card through his sweat-damp curls and scratch your nails along his scalp. The sensation evoked a deep purr from low in Jimmy’s chest, and something about its primal nature touched yours, making heat coil low in your belly.

“You are the friendliest drunk I’ve ever been around,” you managed to reply despite all the ways he distracted you. “But I just… I’m not good at any of the things you do. Or what you like. I’m just over here being boring. All the time.”

“You just bein’ you. Ain’t nothing boring about that.” It took a little doing and patience, but he finally got both heels off and gently set aside. His palms slid up the outside of your legs until they came to rest at your outer thighs just beneath the hem of your dress. “And I ain’t loving you ‘cause I pity you.”

“Okay.” It was a simple reply, but it was honest. It wasn’t a false promise or a white lie, and that was more important to you. You believed him, if nothing else; maybe you couldn’t believe yourself, but you knew he would only tell you the truth.

“I love when you get all confident and shit, talking about somethin’ you’re a smarty pants about. When you correct someone while bein’ all sweet with it.” You could hear the smile in his voice even without being able to see him. “I love that you can curl up against me and stay like that for hours, just ‘cause you love me. I love that you sit quietly and watch things go by so you can say somethin’ incredible about it all that I never thought of. I love that when you laugh for me, that real cute, undignified shit, I know it’s gotta be real.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he turned his cheek against you to look up into your eyes. “You really mean it?”

“Mean it and more, baby.” His palms reverently stroked along the expanse of your thighs, and the goofy little smile he offered you almost cracked your chest open. “C’n I show you?”

You nodded, about to move back on the bed to let him up, but his fingers pressed hard into your skin.

“Nah. Like this, baby. Love it like this.” His eyelids got all droopy and soft again, and instead of attempting to help you out of your dress or even just lift it up your hips to make room, Jimmy slid under the skirt.

The outline of him beneath delicate, dark fabric did something unexpected to you. It would have seemed that the sight of him pleasuring you would be greatest sight, but something about this obscurity felt even more thrilling. He moved beneath the fabric like a shark through water, sleek and smooth, and the pleased hum he made when he kissed at you over your underwear was muffled, but you felt it all through you.

“Jimmy…”

His reply was unintelligible, but the first warm, wet touch of his tongue against you was bright and clear. You gasped loudly, your back arching on instinct, but he dug his fingers in hard enough that you would surely be wearing his fingers as bruises for days to come.

His fingers worked at the elastic of your underwear, fumbling only a little—quite an impressive feat after a night of drinking—and pulled them down and off. As soon as you were bare before him, he was rubbing his mouth and nose against you gently, smearing your wetness on him like a holy blessing.

Already feeling raw and sensitive inside and out, you couldn’t hold back a soft whimper. Your fingers wound into his hair with a firm grip, but you tried not to tug too hard as you pulled him in closer.

Jimmy pressed deeper into you, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs to part a little more, and he brought one of his hands up to rest over yours on his head. Squeezing firmly, he closed your fist a little tighter and pulled against you just enough that you felt the tension down to the roots of his hair. Encouraging you—asking you—to make it hurt a little.

Your heart was racing in your chest at the invitation. You acquiesced and in response, his jaw went slack and his tongue softened.

“Baby, oh my god,” you moaned, low and breathy.

“Nah, say it right for me.” He suckled at your clit with warm, strong suction, and his saliva slid slowly down along your lips. “Say it like you do, just for me.”

The frisson of wildness that was rapidly spiderwebbing through your whole body made you feel like you were balanced on a knife’s edge.

“Please.” His voice cracked just a little around the edges, showing his hand without a thought to his pride.

“Daddy.” It came out like a purr, a contented little noise of want and need. “I need more, Daddy.”

Jimmy made a wounded noise against you, rolling his tongue inside you softly before parting from you with an obscenely wet noise. “I want you to cum on my tongue first, mama.”

“I want you. Need you.” The ache of emptiness, or just incompleteness, was getting harder to ignore. It was all pleasure, just different flavors; the problem was, you had a taste for one in particular now.

After hearing his reassurance and love, your heart was a wild thing in your chest that wanted and wanted. It started off without any particular drive, vulnerable and building up its ego. Taking each piece of love and tenderness and observing it before collecting it to keep. Now, however, it was satisfied enough to have grown, evolved into something that wanted particulars and had grown teeth.

Levering yourself up to a sitting position pulled you just far enough from his mouth that he chased you unsuccessfully with an open, needy mouth. “I wanna know what you feel, Daddy. All of it.”

The blaze in his eyes cooled from a white-hot blue flame to a steady deep red at the sentiment he knew was lurking beneath the words, and he allowed you to inch back towards the pillows without stopping you. Instead, he followed you like the leash he said you had him on was very real and pulling him inextricably closer.

Crawling up the bed with his strong arms caging you in and his knees keeping your legs from closing, he trailed his lips along patches of your skin errantly, just to mollify himself enough that he could be patient for you. “I’m gonna do you right, mama, like you deserve.” When he got to your chest, his nose dragged along your sternum and around to the side of your neck where he took a luxurious inhale of your perfume. “I love you so much.”

Comfortably situated, you brought one hand back up to the base of his skull and held him. His hair fell across your chest in a small torrent of pretty little curls, a teasing sensation of barely there and also impossible to ignore.

Jimmy reached down with one hand to start undoing the button and zipper of his pants, and only moved them down enough that he could get himself in hand.

It was a particular kind of need that drove this kind of sex; the kind where you undressed only to the most necessary degree, not because of a lack of privacy or time, but because it demarcated a specific and passionate brand of hunger.

You rotated your hips a little so you could shift your skirt up to give him better access, and he took every bit of new allowance you gave him with enthusiasm.

It was utterly holy the way that he slid into you so perfectly.

That slow, slick press that made you both hold each other just a little tighter peaked with a deep, incomparable satisfaction of completeness. For a moment, neither of you moved, just so you could revel in that feeling a little longer.

“I love you most,” you whispered, squeezing his hips with your knees.

“Love you most.”

And then the stasis overbalanced, and he was moving in deep strokes that made you arch into him as much as you were able.

“Fuck, you feel so good. I’ve never had it as good as you.” Your lips by his ear made it too easy to bite at him softly, but you rubbed your cheek against him in apology.

“’Course you haven’t, pretty girl,” he smirked, that arrogant little twist of his lips making something in you catch. “Why would you be callin’ me Daddy otherwise, huh? I’m all you need.”

