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.”
