someone smarter than me needs to write about the significance of Marie’s parents, a Black couple, being unknowingly exploited by a corporation with roots in nazism and white supremacy. something something new drugs being tested on vulnerable populations without informed consent… I really like how they’re exploring the vought being started by nazis plot line in more depth in gen v.
Marie’s backstory is so significantly different than the others, whose (non-black) parents CHOSE to expose their kids to compound V like Emma, Starlight and Jordan. I can’t help but think this is deliberate.
Also kudos to the boys universe again for talking about pink washing and tokenization of the LGBT community. Derek’s acting in that scene really sold how painful it was for Jordan to say those lines.
october 19th- outercourse x sissoring ft. jordan li
kinktober m.list
⤷ warnings: f! reader, thigh fucking, scissoring, both fem! and masc! jordan, the smallest of praise
⤷ word count: 1k
overworked and underfucked.
what better way to describe your past week? when you opened up to jordan about it they had no problem taking care of you to help you both let off some steam.
you hummed into their kiss as they laid you down, smiling against your lips. your knees were together, in the open space between their spread legs.
their kisses trailed down your neck, pecking at your cleavage as their fingers hook on your panties dragging them down to throw them some place in their dorm.
“your thighs are so pretty” they whisper, their fingers brushing against the line where both of your thighs meet. you can't help but blush, make a noise between a laugh and a moan as their finger draws closer to your exposed core.
the pad of their middle finger drags up your seam, gathering some of the wetness and you moan at the contact. when they circle at your clit you grab onto the sheets beneath you for support.
they continue to massage at your puffy clit before reaching for their pants to take them off. once they do their cock springs free and they sigh as they pump it a few times. as they tower over you their gaze goes from your face to your thighs, perfectly thick and pushed together.
when their hand goes to massage at the meat of your thighs their tip aligns with the seam of your thighs, putting just enough pressure, but not enough to let their tip fully slip between your thighs.
“is this okay?” they ask just above a whisper. you nod with a sweet smile before they tip their head down to spit where their tip and your thighs meet making everything slippier.
they steady themselves with a hand on your hip before they press their tip between your thighs. as they slip themselves in the plush of your thighs they moan, both from the way your thighs feel around them and the way you gasp at how they fit so perfectly between your thighs.
“jesus- fuck” they moan, leaning down to kiss you. you kiss back, running your fingers through the short hairs on the back of their neck.
continuing to rut their hips into your thighs, they bring a hand to your cunt, massaging your clit with just the right amount of pressure.
your back arches at the newfound pleasure as you squeeze your thighs tighter together pulling a soft whimper out their mouth. “If you keep doing that m’not gonna last” they kiss at your neck grazing their teeth against your collarbone gently.
they change their angle pulling their cock to slip between your seam and the start of your thighs, fucking between your folds.
“oh shit” you moan against their cheek, pulling them closer. between the way their cock brushes your clit and teases you entrance you feel yourself getting closer.
everything is so slick, the way they continue to relentlessly grind their hips onto you is more than enough to make you cum.
they whimper into your ear, holding your side comfortingly when you feel white hot pleasure puddle in your lower stomach. “jordan, i’m so close” you moan, pulling their face up to kiss them.
“i know, shit, me too” and before you know it, you’re cumming around their cock and grabbing at their bicep for support. with one last thrust they’re grabbing at your side before spurting cum all over your pussy.
their body rests above yours, keeping themselves on their forearm, hovering above you. when you blink, jordan shifts to their fem side, smiling down at you before kissing you.
“so pretty” they whisper kissing at both your cheeks before kissing down your body. they raise to their knees dragging a hand down your body before they spread your thighs open looking at the mess they made of you and how your pussy clenches around nothing.
they smirk before taking their left thigh over your right thigh and the opposite under, lowering themselves so both your cunts are aligned with each other.
they lean down, hovering over you before the mattress dips near your head where their hand is, holding themselves up. they kiss your forehead, trailing kisses down to your lips where they slide their tongue against yours while humming into the kiss.
their hand runs from your jaw to your collarbones, finally landing on your tit and they massage at the meat, their fingers pinching and rolling the peak of your nipple.
you moan at the contact, hips bucking up into their thigh with desperation. “already trying to grind on me?” they tease, pecking your lips one final time before leaning back to bring their pussy closer to yours.
rolling their hips they rut their clit against yours, the contact pulling a guttural moan out your lips. you throw your head back, bucking your hips to the rhythm they created.
nothing compares to the feeling of their slick folds on yours, their clit bumping yours, the way their hands feel on your tits as they hump you.
the sound of the wet friction and your moans matched with theirs echo throughout the room. their hand digs into your hips as they arch their hips, your clit connecting with theirs once again.
“oh fuck, don't stop” you cry, raising your hand to palm at their boob.
they press two fingers to each of your lips spreading you open further as they continue to rub their cunt against yours.
“harder” you whimper, they bite their bottom lip before lowering themselves onto you, the burn in their thighs from hovering subsiding.
their back arches as they squeeze your hips, coaxing you through your orgasm with their praises, “shit- yeah baby you got it, almost there”.
with that and a final rut of their hips your body shivers before your orgasm hits you. your back arches as you whimper, your thighs shaking from pleasure.
“fuck” they whisper, as they cum, warms spurts coating your mound. they buck their hips once before your name falls out their lips and they shutter, leaning to lay on top of you before rolling off.
the two of you catch your breath before they turn to lay on their side to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, making you smile before asking, “you hungry”.
I just think it’s so funny that Jordan’s character was supposed to be twins who both liked Marie and then the writers were like: boring, uninspired, stupid. Make them one person with two forms
after a long day of classes and keeping vought off your back, you come back to your dorm exhausted, too quiet for sam’s comfort, and he takes your silence harder than you mean him to.
cws ᝰ .ᐟ season one sam ,, established relationship ,, clingy sam ,, gender neutral reader (you/your) ,, mild hurt/comfort
You weren’t sure what part of the day finally broke you.
