older femme lesbians that could kiss me like this HAVE MY HEARTTT. caressing the back of my head and holding my throat softly???? im on my knees begging for you
i need her to guide me through touching myself for her and to call me her little greedy slut and telling me how desperate i sound as i rub my clit harder for her
𝐒ummery: In the cramped, vibrating back lounge of a tour bus speeding down a midnight highway, Billie Eilish finds a private outlet for her post-show adrenaline. Obsessed with the reader's body and fueled by the thrill of being feet away from their sleeping crew, Billie claims the reader in a raw, vocal, and uninhibited encounter that prioritizes heavy friction and deep, worshipping intimacy.
𝐏airing: Singer!billie x girlfriend!reader
𝐖arnings:
Hardcore WLW Smut
Explicit Language (Pussy, Clit, Cum, Fuck)
Detailed Fingering & Oral
Breasted-Obsessed Themes
Risk of Discovery / Public Setting
Overstimulation
The tour bus hums with a low, mechanical vibration, the steady thrum-thrum of tires on the asphalt acting as a lullaby for the rest of the crew. Behind the heavy, velvet curtains of the bunk alley, everyone is dead to the world, exhausted from the high-octane energy of the stadium show. But Billie is vibrating. She’s still wearing her oversized tour tee, her skin glowing with a faint sheen of leftover stage sweat, and her eyes are wide, electric, and locked onto yours.
She doesn't say a word. She just reaches out and hooks her fingers into the belt loops of your jeans, pulling you out of your bunk with a strength that catches you off guard. Her touch is hot, restless. She leads you toward the back of the bus, through the narrow, cramped hallway, her hip bumping yours with every slight curve the bus takes on the dark highway.
When you reach the tiny back lounge, she doesn't turn on the lights. The only illumination comes from the faint, passing glow of highway lamps through the tinted windows and the tiny blue LEDs of the sound equipment. The space is small, cramped with discarded hoodies and half-empty water bottles, but the second the heavy door clicks shut behind you, the atmosphere turns suffocatingly thick.
Billie spins you around, her back hitting the small leather banquette, and pulls you down with her. The engine’s rumble vibrates through the floor and up into your bones, but all you can focus on is the way Billie’s hands immediately find the hem of your shirt.
"I couldn't breathe back there," she whispers, her voice a jagged, low rasp that barely carries over the hum of the AC. She’s staring at your chest with a singular, heavy-lidded intensity that makes your breath hitch. "All I could think about was getting you back here. Getting these out."
She doesn't wait for permission. Her movements are frantic but focused, her fingers trembling slightly as she bunches the fabric of your shirt upward. She’s always been vocal about it—the way she’s fixated on your body, the way she craves the weight and softness of you—and right now, with the adrenaline of twenty thousand screaming fans still coursing through her, that obsession is turned up to a dangerous volume.
"God, you're so perfect," she mutters, her breath hitching as she finally clears the fabric, her eyes blowing wide at the sight of you in the dim, blue light. "I've been thinking about this since the first song of the set. Just... needing to touch you."
She leans forward, her hands cupping you with a reverence that feels almost holy, her thumbs brushing over your nipples as she pulls you closer into her personal space. The bus swerves slightly, throwing your weight against her, and she lets out a muffled, needy sound against your neck, her face burying into your skin while her hands stay firmly, possessively locked onto your breasts.
Billie’s fingers are frantic, hooking into the hem of your shirt and tugging it upward with a needy, single-minded focus. You lift your arms, helping her pull the fabric over your head and tossing it onto the cramped leather seat, leaving you exposed in the dim, flickering blue light of the lounge. The air is cool, but the heat radiating off her is intense, a physical force that makes your skin prickle.
She lets out a shaky, jagged breath, her eyes dropping to your chest. She doesn't move for a heartbeat, just staring at you with an expression that boarders on worship. "Fuck," she whispers, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You have no idea what you do to me. I was on stage looking at everyone, but I was just picturing this. Just this."
She reaches out, her palms warm and slightly calloused as she cups both of your breasts, squeezing them with a possessive, heavy pressure. She’s obsessed with the weight of them, the way they spill over her fingers, and she moans low in her throat as she thumbs your nipples into hard, aching peaks. The bus hits a small bump, jolting you forward, and she uses the momentum to pull you flush against her.
Then, she leans in.
Her mouth is hot, a stark contrast to the chilled air of the bus. She starts slow, her tongue circling your nipple in a broad, wet stroke that makes your toes curl against the carpeted floor. You let out a soft gasp, and Billie immediately freezes, her eyes darting toward the thin door that leads to the bunks. She presses a finger to her own lips, a silent shhh, before looking back up at you with a wicked, electric spark in her gaze.
She wants you quiet, but she’s not going to make it easy.
She opens her mouth wide, taking as much of you in as she can. The suction is deep and rhythmic, her tongue flicking against the underside of your breast before she drags her teeth—just a graze—over the tip. You have to bite your lip to keep from crying out, your hands tangling in her hair as she ravages you. She’s greedy, her hands never letting go of your other breast, kneading the soft tissue while she focuses all her attention on the other.
"So soft," she mutters against your skin, the vibration of her voice sending a jolt straight to your pussy. "I just want to stay like this. I want to spend the whole drive across the state right here, just tasting you."
She switches sides, her mouth leaving a glistening trail of saliva across your chest. She’s relentless, sucking you deep into her throat, her breath hitching every time you let out a muffled whimper. The bus continues to rumble, a steady, vibrating backdrop to the messy, wet sounds of her mouth on you, the secrecy of the moment only making her more uninhibited, more desperate to have every single bit of you.
The bus groans as it takes a sharp turn, the chassis leaning into the curve, but Billie doesn’t lose her footing. She’s focused, her pupils so dilated they’ve nearly swallowed the blue of her irises. Her hands slide down from your chest, her palms dragging over your ribs and stomach until her fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts. She doesn’t ask; she just tugs, her breathing coming in hot, shallow bursts against your bare skin as she peels the fabric and your underwear down to your ankles.