Every completed cycle of push and pull satisfied a deep hunger that only this had ever touched. It was relief and raw pleasure, and then a new kind of emptiness and craving.

“You wanna know a secret, though?” Jimmy was breathing more heavily now, each exhale trembling just a little. “You all I need, too. Daddy ain’t shit without his girl.”

A whimper of pure overwhelm escaped you, and your arms locked tight around his neck to tuck his face against you. As if you could make him a part of you if you held him tight enough.

“Baby… I’m tryna make it last but—fuck—you’re so…”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Me too.”

It was messy and uncoordinated, but it was everything you needed to feel. Coming apart around him as he spilled for you, knowing that this was what you always were.

Give and take, push and pull. Balance. Wholeness.

Fated hearts.

[spiicii]

He been blessin us on IG lately..

[spiicii]

whatever you say mister adorable eyes.

[spiicii]

#heist of the century 2.0 has been completed SUMMERSLAM: NIGHT ONE | 08.02.25

[spiicii]

And new World Heavyweight Champion... SUMMERSLAM: NIGHT ONE | 08.02.25

[spiicii]

y'all KNOW i can't be mad about this. I LOVE THIS MAANN!! CHAMPION MY CHAMPION, YUURRR 🗣‼️

[spiicii]

JEY USO WWE SummerSlam, August 2nd, 2025

[spiicii]

[spiicii]

a jey uso win at summerslam in his slut shorts !!

[spiicii]

BRON BREAKKER WWE SummerSlam, August 2nd, 2025

[spiicii]

Two hundred sixty-five pounds of can't nobody do nothing!

[spiicii]

Backin It Up -- Dom!JeyUso x Bratty!Reader

⚠️ CONTENT WARNINGS: Public BDSM power play. Forced kneeling in a wrestling ring. Verbal degradation. Dom!Jey in full control. Humiliation kink. Rough oral x2 (brutal use of the mouth). Flogger to pussy and thighs. Belt spanking. Orgasm denial. Overstimulation. Belt and Collar use. Cum play, gargling of cum. Crying. Emotional sub drop. Collapsed mental state. Reader doesn’t use safe word but should have. Jey transitions from dom to boyfriend in aftercare. Water, food, whispered affirmations. Reader has trouble speaking. Safe word discussion included after. Very intense. Not soft. Not romanticized. Smut is degrading, punishing, and consensual but brutal.

Requested by @acknowledge-reigns

Subs: @spiicii @minteagalaxea

You stood ringside like you belonged there.

Because you did.

Until you didn’t.

The ring was electric. Bloodline draped across the squared circle like royalty, Roman dead center, calm and unbothered; Jimmy bouncing on his heels, cocky and loud; Solo silent and brooding near the ropes.

And Jey?

Jey stood behind you. Arms crossed. Shoulders gleaming under the lights. Face unreadable. Every time the camera cut to him, the crowd screamed like he was the only one that mattered.

You shifted your weight in your boots, the mic already warm in your hand. Paul Heyman was talking. Something long. Something respectful. A list of accolades. A warning to whoever dared to doubt The Ones.

But you weren’t listening. You knew the play, Hunter asked you to simply not give a fuck tonight, you were going to wing it, completely feed off the Bloodline 's reactions.

However.. you could feel Jey behind you. You could feel him. That pulse. That pressure. Like your body knew what he was before your mouth remembered how to behave. You swallowed a knot and focused.

Roman turned toward you, smile slow. “You know how this works,” he said into his mic, voice smooth as ever. “Ain’t no one here above the Bloodline. Ain’t no one here who gets to speak unless I say so.”

The camera cut to your face.

You smiled.

And said, loud and clear, into your mic:

“I honestly don’t give a f*** what you say.”

The pop from the crowd was instant. Nuclear.

Jimmy and Solo blinked. Roman’s smile didn’t move but something cold flashed behind his eyes.

And Jey?

He didn’t move at all.

But the energy changed. You felt it hit the back of your neck before you even turned. That drop in temperature. That shift.

He was already walking toward you.

He had a mic in his hand.

The crowd noticed first. The chants died down. Cameras focused in. You held your ground, even though your pulse betrayed you, beating in your throat and your wrists and your thighs.

Jey stopped in front of you. Real close. Close enough that his breath touched your cheek when he spoke.

“Say that again.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t bow.

You were too worked up. Too proud.

So you did.

You repeated it.

“I don’t give a—”

“Get on your knees.”

His voice cut through you like a fucking knife.

Your mouth stayed open.

“What?”

Jey raised the mic to his lips. The camera caught the twitch in his jaw. “You think this is a game? You think this is funny?”

The crowd was losing it. Phones out. Chanting your name. Laughing. Screaming. But your skin burned hot, your legs suddenly unsure.

You heard Roman chuckle behind you.

“I said…” Jey’s voice was slow now. Commanding. “…get on your knees. And apologize.”

The crowd gasped.

You blinked.

“No.”

He stepped closer. Eyes locked on yours. “You got five seconds before I make it worse.”

You felt it deep. In your spine. In your belly.

Your knees buckled before your pride could save you.

You dropped.

Right in front of him.

Right in the middle of the ring.

The crowd went feral.

Your head dropped. Palms flat on your thighs. You couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t speak.

The mat under your knees felt hotter than the lights overhead.

Jey circled you. Once. Twice. Slow like a storm brewing.

“She loud before,” he said into the mic. “Big talk. But now look at her.”

He crouched in front of you, voice soft, just for you. “You wanted attention, baby. You got it.”

You swallowed.

“Say it.”

“…I’m sorry.”

He cocked his head. “Louder.”

You grit your teeth.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

You choked it out. “For disrespecting the Bloodline.”

“Who else?”

You hesitated.

“Say it.”

You whispered it. “The Tribal Chief.”

Jey smirked.

He stood up and turned to the crowd.

“Whole world watching. And now y’all know what happens when someone in my corner forgets who she stand next to.”

He pointed down at you.

“She kneels.”

The crowd erupted again.

And you? You didn’t move.

Not even when he stepped behind you and rested one big hand on your head.

Not even when he leaned in and whispered low:

“You embarrassed yourself tonight. But I’ll handle the rest when we backstage.”

The camera caught the way your lashes fluttered.

The segment ended on your knees.

Right where he wanted you.

Right where you wanted to be.

--

You stood in the corner.

Embarrassment clinging to your skin with a sprinkle of shame. Your thighs were still damp beneath your clothing. You hadn’t spoken since you left the ring. You didn’t need to.