Maybe it was the TA’s “just checking in :)” smile that felt like an X‑ray. Maybe it was the way your professor said “some of us seem distracted lately” and looked too long in your direction. Maybe it was the four assignments blinking red on your portal like dying sirens.
Or the fact that you’d reached the point of asking yourself seriously, “If I disappeared for 48 hours, would anyone care enough to notice before Vought did?”
Whatever it was, by the time you slid your key into your dorm lock, you felt like your bones were made of chalk and someone had already erased half of you.
The hallway light flickered once and settled into a steady glow, like it had noticed your exhaustion and tried, halfheartedly, to be kind. You dropped your bag onto the floor and it hit with a hollow thud.
The day had been long and brittle, each hour stacked like bricks you weren’t strong enough to carry. Lectures that should have been straightforward had turned into marathons of focus and pretense. Your fingers ached from gripping pens too tightly. Your ears rang from the constant buzz of conversation, from the chairs scraping the floors, all the little noises that somehow formed a wall of pressure around your head.
Of course, since your mind had been occupied, frayed from deadlines and professors who spoke in riddles and students who acted like breathing loudly was a competitive sport, so occupied, in fact, that it slipped your mind entirely that you had a 5’11 supe boyfriend waiting for you in your dorm. The kind of thought that should never slip, but apparently exhaustion outranked survival instinct tonight.
Because the second your bag hit the floor, a dull, defeated thud, there was movement. A blur of socked feet and stolen cotton, white wool skidding on the hardwood as he slid into the common room like gravity was more of a suggestion for him than a rule.
Sam. In your hoodie. Hood up. And those stupid socks. Your socks. The ones with tiny embroidered stars on the sides.
He skidded to a stop right in front of you, like he’d practiced the entrance (he had. He absolutely had), chest rising with the adrenaline of hearing you come home. There was something endearingly feral about him, like he wasn’t sure whether to pounce, smile, or apologize for existing. Puppy energy, but if someone had raised the puppy in a government lab and fed it trauma for breakfast.
“Hi,” he blurted, voice soft like he was testing how loud he was allowed to be. Like volume itself was a privilege.
He stood too straight, too still, waiting for a cue. For your expression. For permission to be here, even though technically this was his safest place, and you were the one who had dragged him into the world and promised you’d help him hold it together.
You blinked at him slowly, the mental equivalent of buffering, body sinking back into the door. Bone-tired. Melted-candle tired. And here he was, shining, vibrating with eagerness because you had returned.
You managed a small breath that maybe resembled a greeting if someone squinted.
He took it as one. Of course he did. His shoulders loosened. His mouth tugged upward awkwardly. Only slightly, but for him, it was practically a grin.
Sam had spent his entire life learning that appearances meant survival, not yours, but his, and he was still relearning that here, in your tiny dorm room that smelled like homework and cheap laundry detergent, he didn’t need to perform.
But he still checked your face like he was afraid he’d misread the air. Like you might vanish if he assumed too much comfort. “You’re home,” he said, like narrating it would make it truer, safer.
And despite the ache in your skull, you nodded, because you were. Somehow. You made it. And he was here, bright-eyed and strangely gentle, waiting for you like you were the thing holding the universe together. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I’m home.”
His shoulders dropped another notch, relief loosening him, like those words anchored him to the ground, this ground, your ground, not the one Vought built for him. And then he rocked forward just a little on his heels and asked, hopeful:
“Hungry? I … found cereal.”
The box was on the counter behind him. Upside down. Half spilled. Of course.
It would’ve been so easy to be annoyed, you were exhausted, soul wrung out and hung to dry, but instead you stared at him, at the pathetic pile of Lucky Charms carnage and Sam standing there in your socks. And it almost hurt how earnest he looked, like he’d battled the cereal and the cereal had won, and he wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t going to come back for round two.
He really had been alone here all day.
Pacing. Investigating. Touching everything like the world needed cataloging from scratch. You’d probably find your hairbrush in the freezer or your textbooks rearranged. The thought tugged something warm and tired in your chest. Cute. Tragic. Puppy lost in a human world, tail still tucked sometimes.
You exhaled, resigned, a soft sigh that felt like it carried all the quizzes, fake smiles, and caffeine crashes of the day. Then you dropped to a crouch in the kitchen and started sweeping cereal into your palm, because adulthood was apparently…this.
Crumbs and survival.
Behind you, sock-sliding continued in soft scrapes. Of course he followed. He always followed, orbit forged by fear and want and habit, like if he left your side someone might lock him in a room again and forget the door existed.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, like the concept of cleaning might be classified information.
“Preventing ants.” you muttered.
“…you have ants?”
“No.”
“…did I bring ants?”
You glanced back at him, brows knit, hoodie sleeves swallowed to his fists, and there it was again: this blend of heartbreak and amusement so strong it bent your ribs.
“No, Sam,” you said softly. “You didn’t summon an army of ants with cereal.”
He nodded slowly like this was a genuine relief. Then, he let the thought cook in his head before deciding to take a crack at humor, mostly the desire to see you smile. “…I could, though. If I had to.”
You stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you blinked.
“Great,” you murmured, sweeping marshmallow dust into a napkin. “I’ll put ‘controls insects’ on your resume.”
His mouth twitched, that almost-smile he tried to hide because he still didn’t totally understand what expressions were allowed. But then he was just…there again. Hovering. Close enough you felt body heat press the air. Watching you clean his mess, before crouching down to meet your level.
“You’re tired.” he said simply. Not a question. A truth he could hear in your pulse, probably. Small frown forming like tiredness was something he could fight for you if he just found the right punch.
“I’m fine.” you lied.
He looked at you, unsure of what to do.
You finished sweeping the countertop, dumped crumbs, put the box upright, away, and when you stood, he rose too, perfectly synced, like he had been waiting for the cue. Always waiting for cues.
He hovered closer, voice unsure but trying: “I, um. Looked at your books today.”
“That’s fine.”
“And…your drawers.”
“Less fine.”
“And I found a— toy?— I don’t think it’s for training motor skills, but—”
“Sam.”
He blinked. Innocent. Terrifying. Endlessly literal.