You step out of them, standing exposed in the center of the tiny lounge, the floorboards vibrating beneath your bare feet. Billie drops to her knees with a heavy thud, her height putting her face right at level with your hips. She doesn't dive in immediately. Instead, she just looks, her hands coming up to grip the backs of your thighs, her fingers digging into your skin to hold you steady against the sway of the bus.
"You're so fucking beautiful," she breathes, the words barely a thread of sound. "I can't believe you're mine. I really can't."
She leans forward, pressing her face against the soft skin of your inner thigh. Her skin is hot, her nose cold, and the sensation makes you shiver. She begins to trail slow, wet kisses upward, her mouth moving with a reverence that feels like a prayer. She kisses the sensitive skin near your knee, then moves higher, her tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin.
She’s taking her time, her mouth lingering on every inch. She nuzzles into the crease where your leg meets your hip, her breath hitching as she catches the scent of your arousal. You can feel the vibration of her humming low in her throat, a deep, resonant sound that echoes through your thighs.
"I want to taste every part of you," she mutters against your skin, her voice a jagged rasp. "I want to leave marks so you remember exactly who you belong to when you wake up in your bunk tomorrow."
She bites down gently—just enough to leave a stinging heat—on the meat of your thigh, her hands sliding up to cup your ass, pulling you closer until your heat is pressing against her lips. She looks up at you from between your legs, her expression raw and demanding, a silent command for you to stay quiet even as she prepares to undo you completely.
The bus hits a bridge, the rhythmic thud-thud of the tires providing a heavy, mechanical beat that Billie matches as she finally presses her face fully into you. She doesn't hesitate, her tongue darting out in a sharp, focused stroke that finds your clit instantly. You let out a muffled gasp, your hands flying to her shoulders to steady yourself as the world outside the tinted windows blurs into a streak of highway lights.
She’s relentless. Her tongue is broad and wet, swirling over the sensitive nub with a heavy pressure that makes your knees buckle. She uses her hands to pry you wider, her thumbs hooked into the creases of your hips, holding you open so she can see exactly how you’re reacting to her. The sound of her mouth on you is messy and loud in the cramped lounge, a wet, suctioning noise that makes your face flush hot with the fear of being caught—and the thrill of it.
"Fuck, you're so sweet," she mumbles against your skin, her voice vibrating through your entire lower body.
She slides two fingers deep inside your pussy, her pace sudden and demanding. She’s mimicking the motion of her tongue, creating a friction that feels like it’s set your nerves on fire. You have to bury your face in your arm, biting down on your own skin to keep from screaming as she drives you upward. Billie looks up at you, her eyes dark and frantic, watching your expression as you begin to unravel.
"Don't you dare be quiet for me now," she hisses, even though she knows you have to be.
She picks up the speed, her tongue flicking faster, her fingers curling upward inside you to hit that internal sweet spot over and over. You’re shaking, your legs trembling so violently she has to grip you tighter just to stay between them. The tension in your gut coils into a tight, white-hot knot, and just as the bus swerves into a lane change, you break.
You collapse forward, your fingers tangling in her hair as a massive, soul-shaking climax ripples through you. You let out a long, broken moan into the crook of your elbow, your pussy pulsing violently around her fingers as a thick wave of cum drenches her hand and her mouth. Billie doesn't pull back; she drinks you in, her tongue catching every drop of your release, her fingers staying buried deep inside you until the very last tremor fades into the humming vibration of the bus.
If I had a penny for everytime Billie and Jenna chose shitty men🤡🥀
Anyway I hate that ugly rat Jenna’s with and I hope he doesn't put his filthy hands on her or abuse her in any way(he abused his ex so I hardly have any hope)
For now we'll feed off of fanafics and imagine that in a perfect world Jenna has a partner that she deserves
Synopsis: After attending a prestigious awards ceremony alone, Jenna Ortega spends the evening outwardly composed but inwardly distracted, missing her girlfriend—you, a dedicated gynecologist who had to stay behind for an important appointment. The night becomes heavier when a posthumous award for her late Beetlejuice 2 co-star Catherine O’Hara stirs grief and memories Jenna cannot openly release in a room full of cameras. A brief, comforting moment with a friend lightens her mood, but it’s only when she returns home to the quiet house and finds you asleep that the weight of the evening finally softens. In the stillness of the night, small kisses, gentle conversation, and a deeply intimate moment between the two of you become a quiet reminder that beyond the noise of fame, Jenna’s real comfort has always been waiting for her at home.
Content Warnings: older!jenna x reader, age-gap (Jenna's 30, reader's 24), fluff, SMUT, femme!jenna, masc!reader, gip!reader, little smut, soft love making, men and minors dni.
The red carpet unfurled beneath a canopy of gold light and camera flashes, a river of crimson stretching toward the grand entrance of the awards hall. Voices layered over one another—publicists calling names, photographers issuing quick commands, the low hum of industry conversations carried through the warm evening air. Every few seconds the sharp click of shutters cut through the noise, capturing fragments of movement that would be frozen and studied later.
At the center of it stood Jenna.
She moved with practiced ease, turning slightly at the waist as the photographers called for her attention, her posture composed and deliberate. The calm she wore was effortless—shoulders relaxed, chin lifted just enough, her expression balanced perfectly between poise and quiet confidence.
Her gown shimmered subtly beneath the lights, a pale champagne silk that flowed down her frame like liquid satin. The dress clung gently to her silhouette before loosening into an uneven hem that brushed around her calves, the delicate fabric shifting with each step. Lace framed the plunging neckline, intricate and soft, its floral patterns trailing along the bodice like something hand-drawn. Thin black cords draped across her shoulders and down her torso, threaded with small pearls that caught the flash of cameras like drops of light.