Fucking stupid for allowing Hunter to talk you into a line change... even more stupid for not telling anyone.

Roman’s voice echoed through the hallway, sharp and controlled.

“You let her say that in front of me? In front of the whole world?”

Jey didn’t look up.

“She disrespected my name. My seat. And you stood there. Let her mouth off. Let her walk back here like she did something.”

Jey’s hands were behind his back. Chest rising slow.

“She’s yours, right?”

“…Yes, sir.”

Roman stepped forward.

“She’s yours—but she looked like mine. Like she forgot who she was kneeling to.”

Jey’s jaw flexed. Still no eye contact.

“If she’s not broken by the end of the hour…”

Roman tilted his head. Low. Lethal.

“…then you will be.”

A moment.

Jey nodded. “Yes, sir.”

CRACK.

Roman’s hand landed hard across his face. The sound snapped the air in half.

“Correct yourself.”

Jey didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“Yes… my Tribal Chief.”

Roman stared at him for another long second.

“Fix your bitch.”

He walked off.

And the silence that followed felt more nerve-wracking than any crowd.

Jey reached up to touch his cheek where Roman had slapped him, you hated to see it but you saw a flash of 2020 Jey, when you guys first started dating.. when Jey was in his Right Hand Man era. Jey sighed and he walked to his duffel bag and he didn’t say a word as he pulled the black collar. Thick, polished leather. The D-ring already lined up for him to snap the leash on.

He held it up with one hand and looked at you.

“C’mere.”

You stepped forward without thinking. He fastened it around your neck with a low hum, buckling it snug but not tight, just enough to remind you what you were.

A bitch.

Then click, he attached the leash.

The sound echoed through the locker room like a verdict.

You swallowed.

Jey looked you in the eye. Roman’s handprint was still blooming across his cheek.

“I’m gonna walk you to Hunter,” he said. “And you’re gonna look him in the face and tell him: No more spontaneous changes.”

You blinked. “Jey—”

He tugged the leash. Not hard, but firm enough to jolt you forward.

“Say it.”

You whispered, “No more spontaneous changes.”

“Good.”

He opened the door and walked.

And you followed, on the leash.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The hallway wasn’t long. But it felt endless.

You passed catering. Production. A few techs. Jimmy passed by with a water bottle in hand, did a double take, then smirked and said nothing. Someone whispered “Damn” behind you. Another voice snorted.

But Jey didn’t break stride.

Your knees began to ache about halfway there. Not from the leash. Not even from the collar. From how your thighs kept clenching, how your body kept begging to drop again.

Before you know it... The precum had soaked through your shorts. You could feel it between your thighs, sticky, shameful, soaked with want.

By the time you reached the office door, your legs were shaking.

Jey knocked once.

“Come in,” came the voice.

The door opened.

Hunter looked up from his laptop and didn’t even blink.

You kept your place on your knees, in front of his desk. Collar on. Leash tight. Jey behind you, holding it like it was a damn wristwatch.

You swallowed.

“No more spontaneous changes,” you said, trying to sound steady.

Hunter nodded. “Understood.”

And just like that, Jey tugged you back.

The walk back was slower. Not because of Jey but because your knees had really hurt now. Ache radiated from every joint. Your thighs were becoming jelly. You could barely look at anyone.

When he finally closed the locker room door behind you, you were trembling, every inch of you flushed.

You didn’t know if you wanted to cry, stand, or beg for his cock.

Maybe all three..

Jey didn’t raise his voice as he unhooked the leash. He really didn’t even look at you at first. He walked again to his bag, knelt, unzipped it, dropped the leash and then pulled out a black permanent marker like it was part of his gear. No rush. No hesitation. Just control.

Then he turned.

"Stand and Strip."

Your stomach twisted as you obeyed. Your hands moved before your brain could argue. You peeled your gear down slow, exposing hot, flushed skin that still prickled from the walk. But... Nevertheless the collar stayed.

He looked you over with a blank expression. The kind that made you feel small. Not ignored but beneath him.

“Hands behind your back.”

You obeyed.

Jey stepped forward and uncapped the marker with his teeth.

“I said I’d prove you were mine,” he murmured. “So hold still.”

The first stroke of ink landed cold across your stomach.

P

R

O

P

E

R

T

Y – he pressed harder on that one.

O

F

J

E

Y

He underlined it.

Then he crouched low, just under your belly button, and dragged the marker downward, drawing an arrow that ended right above your aching pussy. His eyes flicked up.

“Where this belongs,” he said, voice dark.

You nodded. Swallowed. You were already trembling.

He stepped back and lifted his phone.

“Don’t move.”

Click.

The shutter sound snapped through the room.

Another. This one from above, catching your flushed face, your collar, the words on your skin.

“Down on your knees.”

You dropped again without question.

He circled you once, angling the phone, snapping another from behind. Your bare ass. Your hands still locked behind your back. The ink. The sheen on your thighs.

Then he opened his messages.

You didn’t dare look up.

He typed:

Correction in progress. 44 mins left.

Send.

You didn’t breathe so loud now.

Jey crouched in front of you again, phone in one hand, dominance in the face. He tapped your lips with two fingers.

“Gimme that mouth.”

You parted immediately.

“Use it right this time.”

Your lips wrapped around his fingers, tongue sliding along the pads. You sucked, soft and eager, knowing what was coming. He watched you with quiet approval.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Let’s see if you still talk back with a mouth full.”

He stood and undid his belt slowly. His cock already hard and pulsing.

Your mouth watered.

He gripped the back of your head and fed himself into your mouth with a slow roll of his hips. The taste hit first. Then the weight. You moaned around him before you could stop it.

“This the same mouth that disrespected the Tribal Chief?” he muttered, hips pushing deeper. You gagged once. He didn’t stop.

“No?” He pulled back, then shoved in again. “Didn’t sound like that earlier.”

Tears welled in your eyes. Your throat burned. Spit ran down your chin. You blinked up at him and let him fuck your mouth, one hand tight in your hair, the other still holding the leash like reins.

He watched you fall apart.

“Make it up to him,” Jey growled. “Make it up to me.”

You choked but you didn’t stop.

Because you deserved it.

Because you needed to be broken.

And because he was going to send proof.

Your lips were had become raw. Your chin was soaked. Mascara streaked down both cheeks, black lines framing the hollow shape your mouth made as it trembled open again.

The collar was still tight on your neck.