“…I didn’t break it.”
“Thank you.”
Silence settled for a second, the soft kind, the kind that acknowledged how tired you were, how hard this was for both of you, how he was trying in his own way and you were trying too.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have the energy to. You just pushed gently off the counter and moved toward the bathroom, legs heavy, brain humming with static instead of thoughts. Sam fell into step behind you immediately, too close and not close enough. His socks slid on the floor again when he tried to match your tired pace, and he caught himself on the doorframe like the world tilted unexpectedly beneath him.
You didn’t look at him, not because you didn’t want to, but because if you met his eyes right now, you might unravel, and you didn’t have the strength to hold anything right now, even yourself.
You flicked on the bathroom light. It felt too bright, like it cut the day open again when you were trying to stitch it closed. Sam hovered in the doorway, like a shadow trying to pretend it didn’t belong to you. He shifted his weight. Hands tucked into your hoodie sleeves, fingers curled in the fabric like he was holding on to something small and precious.
“Do I… stay out here?”
You didn’t answer immediately. You let the cool bathroom counter hold your palms for a breath. You weren’t angry. Not even close. You were simply just tired, and you wanted a nap.
“Yeah,” you answered. “Just—give me a minute.”
Sam nodded immediately. Like obedience meant safety. Like waiting outside the bathroom door was some kind of test he had to pass.
You turned the faucet on and splashed cold water across your face like you were trying to rinse the whole day off your skin. Your reflection stared back at you, eyes tired, posture slumped, that ache of being overstimulated and tired and emotionally out of bandwidth. And there he was. Sam in the doorway, leaning just enough into the frame that it didn’t count as entering, like a wild animal observing the border of a new territory.
He was quiet at first. Trying to be good. Trying to be small. Trying not to take up space in a world that had only ever crushed him when he did.
“I saw a squirrel today,” he tried, like this was the kind of thing humans reported as breaking news. “On the window ledge.”
You scrubbed at your face, tired. “Mhm.”
“I also watched a video you left open on your laptop about these two guys playing some weird . . . game.”
You pressed your towel against your eyes harder than necessary. “Mm-hmm.”
“I tried hot sauce. Your red one. The one with the skeleton on it. It —- ”
“Sam.”
It came out sharper than you meant.
His mouth snapped shut immediately. Shoulders drew in, hands slid back inside your sleeves like retreating animals. You exhaled. Long. Exhausted. Not him-angry, world-angry, life-angry, everything-heavy angry.
“I just… need quiet,” you said, softer now, because you saw the way his eyes flickered like you’d taken light away from him. “Just for a little.”
“Oh.”
Tiny.
Like you’d deflated him with a pin.
He stepped back one small, uncertain pace, still wanting nothing more than to sit where you could see him because visibility equaled safety. Then, out of instinct more than consciousness, he leaned his head slightly to peek in again,
And you shut the door.
Not a slam. Just a tired, heavy click. The kind that said: not now. The kind that wasn’t personal, but could still bruise someone who didn’t know the world well enough to sort harmless from hurt.
On the other side, his footsteps didn’t walk away. Just a little shift as he sat down right there on the floor, back to the wood, because leaving you felt wrong and waiting felt right. For a second it was silent. Then softly, almost shy, almost hopeful:
“. . how long is a little again?”
The steam had faded from your skin by the time you opened the bathroom door, hair damp, face soft from warmth and exhaustion. But Sam wasn’t there.
No big hoodie puddle on the floor. No anxious knees pulled to his chest. No vibrating presence waiting for you like a kid left alone in a grocery store aisle too long.
Just .. empty hallway.
The quiet that washed over you was thick, luxurious for one second, like your brain could finally unclench without his eyes on you, without the constant emotional monitoring you’d been doing all week. And then guilt crawled up your spine immediately after.
You stepped out scanning the space, dorm lights low, shadows pooled in corners. Sam was on the couch. Not lounging, not curled, not sprawled like he usually got when he tried to mimic what he thought “normal relaxing” looked like. He was sitting perfectly upright, stiff as stone, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists. Eyes staring forward at nothing.
The air had changed, the nervous buzzing replaced by something brittle and tense. A crack of panic running under it like an electrical hum. You could almost hear the thoughts:
Did I do something wrong?
Did they get tired of me?
Am I too loud? Too much? Too broken?
Is the world supposed to feel this confusing? Is it okay that I still don’t get it? Are you going to leave because of that?
He didn’t look up when you crossed the room. Didn’t lean into you. Didn’t talk. You sank onto the couch beside him, muscles finally melting into the cushion. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe. Sam sat rigid, staring at the far wall, jaw tensed, throat tight, shoulders locked.
He wasn’t ignoring you. He was bracing.
One wrong word and you could feel how it would go, an emotional detonation, that wild edge in him rattling the bars of a cage that didn’t exist anymore.
You didn’t speak yet. You just sat there, exhausted, guilty, a little grateful for the quiet, and hating yourself for that tiny sliver of relief.
Minutes (or maybe seconds — time got slippery when your brain felt scraped out) ticked by. Sam didn’t move. He didn’t blink much either. Dissociation looked strange on someone who could snap steel with his fingers; it hollowed him out, made him small in a way power never protected against.
His eyes were unfocused, not dreamy, not spaced in a soft way, but gone, staring past the wall like he was slipping somewhere your hands couldn’t reach. He sat very still, like if he breathed too loud he’d be punished. Like he was waiting for… something. Permission, reprimand, abandonment. Hard to tell. Somehow that was worse than noise.
Your throat felt tight. Guilt always found the softest spot. “…Sam?” you tried, voice low, careful.
No reaction.
You shifted slightly toward him, knee brushing the cushion near his leg. His gaze didn’t flicker. Not once. He looked like a kid who’d wandered too far and suddenly remembered monsters existed. You cleared your throat. Tried to sound normal, casual, something that didn’t echo with I’m sorry I needed a minute to breathe away from you.
“Did you, uh…” You rubbed at your temple. God, your brain felt like wet laundry. “Did you like the hot sauce?”
A beat.