The slit along her thigh revealed sheer stockings beneath the silk, the muted gray tone contrasting against the warmth of the dress. Black heels lifted her slightly taller, the platform steady beneath her, while a slim choker circled her neck, anchoring the softness of the gown with a darker edge.
Her hair fell loose and glossy around her shoulders, parted simply, framing her face where subtle makeup deepened the quiet intensity of her gaze.
To anyone watching, Jenna Ortega looked exactly as she always did at events like this—composed, untouchable, perfectly in control of the moment.
But her mind was nowhere near the carpet.
While the photographers continued calling her name, while flashes of light burst around her like small lightning strikes, her thoughts drifted stubbornly elsewhere.
To you.
You should have been here tonight.
The image arrived easily—your height beside her, the calm presence you carried even in crowded rooms. Usually you stood just beyond the camera lines, hands tucked in the pockets of whatever jacket you’d thrown on after a long shift, watching her with that quiet half-smile you tried to hide.
Tonight, the space beside the carpet was empty.
A patient had needed you. An important appointment that couldn’t be postponed—something delicate, something only a gynecologist with your skill and patience could handle. Jenna had understood immediately when you told her, nodding softly, telling you it was fine, that work like yours mattered more than red carpets.
And it did.
She knew that.
Still, standing beneath the gold lights, surrounded by applause and attention, her mind kept wandering back to the small apartment you would probably just be returning to now—your hair messy from hours in the clinic, your shoulders tired but steady.
A photographer called her name again.
“Jenna! Over here!”
She turned smoothly, lifting the edge of her dress slightly as she shifted her stance, offering the cameras another perfect angle. The pearls along the gown shimmered faintly.
But somewhere beneath the polished composure, a quieter thought lingered.
You would have loved this dress.
And more than the cameras, more than the awards waiting inside the building, Jenna found herself wishing she could simply step away from the carpet, drive across the city, and find you still awake when she got home.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The auditorium carried a different kind of quiet than the red carpet.
Inside, the light softened to a warm glow, the noise of the crowd settling into low conversation and polite applause that rose and fell with the rhythm of the ceremony. The tables were arranged in careful rows, glasses catching the stage lights like scattered stars, the hum of anticipation threading through the room as the evening unfolded.
Jenna sat in her assigned seat, posture composed as always, hands folded lightly in her lap. The pale silk of her gown pooled softly around her chair, its delicate lace catching the light whenever she shifted.
From a distance, she appeared exactly as the cameras expected—attentive, graceful, perfectly present.
But presence was a strange thing tonight.
Her mind still wandered occasionally toward you, toward the quiet certainty that somewhere across the city you were probably just finishing your long appointment, maybe rubbing the back of your neck the way you did when you were tired. The thought steadied her, even as the ceremony moved forward.
Then her category was announced.
The murmurs in the room softened as the presenter stepped onto the stage—Lisa Kudrow—smiling warmly as she held the envelope between careful fingers.
Jenna felt the familiar tightening in her chest, that quiet tension that came with moments like these. She inhaled slowly, her gaze fixed on the stage as the nominees were read.
And there it was.
Among them, the name that made the room shift in a different way.
Catherine O'Hara.
Even spoken aloud, the name felt heavier now.
A gentle wave of applause moved through the auditorium—something softer than celebration, something threaded with remembrance.
Lisa Kudrow opened the envelope.
“And the Actor goes to… Catherine O’Hara.”
For a moment, the room held its breath.
Then the applause rose—loud, emotional, unguarded. People stood, some clapping through quiet tears, the kind that arrived without warning.
Jenna stood with them.
Her hands came together automatically, but the sound of her applause felt distant, muffled by the sudden tightness in her chest.
The stage filled not with Catherine, but with Seth Rogen, who approached the microphone slowly, the weight of the moment visible even in the careful way he adjusted the stand.
He cleared his throat once.
Then again.
His voice, when it came, was gentle and uneven.
He spoke about Catherine not as an icon or a legend—though she had been both—but as a person. The warmth she carried onto every set. The way she made everyone feel welcome the moment she walked into a room. The quiet brilliance she brought to every scene, the humor that never tried too hard and somehow always landed perfectly.
The room listened in stillness.
And somewhere in the middle of the speech, Jenna felt the first tear slip quietly down her cheek.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just sudden.
Her heart clenched with a dull, aching pressure as memories surfaced uninvited—days on the set of Beetlejuice 2, laughter between takes, Catherine’s voice drifting across the soundstage with that familiar playful warmth.
She had been kind in a way that didn’t feel performative. The kind of kindness that stayed with you long after the work was done.
Her death had shocked everyone when it happened.
But standing there now, listening to Seth’s trembling words, Jenna felt the loss settle into something deeper—something personal.
Not just the loss of an actress the world admired.
The loss of someone who had once stood beside her under bright studio lights, cracking jokes between scenes, reminding her gently not to take everything so seriously.
Around her, people wiped their eyes. The applause that followed Seth’s final words was thick with emotion.
Jenna remained standing for a moment longer than necessary, her hands pressed together as if the gesture might hold the memory a little steadier.
And somewhere beneath the grief, beneath the ache of remembering Catherine’s easy laugh, another thought drifted quietly into her mind.
She wished you were here.
Because you were the person she would have reached for right now—your hand grounding her, your quiet voice reminding her that grief was just another shape love sometimes took.
The applause eventually softened into murmurs again, the ceremony continuing forward with its carefully measured pace. On stage, the next presenters began speaking, but Jenna barely heard them.
The tightness in her chest lingered.
Grief had a strange way of sitting quietly in the body, heavy and unmoving, like a stone placed somewhere behind the ribs. It wasn’t something she could simply shake off—not the memories, not the sudden ache that came with hearing Catherine’s name spoken in a room this large.