Jey didn’t look at you with sympathy. He didn’t look at you like he cared.

He looked down like he was measuring something.

“How long you think you gonna last this time?” he asked, dragging the tip of his cock across your spit-glossed cheek. “Hm?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your breath still caught in hiccups, eyes puffy from crying, throat still closing from the first round.

He tapped your mouth once. You opened wider.

“Better.”

He pushed in again slower, but not kinder.

You moaned instantly. Not in pleasure. Not in pain. In something worse. That slippery in-between that left your body confused and your pride in pieces.

He held your head still with both hands now, thumbs digging into the corners of your mouth as he used your throat, pressing deeper with each snap of his hips.

“You wanna talk back in the ring?” he hissed. “Get bold in front of Roman like you forgot who brought you there?”

You gagged hard. Reflex. He didn’t flinch.

“Did that collar get too loose?” he taunted, breathless, cock dragging out wet and thick before slamming forward again. “You thought it meant you had a say?”

You sobbed around him.

The noise was ugly. Wet. Your nose ran. Your throat burned.

SMACK.

His palm cracked across your face again, not full-force but just enough to sting. Just enough to make it real.

“That mouth,” he spat, voice shaking now, “has been a fuckin’ problem since day one.”

He dragged your face forward, deeper.

“Cry harder. I want Roman to see this one.”

You could barely see. Barely breathe. You weren’t a person anymore. Just something for him to fuck and fix and photograph when he was done.

Your fingernails dug into the floor. Your thighs trembled.

“Look at you now,” Jey hissed. “You so smart, right? So quick with it. Crowd ate that shit up. Now you got no voice left.”

His thrusts turned brutal. You gagged so loud it echoed and you couldn’t stop the tears, couldn’t control anything anymore.

“You wanted punishment?” he growled. “This is what you earned.”

You sobbed again, and it triggered something deep in him. His rhythm stuttered. His breath caught.

He pulled out with a slap of spit and shame.

You collapsed forward. Cheeks soaked. Eyes swollen. Your mouth hung open without thought now, lips trembling and red.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Jey muttered.

He fisted his cock over your tongue. Once. Twice.

And came.

Hot ropes across your mouth, your chin, your chest, marking over the smeared ink across your skin. His cum pooled right beneath the Y in “PROPERTY.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You just took it.

Because that’s what you were now.

He pulled out his phone.

No hesitation.

Took the picture from above of your face, your body, the collar, the smeared ink, and the fresh, hot mess coating your chest.

He typed.

“She’s learning now.”

And sent it.

Jey then gripped your hair, tight, and dragged you the rest of the way to the couch like you weighed nothing. You stumbled. Crashed into the cushions with a cry. Your collar twisted around your neck from the pull, breath ragged and broken.

"Get on your back."

You scrambled. He didn’t wait.

He grabbed your legs, rough and possessive, and folded you.

Ankles over your head. Cunt wide open. Body trembling under the pressure of being exposed like that, completely, shamelessly and humiliatingly open.

He stood over you and shook his head.

"Look at this fuckin’ mess."

His eyes dragged down your body. From the ruined makeup, to the spit-stained chest, to the words PROPERTY OF JEY still smeared across your stomach in thick black marker. His cum had dried halfway through the ink.

"And you had the fuckin’ audacity to mouth off in front of Roman like you were untouchable?"

You couldn’t respond. You were sobbing again, hands gripping the couch beneath you, shoulders shaking with every breath.

He leaned down and tapped your wet, trembling pussy with two fingers.

"This little hole runs the whole system, huh?"

He stood back up.

"Let’s reset it."

Jey walked back to his bag and pulled out the flogger.

Your blood ran cold.

Thick leather tails. Soft at the tips. Mean at the base. You’d felt it before but never like this. Never with intent.

He returned slowly. Rolled his shoulders. Tested the swing once in the air.

Then he stood between your thighs.

"No more fake apologies. You wanna be sorry?"

He lifted the flogger.

"Then say thank you."

The first strike landed dead center, right across your swollen pussy.

You screamed.

He didn’t blink.

"Say it."

"T-Thank you!" you sobbed.

Another slap.. this time across your right thigh.

"Thank you!"

Another one.. on the left.

"Thank you, Sir!"

Another smack to your clit.

You arched off the couch, eyes wild, mouth open in a silent scream.

He waited.

Your voice broke. "Thank you—thank you!"

He grinned.

"You learning now."

He struck you again; five, six times in a row. Pussy, thighs, inner folds. No mercy. Each hit louder than the last. Your body bucked. Your legs twitched. But he held you down, one arm bracing your ankles, his eyes never leaving your face.

Your screams turned to whimpers. Whimpers into gasps.

And still every time he paused:

"Say it."

"Thank you…"

He knelt, face inches from your ruined cunt.

"You ever embarrass me again?"

You shook your head.

"You ever talk back again?"

"N-No, Sir."

"You forget what happens when a bitch with my collar disrespects the Tribal Chief?"

You sobbed. "I remember—I remember, I swear—"

He dragged the flogger one last time up the length of your folds. Your whole body trembled.

"Good."

Then he thrusted into your pussy.

And the pleasure mixed with the leftover sting of the flogger?

Phenomenal.

But... we all know you tried.

You tried to hold it back, even as he fucked you open with his cock and and eventually began to whip your clit raw with the flogger. You tried to keep still as your legs trembled in the air, your chest streaked in spit, your cunt aching, dripping, humiliated.

But your body had other plans due to the immense of overstimulated pleasure and pain.

You came anyway sadly...

Loud.

Uncontrolled.

Unforgivable.

And Jey? well.. Jey stopped immediately.

The moment your cunt clenched around him, his rhythm snapped.

He froze deep inside you, breathing hard, rage rolling off him like steam.

Your eyes widened.

“I’m—” you gasped, “I’m sorry—Sir, I didn’t mean—”

He pulled out.

Grabbed your hips.

And flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing.

You barely had time to blink.

Then you heard a jingle, thud and swooshing.

You suddenly realized it was .. Metal sliding free.

You froze.

You knew that sound.

Your face pressed into the couch, breath caught in your chest.

Then...

CRACK.

The belt landed across your ass with vicious force. You screamed, the sting cutting through your spine like lightning.

“Count,” he growled.

“O-One!”

CRACK.

“Two!”

You sobbed into the cushion.

CRACK.

CRACK.

“Three—Four!”

The fifth strike landed low, right at the tops of your thighs, where the skin was softest. You bucked. Cried out. Your body trembled from head to toe.