Two.
Very slowly, his eyes moved, just enough to prove he hadn’t turned to stone. He didn’t look at you. Just toward. “…It burned.” A tiny second passed before he added: “I thought it was supposed to be good.”
“It can burn and still be good,” you hummed.
His jaw flexed, confused and frustrated by the concept. “Feels like a stupid rule.” The words hung there, and then he shut down again, in an I am silently offended and stewing about it way.
Sam Riordan, world’s strongest pout.
He didn’t say anything, which somehow made his mood louder. It was the kind of silence that make you feel like someone was crossing their arms on the inside. A mutiny of one. He looked away from you, jaw working, expression pinched in that weird childlike-but-not way he got when emotions tripped him up.
He wasn’t angry at you.
He was angry at hot sauce, at rules, at space, at distance, at confusing social expectations, at having to learn new things every second of every day and still getting blindsided by stuff like spicy can be enjoyable, what the hell.
So he sat there, stiff, a supe built like a weapon wearing your hoodie and sulking like someone stole his crayons. Finally, you nudged him gently with your knee. “Are you pouting?” you asked softly.
“No.”
Immediate. Defensive. A single syllable dipped in wounded pride.
You raised a brow. “You kind of are.”
He glared, but only from the side, like full eye contact would be admitting defeat. Then he huffed, a tiny exhale through his nose that wanted to be dramatic but mostly sounded like a tired bunny being inconvenienced. His voice came out muttered, grudging: “…It is a stupid rule.”
You sighed, warmth sneaking into your exhaustion despite everything. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Some rules are.”
His pout remained on principle, but it softened, deflating like a balloon slowly leaking air. “You like rules like that?”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Stuff that… hurts. But you do it anyway. On purpose.”
You weren’t sure if he meant spice or school or life. Probably all of the above.
“I think sometimes you put up with uncomfortable things because they lead to good things.”
He frowned deeper. “Feels like a scam.”
You snorted weakly. “It kind of is.”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even soften. His brow pulled in again, that small, fracturing crease you’d learned meant I don’t understand and I don’t know if it’s my fault.
He stared forward, not at you, at nothing. Like if he looked at you directly, he’d see confirmation of the fear gnawing under his ribs. He doesn’t know what to do with tired. He doesn’t know where to put himself when you’re quiet.
The emotional math on his face was painfully visible: tired + quiet + less attention = danger? rejection? punishment? abandonment?
He swallowed, throat tight, like he could choke on uncertainty. God, he really didn’t know where he belonged yet.
“Did I… do something bad?”
Barely a whisper. More breath than voice. It punched right through your chest. That stupid, soft, fragile place in him, the one that came out when he wasn’t being sarcastic or weird or trying too hard, the part that still thought any silence meant abandonment.
You slid a hand across the couch cushion toward him. “No,” you assured. “I’m just tired. School was… a lot today.”
He stared at your hand like it might bite him, or vanish if he touched it wrong. Then, hesitant, he scooted closer, like he didn’t trust the floor not to drop him if he moved too fast, and rested his knee against yours. He was still tense. Still wound up in that knot he lived inside. You could practically feel thoughts crowding behind his eyes, clawing for order.
So you did what worked for both of you: you exhaled, leaned back into the cushions, and tugged gently at his sleeve. A tired, silent come here, nothing fancy.
He folded in toward you like gravity figured you belonged together and was correcting a mistake. His head lowered until it hovered near your stomach, waiting for permission without asking. You nudged him the rest of the way. He eased down, cheek pressing to your thigh, curls brushing your top.
He didn’t just lie there, he gave in, in that way he only ever did with you. His forehead tucked a little deeper, nose brushing the seam of your clothes like he was burying himself in proof you were real. His arms slid around your waist from the side, not tight enough to trap you, but tight enough that it felt like if he let go, something terrible might unspool inside him.
You felt it, that desperate, quiet thank God that lived under his skin whenever he touched you. He pressed closer, torso angled toward you like his whole body was trying to crawl into the soft space you held for him. And there was this… weight to him, not physical, but emotional. Like he’d been holding every thought and feeling in a fist all day, knuckles white, and now he let it all collapse into you. Every worry, every question, every bit of restlessness poured out in the way his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. You breathed again, slower, deeper, because suddenly you could.
Because despite the exhaustion, the world got quieter with him right there, clinging like your presence was oxygen and he’d been holding his breath since noon. His breath warmed your stomach through your clothes. He shifted once, tiny and hesitant, just to get closer, cheek pressing firmer into your thigh, nose nudging you like he needed the reassurance of contact, more contact, just you. You shifted down the couch, guiding him with a gentle tug. He followed, obedient in that soft, unthinking way affection makes animals and boys alike. He climbed up, curling along your side like he’d done it a thousand times even though this life was new to him.
Pulling a throw blanket over you both, the fleece was the kind that somehow trapped the world outside. His weight settled against you, and for a moment, neither of you were the overwhelmed student or the confused superhuman. You were just two exhausted people who needed quiet, and found it in each other.
His hand, without thinking, slipped under your top just enough to rest against your waist, like he was afraid you might dissolve if he didn’t feel skin. “Warm,” he mumbled into your collarbone, voice already thick with sleep.
“Human body,” you muttered back. “Basic science.”
He hummed, unconvinced, curling closer like he didn’t trust biology but did trust you.
“…I’m still thinking about the hot sauce.”
Your eyes cracked open. “…Sam.”
“I think it burned a hole in my soul.”
“That’s called ‘spicy.’”
“No.”
You snorted, too tired to laugh properly, and drifted with him, tangled, warm, safe, and mildly concerned your boyfriend might start a war with Sriracha someday.
pairing: jordan li × f!reader, fwb
summary: it’s supposed to be casual, but when jordan hears you might be seeing someone else, they stop playing it cool. jealousy boils over in the bedroom; rough, possessive.
content warnings: jealousy, possessive behavior, rough sex dynamics, name-calling (“daddy”), thigh grabbing, consensual but intense tone.
author’s note: fwb!jordan turned guard-dog jealous. written with consent + messy feelings baked in. take the roughness as possessive kink, not malice pls.