But she also knew where she was.
Thousands of eyes. Cameras scattered through the hall. A room built for celebration, not quiet heartbreak.
So Jenna rose from her seat during the next break in the program and slipped toward the bar section near the back of the auditorium. The lighting there was dimmer, the crowd thinner, conversations blending into a low background hum.
She rested her hands lightly against the polished counter while the bartender placed a drink in front of her—something amber, simple, strong enough to dull the edge of memory for a moment.
Jenna lifted the glass and took a small sip.
The warmth spread slowly, settling somewhere beneath the heaviness in her chest. She let out a quiet breath, staring briefly into the liquid as though it might steady her thoughts.
Not here, she reminded herself.
Not tonight. Not in a room like this.
She had just set the glass down when a voice burst into the space beside her like sunlight.
“Okay—serious question.”
Jenna turned.
The infectious grin was unmistakable.
Odessa A'zion leaned against the bar beside her, energy practically radiating off her as though the entire ceremony were a mildly entertaining party rather than a formal awards show.
“You’ve been here longer than me,” Odessa continued conspiratorially. “So tell me honestly—are these drinks actually good, or is everyone pretending because they’re free?”
Jenna blinked once.
Then a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Depends,” she replied, lifting the glass slightly. “Do you enjoy something that tastes like a candle that went to therapy?”
Odessa’s face scrunched immediately.
“Oh my God,” she groaned. “That’s exactly what mine tasted like.”
She lifted her own drink, squinting suspiciously at it before taking another experimental sip. Her expression shifted dramatically.
“Yeah. No. That’s definitely a scented candle.”
Jenna let out a quiet laugh before she could stop herself.
The sound surprised her a little—light, genuine.
Odessa noticed immediately.
“See? That’s the real purpose of these events,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the crowd of celebrities scattered around the room. “Not the awards. It’s watching very important people slowly become tipsy and start saying things they absolutely shouldn’t.”
Jenna followed her gaze as a group of actors nearby burst into overly enthusiastic laughter.
“Give it another hour,” Odessa continued with cheerful certainty. “Someone’s going to start explaining the plot of their upcoming movie using interpretive dance.”
“Honestly,” Jenna said, the amusement settling more comfortably now, “I’d respect that.”
“Same,” Odessa replied solemnly.
For a moment they simply leaned against the bar, watching the room together.
The heaviness in Jenna’s chest hadn’t vanished, but it had shifted slightly—softened around the edges by Odessa’s easy presence.
Odessa nudged her shoulder gently.
“You okay?” she asked, her tone still light but a little more attentive now.
Jenna nodded after a brief pause. “Yeah.”
And she meant it, at least partially.
Odessa studied her for half a second longer, then grinned again as if deciding the moment needed redirecting.
“Perfect,” she declared. “Because you look ridiculously good tonight and I refuse to let that go undocumented.”
Before Jenna could protest, Odessa had already pulled out her phone.
“Come here.”
Jenna sighed, though the smile remained.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” Odessa said brightly.
They leaned together near the bar counter, Odessa holding the phone at arm’s length while the soft gold lights from the auditorium spilled into the background. Jenna tilted her head slightly, instinctively finding the camera the way she always did.
The photo snapped.
Then another.
Odessa immediately checked the results, her grin widening.
“Oh yeah. These are definitely going to make people jealous.”
Jenna shook her head, a quiet laugh slipping out again.
The ceremony stretched toward its final moments in a blur of applause, speeches, and the quiet shuffle of people already beginning to leave their seats. By the time the last award was announced and the lights in the auditorium softened, the night had grown heavy with exhaustion.
Jenna slipped out with the rest of the crowd, offering polite smiles where necessary, exchanging a few brief goodbyes before the cool night air finally greeted her outside the venue. The drive home passed in silence. The city lights blurred past the window in streaks of gold and white, the distant hum of traffic a steady background to her thoughts.
By the time she reached the house, the world felt slower.
The front door opened with a soft click.
Inside, the house was wrapped in a quiet that felt almost sacred. No television murmuring from the living room, no clatter from the kitchen—just the faint hum of appliances and the distant rustle of trees outside the windows. A lamp had been left on somewhere down the hall, casting a low, warm glow across the floors.
Jenna set her heels aside near the door and moved through the house barefoot, her steps careful, instinctively quiet.
The bedroom door stood slightly open.
She pushed it gently.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft spill of moonlight slipping through the curtains. The bed lay in the center of the room, the blankets slightly tangled, and there you were—curled beneath them, asleep in the deep, unmoving way that came only after long hours of work.
Jenna paused in the doorway for a moment.
The tightness she had been carrying all evening softened at the sight of you. Your hair spilled loosely across the pillow, your breathing slow and even, one arm tucked beneath your cheek.
You must have come home late.
Probably later than her.
A small smile found its way onto Jenna’s face as she crossed the room quietly, slipping out of the last remnants of the evening—the delicate heels, the jewelry, the soft silk of the gown that had carried her through the ceremony.
The mattress dipped slightly when she slid beneath the covers beside you.
You didn’t stir.
Jenna turned toward you instinctively, closing the small distance between your bodies. Her lips brushed softly along your jaw, then your cheek—small, absent-minded kisses, more for her own comfort than anything else. She wasn’t trying to wake you, only grounding herself in the warmth of your presence.
Her arms slid around your waist, pulling you gently closer until you fit against her.
She inhaled sharply then, without meaning to.
Your scent—familiar, steady, unmistakably yours—settled around her like something she had been missing all evening.
For the first time since the ceremony, Jenna allowed herself to relax fully, pressing her face lightly into the curve of your neck as she held you close in the quiet dark.
For a while Jenna simply stayed there, holding you.
The house remained wrapped in its quiet midnight stillness, the world outside reduced to distant wind brushing against the windows. Your warmth seeped into her slowly, steady and grounding in a way nothing else had been that evening.
