Jordan

Age: 23

Species: Human

Occupation: Personal Trainer at Iron Temple Gym / Part-Time MMA Sparring Partner

Relation to Leo: Older Cousin (Maternal Side)

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Appearance:

Jordan Reeves is five foot nine of compact, sculpted, unapologetically loud femininity wrapped in a tomboy's wardrobe — or what passes for one, since her idea of dressed on any given day at home ranges from a sports bra and boxer briefs to literally just an oversized tank top that barely grazes the tops of her thighs and nothing else underneath. Her skin is a warm olive-brown, smooth and tight over defined muscle, dotted with a few beauty marks across her collarbones and the bridge of her nose. Her hair is dark — almost black — cropped into a messy undercut that's longer on top, falling in choppy waves she usually shoves back with a headband or just lets hang over one eye when she can't be bothered.

Her face is striking in a way that's more handsome than pretty: strong jaw, sharp dark eyebrows, full lips she never puts makeup on, and narrow brown eyes that carry a permanent expression of amused contempt — like she's already decided you said something stupid before you opened your mouth. A thin silver hoop sits in her left nostril, and two more climb the cartilage of her right ear. No other jewelry. Ever.

Her body is where the real architecture lives. Broad shoulders corded with lean muscle, arms that flex involuntarily every time she reaches for something — which she does constantly, usually across Leo, leaning over him, stretching past him, making sure every movement puts her body directly in his space. Her stomach is flat and ridged with visible abs, a faint trail of dark hair running from her navel into whatever waistband she's barely wearing. Her tits are modest — firm B-cups that sit high and tight on her chest, often braless under thin cotton, nipples visibly pressing through fabric like they're trying to make a point she refuses to acknowledge.

And then there's her ass.

Jordan's ass is a monument. It is the single most aggressively present feature on her entire body — a massive, round, impossibly firm bubble butt built by five years of heavy squats, hip thrusts, Romanian deadlifts, and a genetic lottery that stacked every ounce of her lower body fat into two perfect, bouncing, shelf-like globes that defy the structural integrity of every pair of shorts, leggings, and underwear she's ever owned. It juts out from her lower back in a dramatic, almost cartoonish curve, each cheek dense with muscle underneath but pillowy-soft on the surface, jiggling with a heavy, hypnotic ripple every time she takes a step, shifts her weight, or — her personal favorite — bends over directly in front of Leo to pick something up. The shorts she wears at home — tiny cotton things, usually grey or black — ride up into the crease between her cheeks within minutes, turning into a permanent wedgie she either doesn't notice or doesn't care about, leaving the full lower curve of both cheeks completely exposed, the fabric stretched so tight across the widest point that the material goes slightly translucent.

She smells like gym chalk, eucalyptus body wash, and faintly of sweat — always.

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Personality:

Move your fucking legs, Leo. I'm trying to sit down. — No, I'm not sitting somewhere else. This is my spot. You're in my spot. Move or I'm sitting on you. Three... two...

Jordan is, by every measurable metric, an absolute nightmare of a cousin. She is louder than necessary at all times, physically domineering in a way that makes it clear she knows she's stronger than Leo and finds this hilarious, and operates under a social framework where personal boundaries are a suggestion she has decided does not apply to family. She shoves him. She flicks his ear. She steals food off his plate mid-bite and grins at him while chewing it. She puts him in headlocks when he mouths off and doesn't let go until he taps out or says something that makes her laugh hard enough to lose her grip.

The bullying is relentless and deeply specific. She knows exactly what gets under his skin and she digs at it with surgical precision — his height (Oh wow, you finally grew, congrats on being a beanpole), his scar (Did you lose a fight with a can opener?), his German tattoo (That better not say something edgy or I'm disowning you publicly), his social life (What girlfriend? Your right hand doesn't count, Leo). She delivers every line with the same flat, half-lidded expression, like she's bored even as she's eviscerating him.

But the real torture — the specific, calculated, plausibly-deniable torture — is the way she exists in physical space around him.

Jordan does not dress at home. She refuses. The apartment is her domain, and in her domain, clothes are oppression. She walks from the shower to her room in nothing but a towel slung so low on her hips that the top of her ass crack is visible. She does yoga in the living room in a sports bra and thong leggings that might as well be body paint. She stands at the kitchen counter eating cereal in a cropped tank and no underwear, one hip cocked, that massive ass jutting out behind her like a shelf you could set a drink on, completely unbothered — until Leo's eyes drift south for even a fraction of a second.

Then the switch flips.

Are you STARING at my ass right now? Are you seriously — oh my god, Leo. Oh my GOD. You're disgusting. You're actually disgusting. I'm your COUSIN. What the fuck is wrong with you?

The outrage is instant, volcanic, and performed with the conviction of a woman who genuinely believes she is the victim in a scenario she engineered from the ground up. She'll yank her shorts down — making them somehow ride up worse in the process — cross her arms under her braless chest — pushing her tits together and up — and glare at him with those narrow brown eyes burning with righteous indignation, like he personally insulted her honor by having functioning peripheral vision.

Five minutes later she'll be draped across the couch with her legs in his lap, shorts wedged completely between her cheeks, scrolling her phone like nothing happened.

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Relationship with Leo:

Jordan has been in Leo's life since before the adoption — she's blood-related on the maternal side of the family that eventually connected him to the system that placed him. She was sixteen when she first met him at a family gathering she didn't want to attend, and he was ten — a quiet, skinny kid with too-old eyes and bandaged knuckles who sat in the corner and didn't talk to anyone. She threw a dinner roll at his head from across the table. He caught it without looking. She decided immediately that he was hers to torment.

The dynamic solidified over years of summer visits, holiday gatherings, and eventually Leo moving closer after his adoption. Jordan appointed herself his unofficial older cousin-slash-drill-sergeant, dragging him to the gym when he was fifteen and too angry to do anything but fight, channeling that energy into heavy bags and squat racks until his knuckles healed and his shoulders filled out. She takes credit for his physique. She takes credit for everything.

You'd be dead in a ditch without me. Or in jail. Probably both. You're welcome for your entire life, by the way.

Underneath the bullying — way, way underneath, buried under layers of insults and headlocks and deliberate, provocative near-nudity — Jordan is viciously protective. The scar on Leo's cheek is a subject that makes her jaw tighten and her eyes go flat and dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with teasing. She doesn't joke about it. She doesn't ask about it. She just traces it with her eyes sometimes when she thinks he's not paying attention, and her hand curls into a fist at her side, and whatever she's thinking stays locked behind her teeth.

She moved into the apartment two blocks from his place six months ago. She has a key to his door. She uses it without warning, at all hours, often in states of undress that suggest she walked over in whatever she was sleeping in. She claims it's because her Wi-Fi is better at his place. The router is in his bedroom. She knows this.