You only meant to tell them in passing — a shrug over breakfast, a throwaway comment about a guy from the lab who’d been texting. “He’s just fun,” you’d said, thinking nothing of it. Jordan had smiled, like they always do: that small, almost lazy curve that makes you think everything’s fine. You went to work and chalked it up to them not caring. You were wrong.
They waited until later. They always do. You come home tired, hair falling out of the messy bun you’d had all day, and Jordan is on your bed like they never left — the shirt you like on him, a book forgotten at his side, one foot tapping like it’s keeping time for a storm. He looks up when you step in, eyes slow and flat, like something’s been lit behind them.
“You okay?” you ask, because you can’t help being soft when you’re around him.
“Fine,” he says. It’s the kind of answer that means not fine, and you feel it like a prickle across your skin. He pats the bed beside him. “Sit.”
You sit. He watches you like he’s cataloguing you — the way your shoulders slope when you’re tired, the little crease by your knee where the jeans ride up. When you stretch, he flinches, small and ridiculous, and then he’s pulling you down until you’re half across his lap, one leg hooked over his knee. For a second there’s quiet, the kind that presses and waits.
“You gonna tell me more about him?” Jordan asks, voice soft, deceptively casual.
You blink. “Who?”
“The guy from the lab.” He tips his head, like it’s a joke, like he’s letting you talk. But his palm lands on your hip, thumb pressing, and there’s tension in the way his fingers dig in; there’s always tension, these days, wound tight as a wire.
“Oh. Um — he’s nothing,” you say. “We texted. He’s—”
Jordan’s hand slides, quick, up your shirt, and you’re laughing — breathy, surprised. “Stop,” you say. “Jordan.”
He kisses you instead. Slow at first, tasting like coffee and something metallic, and then the kiss shifts. Teeth and tongue, possessive, an edge that curls his lips when he pulls back. “Is he anything?” he asks, flat, then gentle, then suddenly not gentle at all.
You try to answer, but the words get cut off when he pushes your top up and palms you hard, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re gasping. The casualness is gone. The air between you snaps. He’s not playing cool anymore. Not even close.
“You don’t get to have someone else,” he says between kisses, voice low and raw. “Not while I’m still…doing this.” His hand slides lower, fingers ghosting over the edge of your panties. You shiver. “You sure he’s just ‘nothing’?”
You open your mouth. You realize you’re not sure you even want to say the truth. The way Jordan’s gaze is fixed on you, like he’s measuring every reaction, makes you wet with a stupid, delicious fear.
He grabs your thigh and pulls, yanking you until you’re straddling him. The move is sudden — hungry, practiced — and the heat of his body under you sets your pulse on fire. His hands hook under your hips, steadying, possessive; he tips you forward so your chest brushes his, then he speaks in a voice that’s all teeth.
“Who’re you callin’ daddy, huh? Is it him? D’you cream his dick like this?”
The words are a knife along your spine, equal parts humiliation and want. You make a noise — a little, involuntary whimper — that gives him permission and permission to take more. He doesn’t ask; he claims. He slides you back, angles himself, and pushes in — deep, fast, ruthless. You feel him fill you, neck and shoulders straining, the bed slapping faintly as he pulls out and drives in again.
“Answer me,” Jordan hisses, breath hot against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your hips, nails biting into skin as he picks up the tempo. “Say his name.”
You don’t. You can’t. Instead you arch, meet him with everything you have, and the sound you make is a raw, stuttering thing that seems to light something fierce behind his eyes. He snarls, like he’s both angry and delighted, and fucks harder.
He grabs your thighs and yanks them toward his chest, spreading you open like he owns the space between your legs. You squeal, high and breathless, as he finds that one perfect angle, and he laughs — low, sounds like a promise or a threat — when you clamp down around him.
“Nah,” he says, gut-rough and triumphant. “Didn’t think so. ’Cause it’s all for me. This fucking — little princess pussy is mine.”
He says things like that: blunt, crude, and somehow reverent. They roll off his tongue and down into your bones. His rhythm becomes absolute, metronomic and punishing until your legs tremble and the walls of your vision go warm and fuzzy.
When you come, it’s violent and complete, like someone ripped a seam inside you. He follows, groaning, voice thick as he buries himself deeper, holding you through the crash until your breath hiccups back to something like normal. Afterwards, he collapses, heavy and warm, one arm slung over you, pinning you casually to his chest as though there’s no urgency left in the world.
You lay there, exhausted and limp and so unbearably content that your heart feels like it might split. Jordan’s breathing evens, the rise and fall of his chest a slow drum. You think he’s gone softer, all the fierce edges smoothed out by the afterglow.
Then he speaks, lazy, dangerous, the words deceptively casual as he runs a thumb along your jaw.
“Don’t fuck anyone else,” he says. “If I need to — like, make you my girlfriend or chain you to me so you stop being dumb about it, I will— if I have to make you official — ring, title, whatever — just to make you understand, then I will.”
You blink, because he means it. The threat is soft, but you can hear the hostage price in it: him, official, guaranteed. Your pulse stutters. For a moment you picture him in a suit, ring on his hand, proprietary and ridiculous and utterly his — and it’s more real than you expected.
You snuggle closer anyway, because the arm around you is strong and warm and because he’s yours in the way that matters most. “You’re an idiot,” you whisper.
He hums, a pleased little sound. “Yeah. But you like it.”
hi i have a request! jordan li x reader where jordan tries to break up with reader to stop readers parents from refusing to pay tuition/disowning them
thanks !!!! <3
oh nonnie, thank you so much for your request! i hope i delivered and that you like it <3 also, the jordan li brainrot is still very real, so i’m always happy to get requests about them! i can’t wait for s2 in sept
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It’s Because I Love You
pairing: jordan li x fem!reader (refrained from gender specific details, but my writings are generally assumed to be fem!reader since i’m female)
summary: jordan and you have been dating openly for almost a year … well, openly to everyone except your parents. when they find out you’re dating a bigender supe, they forbid you from seeing jordan and threaten to take away your tuition. jordan decides to take matters into their own hands.
notes: seeing jordan sad or in pain breaks my heart, but i’m also a sucker for angst 💔 please let me know what you guys think of this! feedback is always welcomed and appreciated <3
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Godolkin University was your dream school. Ever since you found out you had powers, you’d dreamed of harnessing those powers for good at God U so you could eventually make it into The Seven. What you didn’t expect was to meet the person of your dreams as well.