The breath she let out then was shaky before she could stop it.
The kind of sigh that slipped free when someone had been holding too much inside for too long.
The sound stirred you.
Your brows knitted slightly as sleep loosened its hold, your body shifting just enough to register the weight beside you. A soft murmur escaped your lips—half a word, half a breath—as your eyes fluttered open.
For a moment you looked disoriented, the haze of sleep still clinging to your gaze.
Then you saw her.
“Jenna,” you murmured, the way you always did—her name falling from your lips with quiet familiarity.
Your hand lifted instinctively, still heavy with exhaustion, and cupped her cheek. Your thumb brushed lightly along her skin as your eyes softened into a sleepy smile.
“How was the event?” you asked, voice low and warm despite the obvious pull of sleep dragging at you.
You needed rest. Anyone could see that.
But you asked anyway.
Jenna’s chest tightened faintly at the simple gesture.
You were barely awake, your hair rumpled against the pillow, your eyes half-lidded—and still the first thing you did was reach for her.
For a moment she didn’t answer.
She simply looked at you.
The room felt suddenly smaller, quieter somehow, as if the entire night had narrowed down to the space between the two of you. Jenna’s gaze drifted briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes, something unspoken lingering there.
The air between you grew thick with it.
Neither of you moved at first.
Your hand still rested against her cheek, the warmth of your palm grounding her, and Jenna leaned into the touch almost unconsciously. Her fingers tightened slightly around your waist, drawing you closer by the smallest margin.
Your breathing slowed.
The space between your faces shrank gradually, neither of you rushing the moment.
There was a quiet tension there now—soft, electric, the kind that came not from urgency but from familiarity. From knowing exactly how the other person would feel before it even happened.
You kissed her first.
It was slow, unhurried, your lips brushing against hers with the gentle certainty of someone who knew they were welcome there. Jenna answered immediately, her hand sliding up your back as the kiss deepened just slightly—still soft, still tender, but full of something that had been waiting all evening.
It wasn’t desperate.
It was intimate.
A quiet exchange of warmth and reassurance, the kind of kiss that carried exhaustion, affection, and relief all at once.
When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested lightly against hers, your breath mingling in the dim, silent room.
"What's wrong, baby? You look...upset" You murmured, your head lifting briefly to look into her eyes. Those eyes. Those pretty, big bambi eyes that held the universe within them.
"Nothing," Jenna mumbled, her throat working as she gulped and leaned in again. Her voice dropped lower, almost intimate "nothing, love".
You leaned closer, your lips brushing her ear as she pressed her lips softly against your jaw. Jenna parted her legs, giving you access to push yours between them.
"Are you too tired, baby?" Jenna rasped, her brows twitching with the familiar frown that forms across her face whenever she is worried for you.
"Not when I have you right here" You reply cheekily, earning a soft chuckle from her. God, those dimples. They unravel you everytime.
Jenna's expression shifted her hand drifted lower from your shoulder. Her fingers grazed your hardened nipple over your lacy night dress. You inhaled sharply, hand flying to hold her wrist. Her gaze followed up, matching yours.
"Is this... not okay?" She whispered softly. You chuckled and shook your head. Jenna smirked, the same sideways smile she always has when she feels bold. She lifted her chin and brushed a feather light kiss against your pulse point on the neck.
A breathy sigh left your parted lips. You closed your eyes, the grip on her wrist releasing slowly, allowing her hand to drift down to your flat stomach that tucks in instinctively at the light brush of her fingertips.
"Someone's been working out extra after her shifts" Jenna teased and you almost feel her dimple forming again as she grins.
"Well, I like a little competition" You said, feeling her grinding down on your thigh already. Her heat spread through her panties, her juices soaking your dress already.
You groaned, your cock already hardening from her kisses across your collarbone. Jenna moans, her pace increasing not until you grip her waist and pull her on the top of you.
"If you wanna ride, darling, do it properly" You mumble, voice strained from how painfully hard you were for her. Jenna bit her lip as she sank down on your length, your boxers pushed aside, enough to free your cock from its restraints.
"That's it, darling, that's it" You praised her gently, fingers splaying across her thigh, helping with her movements. Jenna moaned, this one louder than the last as you snapped your hips up against hers. Her head toppled forward, her hands gripping the lace of your dress as her stomach tucked in with the familiar warmth.
"Here," You rasped, your hand coming up to press against her lower belly where a slight bulge formed everytime you thrust inside her. Her whimpers grew louder, her mouth crashing against yours in a hungry kiss, all the tension seeping from her body.
"Fuck-" She choked, her body convulsing and going limp in your arms as the waves of ecstacy crashed her. You lay there, panting softly with her head on your chest as she overcame the aftershocks of her release.
"Feel better?" You smiled lazily, your hand coming up to caress her cheek where her dimple formed. She nodded, her arms circling your neck as her eyelids got heavier.
Synopsis: After a long night on set, Jenna Ortega comes home to a quiet bedroom scented with vanilla and baby powder, where her wife, y/n, is half-asleep, feeding their twin babies in the soft glow of early morning. The night unfolds in hushed conversations, gentle love, and slow, careful closeness—love expressed through tenderness rather than urgency. Once the twins are settled back to sleep, Jenna and y/n find comfort in each other’s arms, ending the night wrapped together, safe, unguarded, and deeply at home.
Content Warnings: older!jenna x reader, age-gap (Jenna's 30, reader's 24), fluff, SMUT, dom!jenna, sub!reader, fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving), soft love making, men and minors dni.
A/n: I hardly write smut, so idk how this is, but I hope you like it :)
The house was quiet in the particular way that only existed after midnight—not empty, but softened, as though the world had agreed to speak in whispers. Pale light pooled gently across the bedroom, casting long, calm shadows that traced the proportions of the space. The room was expansive without feeling hollow: a king-sized bed at its centre, dressed in layered neutrals; a wide rug grounding the floor; glass doors drawn open to the dark hush of the outdoors. Everything felt intentional, lived-in, held.