“Five!”

Silence.

You didn’t dare move.

Then.. You felt it.

His hands at the back of your neck, fingers working at the leather of your collar. You whimpered, heart pounding.

“No—please—”

He ripped it off.

And tossed it to the floor.

You felt the belt being looped. Tight. The leather sliding around your throat, the scent of it replacing the soft material you were used to.

He buckled it rough. High. Possessive.

“You can’t act like you got a pretty collar if you don’t know how to act pretty.”

You whimpered.

“You’re gonna wear this one ‘til you earn the other back.”

Then, he thrusted back inside you.

Hard.

You cried out, the stretch making you clamp down tight.

He gripped the belt like reins.

And started fucking you like he was riding you.

Every thrust dragged you back by the throat. Every snap of his hips pressed the leather into your windpipe. You gasped, eyes wide, throat burning, but you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

“You wanna come early?” he snarled. “Then you gonna get fucked like a bitch that don’t deserve to.”

You sobbed.

“Yes, Sir—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—”

He tugged the belt harder, pulling your head back, forcing your spine into an arch that made his cock drive deeper.

"You want forgiveness? You suffer for it."

The couch shook. Your body twitched. Your throat tightened beneath the belt with every brutal pull.

And he kept going.

Fucking you like he hated you.

Like he loved the way you broke.

Like he was never going to stop until you knew exactly who you belonged to.

And with every thrust and pull of the belt....You did.

Eventually your body had stopped registering pain now everything was just pleasure. His cock pounded into you from behind with no rhythm anymore, just force. Unhinged. Over and over. Every thrust made your jaw slack and your hands useless. You were melting forward into the couch, legs spread wide, ass high, drooling, whimpering, ruined.

You were gone.

And Jey knew it.

“Listen to you,” he laughed behind you, hips snapping hard, forcing your pussy to take every brutal inch. “Ain’t even got real words left.”

You tried to respond.

You tried.

“Sir—I—I’ll—fuck—I—please I—c-can’t—m'sorry—jus’—oh God—please—Roman—mouth—floor—fuck— I’m—”

“What?” he barked with a laugh, slapping your ass with the flat of his palm mid-thrust. “What the fuck did you just say?”

You sobbed.

Words didn’t work anymore. Your body was the only thing left that could speak. Your thighs shook. Your cunt clenched tight around him with every thrust, every tug of the belt, every humiliating slap of skin-on-skin.

“You hear yourself?” he growled. “Beggin’ like a dumb fuckin’ animal. Ramblin’ like that’s gonna save you.”

You whimpered again, face buried in the cushion.

He leaned over you. Voice low in your ear.

“You ever disrespect Roman again—or me—and I won’t stop at five with the belt. You hear me?”

You nodded, fast, desperate.

“Yes! Yes, Sir! I swear—I swear—I’ll be good—n-no more talking—no more—jus’ use me—please—"

“Say it.”

You choked.

“N-Never disrespect—never again—Tribal Chief—Sir—I won’t—I won’t—”

"Good bitch."

He wrapped the belt around his fist and yanked, lifting your chest up off the couch by the throat. Your spine arched. Your hands clawed at the cushions. His cock hit the spot so deep, so hard, you could barely hold your body together.

"Now fucking come."

Your mouth opened. But no sound came out.

You didn’t shake.

You didn’t twitch.

You squirted.

A full, violent gush of ejaculation exploding out of you like your body just quit, splattering the couch, the floor, your own thighs. It poured out like a dam broke, soaking everything, coating his cock, dripping off the back of your legs in strings of slick and shame.

Jey froze for a second.

Then grunted.

“God. Damn.”

You collapsed forward, shaking, twitching, leaking everywhere.

You weren’t just used now.

You were undone.

But Jey wasn’t done with you yet.

He stood over you, sweat beading down his chest, breathing hard, like the sight of you wasn’t enough. Like he needed to see it one more time.

Your lips parted before he even said it.

He grabbed your jaw, thumb grazing your tongue, then sliding lower. His fingers traced your chin, your neck, the line of the belt that had left its mark.

“You still got one job left,” he muttered. “Be useful.”

You nodded.

Obedient. Quiet. Ready.

And when he guided himself to your lips, you took it like it was the only thing keeping you alive. His grip on your hair tightened, and the rhythm wasn’t gentle, not now. It was punishing. Deep. Desperate. Like he was using your mouth to exorcise every ounce of rage Roman had buried in him.

You moaned around him. Eyes watering. But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

When he let go, finally, he didn’t pull back. He stayed there, breathing heavy, watching the way your cheeks puffed and jaw stretched, how you struggled to hold what he gave you.

His fingers returned to your chin. Tilting you up.

“Gargle it.”

You did.

The sound was echoed in the quiet locker room like a nasty confession.

It dripped from your lips, from the corners of your mouth. He watched it all.

“Play with it,” he said.

And you did.

You swirled it on your tongue. Let it run over your teeth. You smeared it with your fingers across your own chest, your lips, your neck. Marked by him. Claimed by him.

He stepped back.

Smirking.

Then tossed a towel at your feet.

“Clean yourself up, bitch.”

Then he walked out.

Didn’t even look back.

The towel in your hands feels heavier than it should. The room reeks of sweat, old cologne, and the sharp sting of sex. You stared blankly at the scuffed tile floor, your knees pressed together, your hands still trembling in your lap. Time's been a bit weird.

Across the room, Jey’s bag is open. You don’t even bother with the partition curtain. You walk stiffly over and grab your clothes. Then you make your way to the shower. You scrub your skin raw with a damp towel. The words on your body smear. Property of Jey. The marker streaks. You rub harder. They vanish. Mostly.

You change like a ghost, slow, disconnected, careful not to look at your reflection in the metal locker door. Still. Dressed. Cold inside. You sit back on the bench.

Then the door opens.

Your heart barely flinches.

Jey steps in quietly. No swagger. No chains. Just him. Hoodie on, sleeves pushed up. He sees you and stops.

“Ma…”

He approaches slowly, like he’s afraid the sound of his voice might shatter you. In his hands, your water bottle and a crushed granola bar from catering.

“I ain’t here for nothin’ else right now,” he murmurs, setting the snacks beside you. “Not him. Not Roman. Just me.”

You don’t answer. Don’t blink.

He crouches low in front of you, resting on the balls of his feet. His eyes search yours. “Look at me.”

Your gaze falters toward his shoulder.