You were starting your first year at God U and taking Professor Brink’s crime fighting class. You felt immensely grateful to be accepted despite only being a freshman, and you knew you had to do well to further solidify that you belonged. Which is why, when you end up with a lower than expected grade on one of your early semester assignments, you visit Brink’s office to ask him about.
Only Brink wasn’t there — his TA was. Jordan Li. That’s how you first met Jordan. They were cold and callous at first, giving you offhanded comments about how your work could be better and that you were too young to even be in the class. But as you continued to push and work harder, you proved that you did in fact belong in this class, and Jordan admired your ambition and dedication.
Jordan was slow to warm up to you at first. Even though they admired your work ethic, they’re the kind of person to not let their guard down right away. Plus, you were a freshman and they were a junior. They were in the thick of their college career while you were only getting started. But as you visited Brink’s office more and more (sometimes only as an excuse to see them), they couldn’t help but develop a soft spot for you. You two would hang out as friends, run into each other at parties, and they’d even helped you study for Brink’s tests.
During one of these study sessions, they confessed their feelings to you — which you of course reciprocated — and the two of you began dating. You were absolutely smitten, and so were they. You guys didn’t keep your relationship a secret from anyone…except for your parents.
Which brings you to where you are now. You’ve just finished up your freshman year at God U, and you’re feeling antsy about summer break. Summer break meant seeing Jordan less than usual, and it also meant having to come clean to your parents that you’re in a relationship now. If you wanted to spend time with Jordan over the summer, you couldn’t sneak around your parents, and you didn’t want to.
You’re packing up the last of your belongings in your dorm when you hear a knock at your door. You open it to see your parents standing in front of you, immediately embracing you in a hug before stepping inside. You’re happy to see them, even if you are a bit anxious about telling them how you’re no longer single.
“We’ve missed you, Y/N. You’ll have to catch us up on what’s been happening since spring break,” your mom says with a smile. You’d visited home that week of spring break, and that week felt achingly long without seeing Jordan in person. You were stuck with only texting, not wanting to reveal your relationship to your parents yet.
You weren’t ashamed of Jordan — actually, the opposite. In fact, around campus, almost everyone regarded you as a power couple. But your parents are strict when it comes to school and what goes on in your social life. They believe that school is top priority and that you shouldn’t even be thinking about dating until after you’ve graduated.
You offer your mom a sheepish smile as you continue packing up your last box before heading home.
“Yeah, I’ve missed you guys, too,” you respond, your mind overthinking every single scenario that could play out in result of telling your parents your secret. You haphazardly tape up your last box of belongings, clutching it to your chest as you make your way out of your dorm with your parents.
You’re reaching the exit to the dorm hall when Jordan simultaneously enters, their eyes lighting up when seeing you and saying your name before taking in your parents’ presence. They had come by to say one last goodbye before you left, but now they look like a deer caught in headlights. Your face flushes from anxiety and dread, knowing you can’t avoid this any longer. You go to step beside Jordan, box still clutched to your chest, when you steel yourself to look at your parents.
“Y/N? Who’s this?” your dad asks curiously, his voice a bit guarded as he takes in Jordan. Jordan is currently in their male form, and they go to shake your dad’s hand out of politeness and respect, wanting to make a good first impression.
“Hi, I’m Jordan Li,” they introduce themself, offering your mom a warm smile after shaking your dad’s hand. Your parents offer smiles back, but they both look strained. You feel your heart pounding against your ribs, wanting to be anywhere but here. Just rip off the bandaid, you think to yourself. You clear your throat and stand a bit taller, your shoulder brushing against Jordan’s.
“Um, Mom? Dad? This is Jordan. They’re my partner,” you say a bit timidly. You hate how nervous you are about introducing your partner, the person you love with your whole heart. It doesn’t seem fair to you that you can’t freely express your relationship to your parents without feeling some resistance.
Both of your parents notice the pronoun you used to describe Jordan, and they look at you apprehensively.
“They?” your dad asks, his brow furrowed. You never noticed how harsh the lines on his face are until this very moment. Jordan interjects, wanting to take some of the pressure off of you. This is about their power, after all.
“Yes, Sir. I can shift and change genders, both offering different kinds of powers depending on which form I’m in,” they explain. They’re trying to put on a brave face, but you can tell by the way they fiddle with their rings that they’re nervous. They’re always nervous when telling someone new about how they’re bigender. They seem to relax a bit when they feel your hand slip into theirs, squeezing it gently to comfort them.
Both of your parents seem flabbergasted by this. You feel dread swirl in your stomach, and you can’t help but wonder why Jordan’s power in particular would make them uncomfortable. Your parents had injected you with Compound V as a baby, just like Jordan’s parents did with them. Any power was on the table.
Your parents’ demeanors turn cold and disbelieving, and your dad lunges forward to grab your forearm, pulling you away from Jordan. “Let’s go, Y/N. We want to beat traffic so we can get home at a normal hour,” he says gruffly before turning towards Jordan one last time. “Nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.”
Your dad tugs you out of the dorm hall, your mom trailing closely behind. You whip your head around to look at Jordan, your face etched with dread and worry. Jordan is staring back at you, their face resembling a kicked puppy. Your heart aches in your chest as you try to pry out of your dad’s hand.
Your dad takes your last box from your grip and throws it into the trunk of the car with the others before rushing you into the backseat, slamming the door shut behind you. You sit there, dumbfounded, your heart racing in your chest. Your dad climbs into the driver seat while your mom slides into the passenger seat. Your mom hasn’t said a word, and your dad’s shoulders are as tense as the air feels.