The air carried a familiar warmth. Vanilla lingered faintly, threaded with the clean, comforting scent of baby powder. It was the smell of routine, of care repeated so often it had become part of the room itself.
Y/n lay stretched across the bed, propped just enough to remain upright, her body arranged in the careful stillness of someone who had learned how not to disturb what mattered. Elio and Luna, her 5-month-old twins, were nestled against her, small and warm, latched contentedly as they fed. Their breathing was uneven but calm, the quiet rhythm of new life still learning its own pace. Y/n hummed under her breath—an absent-minded tune without words, something old and instinctive, passed from thought to sound without effort. Her eyes fluttered, half-lidded, exhaustion tugging at her but never quite winning.
The door opened softly.
Jenna stepped inside at two in the morning, the day still clinging to her in subtle ways—her jacket draped over one arm, hair slightly undone, the fatigue of a long shoot etched gently into her posture. She paused just inside the room, careful not to let the door click shut too loudly.
She watched them.
A tired smile found her face, slow and genuine, as she took in the sight of her wife fighting sleep with quiet determination, the twins feeding peacefully against her. The world outside—the lights, the schedules, the noise—felt distant from this moment, reduced to something unimportant.
Jenna stayed where she was, letting the scene settle into her, the warmth of it enough to steady her after the long night.
Jenna then moved at the pace the room demanded—slow, careful, reverent. She set her jacket aside and crossed the remaining distance to the bed, lowering herself beside y/n without disturbing the careful balance she was holding. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight.
She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to y/n’s exposed shoulder, lips lingering just long enough to say I’m here without words. One arm slipped around y/n’s waist, loose and warm, her hand resting there as if it had always belonged.
The humming faltered, replaced by a quiet breath.
“They good today?” Jenna asked softly, her voice low with exhaustion and affection, careful not to break the moment.
Y/n smiled, a tired curve of her mouth, eyes still half-closed. “Elio discovered his toes,” she murmured, a quiet chuckle threading through the words. “Immediately tried to eat them. Immediately choked on them.”
Jenna huffed a soft laugh into her shoulder.
“And Luna?” she asked.
Y/n shifted just enough to glance down at their daughter. “She stared at him like a tiny judge. Full disapproval. Very… Wednesday Addams about it.”
Jenna smiled, something proud and fond flickering across her face. “Yup,” she said quietly. “That’s my blood.”
They stayed like that until the twins’ feeding slowed, their small bodies relaxing fully into sleep. When their breathing evened out, Jenna gently disentangled herself, moving with practised care. She lifted Elio first, then Luna, carrying them to the crib with the same steady tenderness she brought to everything that mattered. She settled them down, adjusted the blankets, and stood there for a moment longer than necessary—watching, memorising.
When she returned, she leaned down and pressed a light kiss to y/n’s lips.
It didn’t stay light.
Y/n reached for her, fingers curling into Jenna’s shirt as the kiss deepened—unhurried, tired, needful in a way that had nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with closeness. Exhaustion and love poured into it equally, a quiet exchange of reassurance after long days lived separately and together.
Jenna stayed close, forehead resting against y/n’s when they finally pulled back, their breathing soft and matched.
The room remained warm. The night held.
Jenna didn’t rush it.
She stayed close, her mouth tracing soft, unhurried kisses along y/n’s neck and shoulder—nothing demanding, nothing sharp. Just presence. Just warmth. Each kiss landed like a quiet reminder, grounding rather than igniting, affectionate in the way only someone who knew her entirely could manage.
Y/n shifted with a tired sigh, adjusting carefully before swinging a leg over Jenna’s lap. The movement was slow, deliberate, her body heavy with exhaustion that lived deep in her bones, but there was something else there, too. A hunger that wasn’t about urgency or heat, but about Jenna herself. About closeness. About being held.
She let out a soft huff of a laugh, forehead brushing Jenna’s.
“You’re evil for these kisses,” she murmured.
Jenna smiled against her skin, the kind of smile that stayed private. “Only for you.”
Y/n hummed, the sound low and content, her hands resting loosely at Jenna’s shoulders. For a moment, she simply stayed there, breathing her in, letting the quiet do its work.
Then, softer still, she whispered, “Okay… but slow. I’m still sore.”
Jenna’s hands stilled immediately—not withdrawing, just steady. Reassuring. She pressed her forehead to y/n’s, voice gentle, certain.
“Always,” she said.
Jenna smiled up at y/n, stealing another kiss as her fingers got closer to brush against y/n's stomach through her thin nightgown, making her gasp. Y/n's stomach tucked in as Jenna's fingers brushed up her thigh to tug at her underwear, the feeling of Jenna's fingertips sending goosebumps all over.
"You look like an angel in this nightgown, cara mia." Jenna purred, hearing a soft moan escape y/n's lips. She placed a soft kiss on y/n's half-exposed breast, then her nose as her fingertips got closer and closer to the damp patch forming on y/n's underwear.
"Jenna..." Y/n whimpered, biting down on her lips to keep it down because hell, she won't dare risk waking up the twins again. Jenna let out a satisfied hum and dragged her tongue up y/n's still covered nipple while her fingers flicked lazily against y/n's swollen clit.
"You're dripping, honey. How long have you wanted me?" Jenna rasped, gripping y/n's waist tighter and taking her nipple into her mouth, sucking it greedily. The sound that left y/n was between a moan and a gasp.
Jenna's fingers finally slipped in, the two digits caressing y/n's sensitive walls lazily. Y/n whined when Jenna abruptly pulled out her fingers and flipped them over so y/n was propped against the pillows. She kissed down y/n's cleavage, brushing even softer kisses near her stomach, which had stretch marks now from carrying their twins, before reaching her groin.
