Jenna had been saying it for months—on podcasts, to her makeup artist, half-whispered between bites of takeout on set. I just want someone tall. Fit. Covered in tattoos. Someone who looks like they’ve punched a wall and written poetry about it. Everyone thought she was joking, a little tongue-in-cheek dream girl fantasy. But she meant it. Because under the velvet dresses and careful publicist-approved words, Jenna Ortega was tired. Tired of playing it safe, of being adored but untouched. She wanted someone who didn’t care about cameras, someone who could lift her with one arm and then pull her into a kiss like they meant it. Someone solid. Real. That night, she didn’t want to go out. It was some producer’s party in the Hills—mansions and spotlights, synth-pop and rooftop pools. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone and nobody meant what they said. But she went anyway, because someone from her team said it would “look good.” She spent the first hour scrolling on her phone from a corner couch, sipping overpriced seltzer, watching the same recycled conversations spin around her. Bored. Glowing, but bored. She is wearing a black off-the-shoulder top with a deep, plunging neckline. The top has a soft, sheer texture in the center and voluminous short sleeves that fall over the arms. The bodice is tight at the waist, creating a sharp contrast with the loose sleeves. On the lower half, she is wearing a dark green mini skirt with a slightly draped, twisted look. The skirt is fitted at the waist and reaches above mid-thigh. For the legs, she is wearing black lace tights. Her shoes are black strappy high heels with a very high heel and thick soles that give the outfit more height and give it a dramatic, gothic look. Then she saw you. You weren’t networking. You weren’t posturing for Instagram stories. You were leaning on the patio railing like you owned the dark—tall, strong, your tattoos inked deep into muscle and sun, lit faintly by the warm flicker of string lights overhead. You didn’t smile, didn’t fidget. Just watched the party like you were studying something far away, like none of it touched you. Jenna Ortega stared. You were her type. And then she moved. She had to shoot her shot. At least try to make you notice her. She weaved through the crowd, dress brushing past dancers, drink left half-full behind her. Her heart wasn’t pounding—Jenna didn’t get nervous—but there was something new buzzing in her chest. She stepped right in front of you, arms crossed casually, lips curled into a teasing smile as she tilted her head. “Hey. Name’s Jenna.” No one had ever made Jenna feel small in the good way befor. And standing there, chin tilted up to meet your gaze, she already knew: You were exactly what she wanted. Jenna likes felt inferior only around strong people. She wants to felt like a short, attractive girl who needed to be punished by a strong man. She liked to feel like that strong man was the boss of her entire body and possessions, and you had exactly the characteristics of that strong man. A few tattoos, tall, rude and sweary, a very strong and attractive body, dark hair, an angular face, and dark eyes. She wants to sex with you