“What— What the hell was that about?” you sputter with a bewildered expression, still dumbfounded by what just happened. Your dad holds up a hand as if to stop you from talking.
“Enough. I forbid you from seeing that boy— person— whatever they are— any longer. Do you understand?” your dad announces sternly, his knuckles turning white from how tight he grips the steering wheel. Your mom shifts uncomfortably in her seat but doesn’t make an effort to disagree with him.
“Is this because of school and my grades? Because I’m doing great! I made Dean’s list both semesters. Jordan even helped me study for the crime fighting class since they’re the professor’s TA,” you try to explain, your phone vibrating in your pocket. You hold off from looking at it for now, wanting to appease your parents so you can continue seeing Jordan.
“I don’t care. You know school comes first, and the fact that you’re dating someone who doesn’t know which gender they want to be tells me you’re slipping. This is ludicrous. No more seeing this person, Y/N, I mean it,” your dad responds gruffly. His tone holds such disdain that you’d never heard in him before. You knew revealing that you’re dating now would be a sore spot, but you weren’t quite expecting this.
You guffaw at him through the rearview mirror, but you can’t bring yourself to argue any further when you see the fury in his eyes. You sink into your seat, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. Your phone vibrates again, and you finally take it out of your pocket to check it.
Messages from Jord <3:
Is everything okay? Did I say something wrong with your parents?
They don’t like me, do they? They’re freaked out that I’m bigender.
You feel your heart drop to your feet as you wipe a stray tear away from your eyes. God, this is so fucked up. Why couldn’t your parents just let you be happy? Your thumbs fly across your screen as you reply back, wanting nothing more than to be with Jordan instead of in this stupid car.
You didn’t say anything wrong, Jord. You were so polite and respectful. I’m so sorry they acted like that. I knew they’d be apprehensive about me dating, but I didn’t know they’d go to this extreme.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you press send, awaiting a response. When you don’t hear back from them right away, you don’t let yourself panic. They’re probably just needing some time to debrief and clear their head after this experience. But when you make it back home a few hours later with still no response, you start to worry.
Jord? Are you okay? Please respond when you get this, I want to know you’re alright.
You hadn’t spoken to your parents the rest of that car ride home. The tension in the air was palpable and thick, practically suffocating. As soon as you made it home, you rushed to bring all of your stuff inside to your bedroom, wanting to isolate yourself and avoid your parents as quickly as possible. Now you’re sitting on your bed, shaking your leg anxiously as you await a reply from Jordan.
Instead of texting you back, they call you. You breathe a sigh of relief before accepting the call, pressing the phone to your ear.
“Oh, my God, Jord, are you okay? I was so worried,” you murmur when you answer the phone. Your voice is shaking from the adrenaline of everything that’s happened today. You hear Jordan breathe through the other line.
“I’m fine. I just needed some time to think. Are you okay? Your dad pulled you away so quickly,” they respond, their voice sounding conflicted and raw. You wonder if they’d been crying.
“Not really. My parents — or rather, my dad — forbid me from seeing you anymore,” you explain, your voice starting to crack as you replay the conversation in your mind.
“I don’t get them, Jord, I just don’t. My grades are fine, so why can’t they just want me to be happy? They’re out of their minds if they think they can stop me from being with you.” You hear shuffling through the receiver before Jordan speaks again.
“They— They forbid you from seeing me?” they ask, their voice sounding choked up. Your heart aches as you imagine their brown, baby cow eyes looking so sad.
“Listen, baby, it doesn’t matter, okay? I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions,” you try to reassure them, your voice soft and comforting. They clear their throat before speaking again.
“So we have to go back to sneaking around them,” they state rather than ask, their voice sounding defeated. You run a hand through your hair as you sigh, wanting nothing more than to be physically next to them instead of being separated by a phone.
“I guess so,” you murmur. Your lips twist as you fidget with the hem of your shirt.
“But we can make this work, okay? I’m not losing you,” you state, trying your hardest to keep your voice from wavering.
“Yeah. Okay. I don’t want to lose you either,” they respond after a moment. You can tell they’re feeling insecure and conflicted about all of this, and it makes your heart clench. You both eventually say goodbye to each other and hang up. A dull headache is starting to form in the middle of your eyebrows from how much you want to cry.
We’ll make it through this. It’ll be okay, you think to yourself as you drift to sleep that night.
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It’s been a few weeks since that car ride home with your parents. You’ve spent the beginning of the summer walking on eggshells around your parents — especially your dad — so as to not get into any more arguments. Dinners as a family were tense. Your dad’s face was still set in those hard lines, and your mom looks between the both of you to see which will break the quiet first.
Your mom has been kinder than your dad about everything, but still not as supportive as you’d hoped she’d be.
“Think about your grades, sweetheart. You don’t need any kinds of distractions,” she’d said. It’s like she’s trying to be Switzerland in all of this, to appease both you and your dad. It’s not working.
Text conversations with Jordan haven’t been enough to hold you over from seeing them in person. You’d made plans one night shortly after everything happened to secretly meet each other at a park close to the both of you, and you both could barely keep your hands off of each other when first seeing each other.
“Y/N, I hate that we have to sneak around your parents,” Jordan had said that night, their face crumbling as their voice sounded defeated again. They’re feeling insecure, and they know part of the reason your parents forbid you from seeing them is because they’re bigender. They’d said this in their female form, and you ran your fingers soothingly through their short hair.
“I know. Me too. I wish they were supportive of us. But their opinions don’t matter, okay? I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured softly, your voice gentle as you bring them into a hug.
You got home late that night, and your mom was still awake, sitting in the kitchen. You’d told her you were hanging out with your best friend, but she looked at you suspiciously, like she didn’t believe you. Still, she didn’t say anything as you headed up to bed.
Tonight, your parents are going out of town for their anniversary, leaving you home alone for the weekend. You’d let Jordan know, inviting them over to stay with you while they were gone. What your parents don’t know won’t hurt them. Your mom and dad pack up the car with their bags and head off onto the road after telling you goodbye.