Delicately, Jenna lifted y/n's hips to settle them over a flat pillow and hooked her legs over her shoulders. Y/n sucked in a shark breath as Jenna's tongue ran flat over her clit, then circled twice before parting away with a soft kiss on the area. Jenna slid down her lacy panties and connected her mouth to y/n's excited clit, her tongue gliding lazily over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
Y/n whimpered, her fingers threading into Jenna's messy hair to hold her in place as her back made an elegant arch. Jenna's tongue slowly dipped between her folds, diving deep, and y/n's eyes flew open, another breathless moan leaving her throat.
Jenna wasn't fast, nor was she rough. She was perfect, as if she had learned Y/N's body purposefully over the years.
Y/n's stomach churned as she felt the familiar tension coil tightly in her abdomen. A soft whine escaped her while the pleasure took over, and her eyes rolled at the back of her head. Y/n's thighs fluttered and tightened around Jenna's head, her tongue relentless even when y/n rode the waves of her orgasm. Jenna stopped, giving one satisfied lick and kissing y/n's inner thigh.
The room settled again after, as if it had been holding its breath.
Jenna shifted carefully, drawing y/n back against her chest, arranging them with the quiet attentiveness that came from knowing her body as well as her own. One arm curved securely around y/n’s waist, the other resting warm and steady along her back. The bed held them both, sheets rumpled, the air still carrying that familiar blend of vanilla and sleep.
Y/n’s breathing slowed first. The tension she carried—weeks of interrupted rest, constant giving—eased as she melted into the space Jenna made for her. She tucked her head beneath Jenna’s chin, cheek pressed to her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart. Safe. Familiar. Home.
Jenna pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, then another, lingering there. She didn’t move when y/n’s weight settled fully, didn’t rush the moment. Her hand traced slow, absent patterns along her back, nothing meant to wake her—just enough to soothe.
Outside, the night remained still. Inside, the twins slept on, unaware of the quiet devotion that surrounded them.
Y/n slipped into sleep gradually, her body going heavy and slack with trust, breath evening out against Jenna’s skin. Jenna stayed awake a while longer, eyes closed, holding her exactly as she was, anchoring them both in the calm that followed.
When she finally slept too, the room held them gently—two lives entwined, resting at last.
The trailer hummed with controlled urgency—the soft whir of a steamer, the clipped cadence of last-minute instructions, the faint scent of hair spray and warm fabric. Light panels cast an even glow across mirrored walls, multiplying the scene into careful reflections: stylists in black, assistants with clipboards, garment bags unzipped like held breaths.
Jenna stood at the centre of it all, still, composed, a quiet axis around which everything moved.
Outwardly, she was calm—shoulders relaxed, expression neutral, movements economical. Inwardly, her thoughts churned. A storm kept perfect time beneath the surface, restless and insistent. Every few minutes, her hand drifted toward the phone resting on the counter beside her, fingers brushing the screen as if by instinct. She checked it once. Then again. And again. Each glance was brief, almost casual, but the expectation behind it was sharp, unignorable.
Nothing.
The gown waited on a padded stand beside her, black as poured ink. Its construction was precise, almost architectural—a high, sculpted collar rising to her throat, the bodice fitted and corseted with subtle sheen, the sides cut away to bare skin so cleanly they felt intentional rather than daring. From the shoulders fell strands of beaded fringe, fine and deliberate, catching the light with each small movement in the room. It was a dress that didn’t shout. It sharpened.
She stepped into it with practised ease.
A stylist guided the fabric up her frame, smoothing it over her hips, fastening the concealed closures with reverent care. The gown settled against her like it had been waiting—structured yet fluid, the black fabric absorbing light while the embroidery along the bodice held it, scattering faint glints as if remembering older nights. Another pair of hands adjusted the fringe at her shoulders, ensuring it fell straight, a quiet curtain of movement that would sway when she walked.
Jenna’s gaze flicked to her phone again while they worked. Still nothing. The calm on her face never cracked, but something tightened behind her eyes, a thought she refused to name.
Someone retouched her makeup—softening the line beneath her eyes, perfecting the calm matte of her skin. Another reworked a loose section of her hair, dark and parted, drawn back into a low, deliberate style that exposed her face fully. No excess. No distraction.
When the final clasp was secured, Jenna lifted her chin slightly, instinctively, as if aligning herself with the version of her that would step onto the carpet. The gown’s high collar framed her throat; the cutaways revealed strength rather than fragility. It was a silhouette that balanced restraint and edge, intimacy and distance.
Before turning to the mirror, she reached for her phone one last time.
The screen lit up. No new messages.
The disappointment was subtle—just a brief stillness, a fraction of a second where her breath caught before she set the phone face down. Whatever she’d been waiting for, it wasn’t coming. Not tonight.
She caught her reflection at last.
Not searching. Not doubting.
Just taking inventory—of the weight of the fabric, the steadiness of her breath, the quiet gravity that had settled over her. Outside, the Golden Globes waited in their familiar spectacle of cameras and applause. Inside the trailer, the noise softened, the work completed.
Jenna Ortega stood ready—not transformed, not costumed, but precisely herself, dressed in black, storm contained, prepared to step into the light.
The trailer door opened to a corridor washed in warm light and motion. Assistants parted instinctively, phones lifted, murmurs softening as Jenna stepped out. The dress moved with her now—fringe whispering, black fabric holding its line—every inch of her composed, deliberate. This was the moment she usually slipped into muscle memory, the practiced calm before the spectacle.
She barely had time to breathe it in.
“Jenna—wait—oh my God, I’m so sorry—”
The voice came fast and breathless, followed by hurried footsteps. A woman came into view at a near jog, then slowed abruptly, bending forward with her hands braced on her knees, curls falling into her face. She was huffing, clearly having run farther than dignity preferred.