“C’mon, baby. Look at me.” His hand reaches for your knee but stops short. He softens his voice. “You with me?”

Silence.

He exhales, jaw flexing hard before he speaks again. “You went quiet on me. And I ain’t like that.”

Still nothing.

He nods slowly. Then rises to his feet, only to kneel again, this time between your legs, hands gently braced on either side of your thighs without touching. “You ain’t gotta say a word,” he whispers. “But I need you to hear me.”

His voice drops in a final tone. “You mine. But not like that. Not broken. Not lost. You mine ‘cause I love you.”

You swallow.

He watches you, eyes never leaving. “I know I took you far. Too far maybe. But I’m back now. I’m here. Just Joshua. No Dom shit. No rules. Just me takin’ care of my girl.”

Your lip twitches. Then your fingers curl.

“I see you,” he whispers, finally brushing your hand. “Even like this. Especially like this. And I got you. I always got you.”

The tears come before the breath does.

Jey leans forward and kisses your forehead. “That’s my girl,” he whispers against your skin. “That’s the one I ride for.”

You finally breathe.

His arms slide around you as he pulls you close, pressing your head to his chest as his palm cradles the back of your neck.

And when he whispers again, low and patient and true, you actually believe him.

“I got you, baby. You don’t gotta carry none of that alone.”

Your breath slows against his chest. The world’s still quiet, but not empty anymore.

Jey’s fingers graze the back of your neck, soothing. His body is warmth and steadiness and something else now: safety. You could stay here forever.

But the words start forming.

“I didn’t need it,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb under your eye. “Didn’t need what, baby?”

“The safe word,” you say softly. “I didn’t use it… ‘cause I didn’t want to. I liked it.”

His gaze holds yours. Not judging. Not angry. Just listening.

You press your lips together and add, “I know it was a lot. And I know I looked gone, but I—I wasn’t scared. Not of you. I liked it.”

Jey nods slowly, exhaling through his nose. “I believe you. And I’m glad you did.”

His hand settles gently over your thigh.

“But you still shoulda used it,” he says quietly. “Even if you were into it.”

You tilt your head slightly, confused.

He continues, voice firm but gentle. “It’s not just for when you hate something. It’s for when you hit a line—even a good one. It tells me where your edges are. Tells me where to pull back, or push forward. Without that? I’m guessin’. And guessin’ ain’t safe.”

You look down, your fingers tracing the seam of your leggings.

He lifts your chin.

“I need to trust you, mama,” he says. “And you need to trust me. That’s how this works. We build it together.”

You nod slowly, heart thudding with understanding. “Okay.”

“I mean it,” he says, leaning closer. “I love breakin’ you down. But I love buildin’ you back up more. And I can’t do either if you won’t tell me when the ground’s shifting.”

Your eyes sting again, but it’s different this time. The tears are grateful.

“I understand,” you whisper.

Jey smiles and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Good girl.”

[spiicii]

The Macaw Uso - a Jhea Crackfic

People I would buy a macaw for: @spiicii @acknowledge-reigns @minteagalaxea

Rhea Ripley didn’t ask for a bird. It was dropped into her life by Liv and Dominik, who showed up on a random Tuesday afternoon with matching grins, two iced coffees, and a five-foot-tall gilded cage wrapped in glittery ribbon like they were delivering a prize from a demonic carnival.

“Surprise!” Liv chirped, pushing the door open before Rhea could ask questions.

Inside the cage sat a vibrantly plumed macaw, blue, green, and a morally concerning shade of red around the eyes. It blinked once. Slowly. Judgingly.

“He’s a rescue,” Dom explained. “From a woman in Daytona who used to host underground twerking competitions in her garage.”

“We think he has depth,” Liv added.

Rhea knelt to meet the bird’s gaze. “What’s his name?”

Liv and Dom answered in unison:

“The Right Honorable Squawkimus Maximus, Grand Admiral of Vibetown and Certified Freak, Sir.”

Rhea’s eyes lit up. “I love him.”

Jey, husband of one year, meathead of the century, a little dense but not too dense, a man who survived Hell in a Cell and also a Cancun couples’ retreat with Rhea, had never experienced hate nor fear like this since he almost drowned in a wave pool at age twelve when Jimmy decided to pop his floaties.

But what she didn't realize, was that while professing her love to the macaw at that very moment... would send her husband into a psychotic break.

And it all started because of sex.

It was night three with Squawkimus Maximus in the house. Rhea was moaning into the pillow, knees pressed to the mattress, and Jey was behind her like a man possessed: sweaty, grinning, muttering things like “Yeah, let’s make date night count”.

After the first round, he reached to the drawer for another condom.

And there, across the hall, through the cracked bedroom door…

…the bird was watching.

Perched dead center in his gold palace. Eyes wide. Wings slightly raised. Unmoving.

Staring.

Jey froze mid-thrust like a man who’d just been told the IRS was at the front door.

“Babe…” he whispered, heart hammering. “He’s watching.”

Rhea looked over her shoulder, hair stuck to her cheek. “So?”

“He looks like he’s about to call the cops.”

“He’s a bird.”

“No. He’s the feds in feathers.”

Rhea rolled over, pushed Jey back against the pillows, and sighed. “You’re soft now.”

“I saw God, Rhea.”

To fix it, and she would later blame her own toxic maternal instincts, Rhea did what she had to do. She went down. Slowly. Intentionally. Until he forgot the bird entirely and was back to saying things like “You sure you on birth control, ma?"

But from that night on, something in Jey shifted.

He started avoiding Squawkimus. Wouldn’t walk past the cage without muttering “snitch.” Claimed the bird kept “telepathically slut-shaming” him. And to make it worse, the damn thing hadn’t said one word. Seven whole days. No squawk. No chirp. Just judgment.

Then Rhea left for the road.

She kissed Jey goodbye, kissed the bird goodbye (on the beak, like a lunatic), and left with a duffel bag and no remorse.

And Jey? Jey was left home alone with the demon.

Just him. And Squawkimus Maximus.

Jey spent the first hour pacing. Then cleaning. Then pacing again. Eventually, he flopped on the couch and turned on the TV, flipping through channels until he found something nostalgic on BET. A 2000s club hits playlist.

The speakers boomed. Something primal. Something crunk.

🎶 “YEEAAHHHHHHH!” 🎶

Jey bopped his head.

Then.

Behind him.

Clear. Loud. Squawky.

🎶 “OKAAAAYYYY!” 🎶

Jey blinked.