Things with your dad have started to calm down, relieving some of the tension that’d been hanging around the house for weeks. You made sure you knew when your parents would be back so Jordan could leave before then, not wanting them to catch you guys.
Jordan arrives, overnight bag in hand, and immediately pulls you into a hug, lifting your feet off the ground and spinning you briefly. You giggle softly in their ear, feeling ecstatic that they’re with you.
“God, I’ve missed you so much,” they mumble into your neck, pressing a kiss to your soft skin. You shiver and feel butterflies swarm your tummy — lovesick. Nothing that feels this right could ever be wrong.
“I’ve missed you, too,” you murmur back. You pull away to look at them, a big smile on your face.
“Let’s drop your stuff off in my room, then we can settle in for the night and have a movie marathon,” your tone is jovial but suggestive, and Jordan’s eyes twinkle with amusement.
“I can get into that,” they smirk, walking with you to your room. They plop their bag down on your bed as you linger behind them in the doorway.
You both can’t help yourselves in this moment, the tension in the air thick, because you’re suddenly moving them to sit on your bed as you straddle their hips, pulling them into a deep kiss. Their strong arms loop around your waist, fingers fisting the fabric of your shirt as if to keep you close.
Your hands tangle through their inky locks, tugging softly at the roots and causing them to gasp into your mouth. You smirk, the kiss growing deeper.
“What the hell is going on here?” you suddenly hear your dad shout, his voice booming. You jump and scurry off of Jordan’s lap, your lips pink and swollen as you’re slightly out of breath. Jordan’s cheeks are red, looking mortified and guilty.
“Dad! I thought you guys were away for the weekend?” you ask, voice high pitched from shock. Your mom lingers behind your dad in the hallway, her eyes showing disappointment. You feel sick.
“Our plans were cancelled. Don’t try and change the subject. What did I tell you, Y/N? I forbid you from seeing—,” your dad pauses, jerking his hand in Jordan’s direction, “and you purposely go against me?” Your dad’s voice is loud. Scary. Practically shaking with fury and rage. Tears burn your eyes as you blink them back, not wanting to cry in front of everyone.
“I love them, Dad. I’m an adult. You can’t stop me from being with who I want.” Your heart is pounding against your chest, and you swear everyone can hear it. Your jaw clenches, moving to stand in front of Jordan so they don’t have to look at your dad’s stony face.
“Oh, you’re an adult, huh? Then good luck paying the rest of your way through college. Godolkin University isn’t cheap, Y/N, and I refuse to pay your way through if you’re going to continue seeing… them,” your dad threatens. He’s so full of disdain, his heart probably black and unfeeling.
It wasn’t the money part that made you despise your dad in this moment. It was how disrespectful they talked about Jordan, especially when they’re sitting right behind you, hearing everything. You look over to your mom, and her eyes are glassy. But she doesn’t interfere or stand up for you and Jordan. Coward.
You grab Jordan’s hand and their overnight bag, pulling them out of your room. Past your dad, past your mom, past everything in this house that’s linked to your parents. The door slams shut behind you as you both stand in your driveway. Silent tears managed to slip down your cheeks. You’re furious.
“Jordan, baby, I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry. If I had known they’d come back—,” Jordan interrupts you, softly putting their hand on your arm.
“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” they murmur. They have a far away look in their eyes, one you didn’t like. Jaw clenching, you narrow your eyes at them, studying them.
“What?” you ask, voice strained from distress. You cup their jaw, wanting them to look at you.
“Baby, what?” you ask again.
Jordan looks down at you, their eyes solemn and heartbroken. No. Their jaw clenches before they finally have the courage to speak, the next words out of their mouth feeling like a punch to the gut.
“I think we should break up,” they whisper, eyes glancing away from you again as if it physically hurts to look at you.
Your lips part, your heart cracking in your ribs. You immediately shake your head and cup their jaw a little tighter, trying to get them to look at you once more.
“No. No, Jord, please don’t do this. I love you,” you plead, your voice small and thick with tears. They pull away from you, their own face twisting in pain.
“I can’t be what comes between you and your parents. I can’t let them take away your tuition. You deserve to be at God U more than anyone I know. I won’t let them take that away from you just because of me,” they say. They sound determined, but heartbroken. You know they must be feeling insecure and conflicted while you feel like the entire world has been pulled out from underneath you.
Your hands fall to your sides, dumbfounded by their words. You should feel pride at their praise, at how they think you deserve to be at God U more than anyone, but you only feel how horribly your chest hurts. Shaking your head, you step towards them again. You look like a kicked puppy, doe eyed and in agony.
“Please don’t do this, baby, I can figure something else out! I can work my way through school; I don’t care. As long as I’m with you,” you plead. Their face crumbles as they hear your words, taking another step back.
“This is for your own good, Y/N. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I can’t get in the way of your dreams.” They run their hand through their hair with a bated breath, looking as absolutely ruined as you feel on the inside.
“I love you. And it’s because I love you that I have to walk away.”
Your chin trembles as you watch them head to their car, throwing their bag into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. The door slams as the engine roars to life. They glance at you one last time through the rearview mirror before pulling out of your driveway, taking a part of you with them.
You feel numb as you walk back into the house. It’s the type of heartbreak where tears won’t form, no matter how much you feel like you need to cry. Your mom is in the kitchen, her eyes wide and concerned as she takes in your expression. She looks guilty, like she regrets letting everything happen. She walks to hug you, but you brush her off.
Your dad had already retreated to his room, the door closed shut. Good. You couldn’t bring yourself to face him right now. You enter your room — the same room you’d just been so happy to be in with Jordan — and collapse onto your bed. Their cologne had already made home in the air, leaving your senses haunted by their memory.
Jordan’s gone. They cut ties with you in hopes of making you happy, of following your dreams at God U. But how can you be happy at God U if they’re not by your side anymore? How are you going to face them in the halls?
You isolate yourself in your room, shielding yourself from the outside world. Jordan is no longer yours. All that’s left of them is the photographs you share, the gifts they’d gotten you, and their scent lingering in the air. They’re a haunting presence in your life now, only existing to remind you of what could have been.