“I—traffic was insane, and then the belt broke, and my lecture ran late, and the university—this is entirely my fault, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Jenna froze for half a second.
Then her composure cracked—cleanly, beautifully.
A soft laugh slipped out of her, unguarded, real. She crossed the remaining distance in two quick steps and pulled the woman—y/n—into a tight hug, arms wrapping around her without hesitation.
“Hey,” Jenna murmured into her shoulder, voice low and reassuring. “You’re here. That’s what matters. Breathe.”
Y/n did not, in fact, breathe.
She straightened slowly, hands still hovering awkwardly, eyes finally lifting—and promptly forgetting what oxygen was for.
Jenna stood impossibly close, dressed in black that felt less like clothing and more like intention. The high collar, the sharp cut of the bodice, the bare slashes of skin at her sides—she looked unreal. Not untouchable. Worse. Present. Warm. Laughing softly, eyes bright, hair perfectly undone.
Damn, y/n thought distantly. She looks so perfect. How did I get her?
Y/n was taller, broad-shouldered in a black button-down she’d grabbed without thinking, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the tattoo on her forearm—dark, feminine, deliberate lines that hinted at something mythic and private. Ink met skin with quiet confidence. Her curls were a little wild from running, her shirt creased, her entire look accidental and somehow devastating anyway.
Jenna noticed everything. She always did.
She smiled—small, fond—and reached for y/n’s hand, lacing their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this was the calm she’d been waiting for.
“Come on,” Jenna said gently. “We’re going to be late.”
They moved together down the corridor, hands joined, Jenna’s earlier storm finally easing as the car door opened and closed behind them. The city blurred past the window, lights streaking gold and red, the quiet between them comfortable, charged.
The venue came into view soon enough—floodlit, waiting, alive with cameras and sound.
And for just a moment, before stepping back into the noise, they sat there—fingers still intertwined—on the edge of something glittering and inevitable.
The car eased to a stop beneath a canopy of light, the venue rising ahead of them in glass and gold. Sound rushed in the moment the door opened—voices overlapping, shutters clicking, names being called with practiced urgency. The red carpet stretched forward, already alive with movement.
Jenna stepped out first.
The reaction was immediate. Cameras pivoted, a ripple of attention snapping into focus as flashes burst in quick succession. Her name carried through the air—clear, insistent—layered with curiosity as eyes shifted past her, registering the presence beside her.
“Jenna—over here.”
“Who’s that with her?”
“Is that her stylist?”
“Jenna, look this way—Jenna!”
Y/n remained half a step back, instinctive, observant. She leaned in just enough for her voice to reach Jenna’s ear, low and steady amid the noise.
“Take your time,” she murmured. “Get all the pictures. I’ll be waiting for you inside—near our seats.”
Jenna turned toward her, the corners of her mouth lifting. For a heartbeat, habit nearly won—she leaned in, close enough that the intent was unmistakable. Then she caught herself.
Y/n did not hesitate.
She slipped her arms around Jenna instead, a brief, grounding hug—firm, protective, private in its restraint. No performance. No announcement. Just reassurance. A choice made with care, leaving space for Jenna to decide when and how the world would know.
The cameras noticed, of course. They always did. Lenses zoomed, murmurs sharpened, speculation sparked and scattered like kindling.
Jenna didn’t look back.
She stepped onto the carpet, posture settling into something effortless and assured. The dress moved exactly as it was meant to now—fringe swaying, black fabric catching light in quiet flashes. She posed with ease, chin angled just so, gaze steady, a study in composure and command.
From the edge of the crowd, y/n lifted her camera—the small one she carried everywhere, worn at the corners, trusted. She framed Jenna through the lens, adjusting instinctively, capturing her between moments: the slight shift of weight, the almost-smile, the way her eyes softened when she thought no one was watching.
Y/n smiled to herself, unguarded, ridiculous with it.
Jenna Ortega belonged to the room—to the cameras, the lights, the noise. And just beyond it, unnoticed by most, she belonged to someone watching from the corner, quietly, lovingly, documenting the night not as spectacle, but as truth.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The ceremony unfolded in measured grandeur—lights dimming, applause rising and falling in practiced waves, names announced with polished reverence. The auditorium glowed softly, rows of seats filled with familiar faces and quiet anticipation.
When the category was announced—Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy Series—the air shifted.
Jenna sat very still at first. Then her knee began to bounce, a small, involuntary motion betraying the calm she wore so well. Her gaze stayed fixed on the stage, expression composed, but y/n noticed immediately.
Without looking at her, y/n placed a hand on Jenna’s thigh and gave it a firm, grounding squeeze—steady, intentional. The message was simple: I’m here.
Jenna exhaled. The movement in her leg stilled. Her fingers slid instinctively into y/n’s, lacing together beneath the armrest, hidden from view. The contact anchored her as the nominees were read aloud, each name met with applause that felt both endless and too brief.
Then the envelope opened.
The winner was announced.
It wasn’t her.
Jenna rose anyway, grace intact, clapping with genuine respect as the winner made their way to the stage. Y/n stood with her, applause steady, posture aligned beside her. To anyone watching, it looked seamless—professional, supportive, composed.
But y/n caught the shift.
It was subtle, fleeting—a tightening at the edge of Jenna’s mouth, a stillness behind her eyes. Not surprise. Not bitterness. Want. This one had mattered. More than the others. She had lost before—2023 still lingered somewhere in memory—but this time, she had allowed herself to hope.
They sat back down as the applause faded.
Y/n leaned in, voice low, meant only for her. “You won for me already, love.”
Jenna’s lips curved into a small smile—not triumphant, not careless, but real. It lingered just long enough to soften the disappointment, to remind her where she was, and who she was with.
Her fingers tightened gently around y/n’s hand.
And for the moment, that was enough.
THE END
Let me know if you want me to continue with this or any new story <3 :)
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