🎶 “WHAAAT?!” 🎶

He turned around slowly.

Squawkimus Maximus was flapping his wings in rhythm, head-banging, eyes glowing.

🎶 “TURN DOWN FOR WHAAAAAT—” 🎶

Jey screamed.

The bird hit a body roll.

Lil Jon lived again... In the form of a macaw.

Even though the actual rapper was very well still alive.. but Jey didn't care.

Jey continued to stare at the bird with the same expression one might wear after seeing a ghost dab in the hallway.

Squawkimus Maximus, Grand Admiral of Vibetown and Certified Freak, Sir… was going at it as the songs switched up.

🎶 “Snap yo fingers… do your step…” 🎶

His voice was crisp. Clear. Full of soul and spiritual residue.

🎶 “You can do it all by yo’self—LET ME SEE YOU DO IT!” 🎶

Jey whispered, “I need to show Rhea.”

The wings were back up. His little feathered chest was puffed like he’d just done time. He was bobbing, flapping, turning slightly side to side like he’d trained at Magic City.

🎶"AYE!"🎶

He whipped his phone up with all the energy of a man on the brink and slammed Rhea’s name. FaceTime. Again.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

🎶 “SHAWTY CRUNK ON THE FLO—” 🎶

“Come on, come on, come on—”

Rhea answered.

“Hey bab—”

Silence.

Jey flipped the camera. Shoved it at the bird.

Squawkimus stopped mid-move.

Dead stop. One leg up in the air. Beak closed. Frozen.

Then slowly and casually, he tucked the raised foot back under himself and blinked once. Innocent. Blank. Void of sin.

Rhea frowned. “Josh…”

“NO.”

“Josh.”

“NO.”

“Baby.”

“RHEA.”

She blinked. “Why are you breathing so hard? Why does your voice sound like it’s in italics?”

Jey flipped the camera back to himself. He looked haunted. Shirt slightly crooked. Hairline sweating.

“He was just—he was just singing, Rhea. The entire chorus. With falsetto. And a head bob. He did the ad-libs. He screamed AYE from his soul.”

The bird fluffed a wing and tilted his head, perfectly still.

“I’m sorry.” Rhea rubbed her forehead. “You’re saying the bird was singing Lil Jon?”

“Yes!”

“And then he stopped the moment I answered?”

“Yes! Again!”

Rhea blinked slowly. “So... just to be clear... you are FaceTiming me... to tell me... our bird—”

“YOUR bird,” Jey corrected darkly.

“—OUR bird, sings Lil Jon when no one else is around.”

Jey nodded violently. “And then gaslights me by pretending to be mute.”

There was a pause.

Then, mercilessly, Rhea smiled.

“Babe, are you okay? Do you need electrolytes? A nap?”

Jey’s mouth dropped. “Rhea. He sang Snap Your Fingers to me. TO ME. He looked me in the eyes!!”

She giggled. “So now the bird’s sexually aggressive?”

“No, the bird is haunted by Atlanta in 2006.”

The bird yawned. Audibly. Loud and slow like he’d just worked a double at the trap house.

Rhea shook her head, still laughing. “You’re crazy.”

“I’m not crazy,” Jey whispered like a man who very much was. “He is. He’s the problem.”

She was still laughing as she hung up.

Jey lowered the phone.

Turned to the cage.

Squawkimus slowly turned his back to him and preened a wing like the conversation hadn’t happened.

Jey whispered, “I will catch you, feathered bitch.”

And from the cage:

🎶 “YEEAAHHHHHH…” 🎶

Under his breath. Soft. Just loud enough for Jey to hear.

Jey dropped his phone and screamed again.

--

Two days. That’s how long it had been since Rhea had received the first of thirty-six FaceTime calls from her husband, each one more deranged than the last. She stopped answering after Call #12, where Jey whispered, “He knows I’m watching,” then slowly turned the camera to the cage only to catch the bird chewing on a plastic zip tie and absolutely nothing else.

Now, Liv and Dom stood outside Rhea and Jey’s front door, mentally preparing themselves.

“You ready?” Liv asked, knocking with the kind of hesitation reserved for haunted houses and sketchy Craigslist pickups.

“No,” Dom replied. “But I feel like we’re already cursed by proximity.”

The door swung open.

There stood Jey.

Shirtless. Hair frizzed. Holding a cup of uncooked rice and a Capri Sun. His wedding ring was taped to his earlobe for “spiritual alignment.” His eyes were wide, far too wide.

“Y’all got here fast,” he said calmly. “Good. You can witness the truth.”

They stepped into the living room.

It was chaos. Not messy, just constructed chaos. Notes pinned to the walls with spaghetti noodles. A whiteboard labeled AVIAN DECEPTION STRATEGY. There were three objects arranged neatly on the coffee table: a cracked shot glass labeled “Penny,” a worn wrestling wristband labeled “Napkin,” and a glittery rock labeled “Chip.”

Dom whispered, “He SpongeBob’d.”

Liv said nothing. She just took out her phone and opened the Notes app.

In the center of the room, perched in his golden cage, sat the accused villain himself:

Dr. Professor Sir Squawkimus Maximus, Grand Admiral of Vibetown and Certified Freak, Sir.

Unbothered. Regal. Tail fluffed like he paid rent.

“I’ve got it all planned,” Jey said, placing the rice cup on top of the microwave. “I’ll bait him again. He always sings when I don’t expect it. But the moment I record? He goes silent. Like a church mouse. Like a professional actor under a non-disclosure.”

Dom blinked. “So he’s… playing mind games.”

“EXACTLY!” Jey pointed, vindicated. “This bird isn’t just existing. He’s orchestrating. He performs when it’s inconvenient. He taunts me. He dropped a beat to 'Yeah!' the other day when I was brushing my teeth.”

Liv snorted.

Jey spun on her. “You think this is funny? He’s gaslighting me on a spiritual level! Rhea thinks I’ve lost it! She only fell in love with me ‘cause I gave her that pink Yeet shirt and ate her pussy for 26 hours! Now she’s sending reinforcements ‘cause I told her the bird said ‘skeet skeet’ to my face!”

Dom held up a hand. “Okay, let's just forget you speaking about your sex life. But I need you to breathe. Play the track. Let’s see what happens.”

Jey nodded. Marched to the TV. Hit play.

🎶 “To the window…” 🎶

He slowly turned to the cage. Hands raised like a prophet in prayer.

“Do it. Come on. I know you wanna. Say it.”

Squawkimus stared.

Unmoving.

Then, elegantly… pooped.

Jey’s hands dropped. His mouth opened in betrayal. “Every. Single. Time.”

Liv started wheezing. “You let a parrot mess with your mind?”

“HE’S A MACAW!” Jey screamed.

“I feel like that’s not the issue here—”

“He sings when I turn the music off! He stops when I hit record! He winked at me while doing the Lil Jon shoulder bounce! HE IS STRATEGICALLY UNHINGING ME.”

Dom tried to speak, tried to calm him, but then it happened.

While Liv and Dom were locked in on Jey, trying to gently remind him that sleep was real and therapy was a thing, they missed it.

The shift.

Squawkimus casually turned his body and lifted one claw.

Middle toe extended.

He flipped Jey off.

And smiled.

A smug, tiny beak smirk.

Jey’s voice cracked into a high scream: “YOU SEE!??!”

Liv and Dom turned.

They saw… the bird licking its paw.

“I’LL KILL YOU!!" Jey shrieked.

“JOSHUA!” Dom shouted, lunging forward. “Calm down!!”

Squawkimus blinked.

“I think,” Dom said slowly, cautiously, “we should maybe… clean up a little.”

Jey blinked. “Clean up?”

Liv nodded, already picking up the spilled Cheeto bag and gently setting Chip, Used Napkin, and Penny back on the coffee table like she was tucking in three emotional support toddlers.

“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe we cook. Open a window. Play something other than Lil Jon. Stay here with you until Rhea gets back. Just... chill. Okay?”

Dom chimed in. “We’ll keep you company. No more solo face-offs with Big Squawk Energy over there.”

Liv smiled, moving to the sink. “You’re not alone, Jey. We got you.”

It was a good moment.

Jey stared at them. Breathing slowly. Jaw unclenching. For the first time in days, something in him started to relax. His shoulders dropped. His pulse steadied.

He looked between his two friends, voice quieter. “You’d really stay?”

“Of course,” Liv said, already rinsing dishes. “We’re family.”

“Plus I’ve always wanted to make tacos in someone else’s emotional crisis,” Dom added helpfully.

Jey exhaled.

Then, his eyes slid past them.

To the cage.

To him.

To Dr. Professor Sir Squawkimus Maximus, Grand Admiral of Vibetown and Certified Freak, Sir.

And the bird, sensing the moment, reading the vibe, aware that Jey was on the verge of healing, stuck out his tongue.

Just a little.

Just enough.

A small, dry flick of pink.

Mocking. Personal. Intentional.

Jey froze.

His eye twitched.

Liv was humming softly as she wiped down the counter. “We’ll clean up this whole place, I’ll put on some lo-fi—make it feel normal again.”

Dom was already moving couch cushions. “Where do you keep your trash bags?”

Jey didn’t answer.

He was still locked in. Staring at the cage. The bird. The tongue.

“Jey?” Liv asked.

Jey turned his head, slowly, expression vacant. “He licked the air.”

“What?”

“He licked the air like it owed him money.”

Liv and Dom both turned. The bird had resumed grooming. Innocent. Clean. Peaceful.

“Are you sure?” Liv asked carefully.

“It was aimed at me.” Jey’s voice cracked. “He knows I’m calming down and he wants me off balance. He’s trying to relight the fire.”

Dom groaned. “Bro. You’ve been eating craziness for two days. You need a shower and a hug.”

“No,” Jey whispered, narrowing his eyes. “I need revenge.”

---A Few Days Later

The front door creaked open just as the sun began to set, painting warm streaks of light across the walls of the freshly cleaned house.

Rhea stepped inside, suitcase rolling quietly behind her. She hadn’t even taken two steps into the hallway when Liv and Dom passed her like they were fleeing the scene of a crime.

“Hey,” Rhea blinked. “What—?”

“We love you,” Liv said, not stopping. “You’re strong. You’ll get through this.”

Dom gave her a pat on the shoulder as he moved past. “We left tacos in the fridge. He’s… still spiraling. Good luck.”

And then they were gone.

Rhea raised an eyebrow and stepped further into the house. It was… quiet. Too quiet. Which was already suspicious. The living room was spotless. The sticky notes and spaghetti-string conspiracy board were gone. The couch had pillows again. The cursed emotional support objects, Chip, Used Napkin, and Penny were nowhere in sight.

Even the bird cage was gleaming.

And then, from the kitchen:

“BABY!”

Jey popped around the corner, apron on, mullet pulled back into a tiny tiny tiny bun, eyes wild with panic.

“He’s fucking with me again!”

Rhea dropped her bag, sighing deeply. “No, he’s not.”

“YES, HE IS,” Jey insisted, charging toward her like a man begging for asylum. “You don’t see it, but I live it. He’s singing off-beat on purpose now. He mocked me while I peed. He made eye contact.”

Rhea rubbed her temples. “You’ve been home alone for too long.”

“We weren’t alone, Rhea. There was always him.”

They argued. Lightly. In the middle of the hallway.

Rhea accusing him of dramatics.

Jey listing off Squawkimus’ war crimes like they were going to trial.

And then from the cage in the corner:

🎶 “Wise… men say…” 🎶

🎶 “Only fools rush in…” 🎶

🎶 “But I can’t help…” 🎶

🎶 “Falling in love with you…” 🎶

They both turned at once.

Squawkimus stood tall, wings relaxed, voice eerily smooth and pitch-perfect, serenading the room like he had an entire Vegas residency lined up.

Rhea’s jaw dropped. “You taught him to sing Elvis?!”

Jey stood motionless. The betrayal already blooming behind his eyes.

He swallowed. “…Yeah baby. I did.”

Rhea smiled.

She crossed the room, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard.

Jey kissed her back, letting the moment sink in.

And then he cracked one eye open mid-kiss.

The bird was still singing.

And flipping him off.

Tiny feathered claw, proudly raised, face full of smug.

Jey, still kissing Rhea, slowly raised his arm behind her back…

And flipped the bird off right back.

They stayed like that, locked in a kiss, hands behind each other, silently trading middle fingers with a Broadway-bound macaw who had won the war.

Love was messy.

So was bird ownership.

But in that moment, all was forgiven.

Sort of.

🎶 “Take… my hand…” 🎶

🎶 “Take… my whole life too…” 🎶

Jey muttered, “I hate him.”

Rhea whispered, “I know.”

They kissed again.

The bird sang louder.

And in the kitchen, peace returned.

Kind of.

[spiicii]