I hate vocal “critiques” towards Black performers.
“They’re doing too much”
“Why is she ending every phrase with aaaaa?”
“Why can’t they just sing it normally?”
It’s all just microaggressive as heck. Y’all wanna sound like us and dance like us but when we get on that stage all those things are suddenly a problem. I’ve seen these comments made about many Black performers, but primarily Black women. Most recently it’s been Audra McDonald, who is a trained classical singer and the most awarded Tony winner in history, and Michelle Williams from freaking Destiny’s Child. Like I genuinely hope that y’all know that even if Gypsy was still open and Audra’s contract ended at some point, the next Mama Rose was still going to be a Black woman. Same goes for Joy Woods and Jordan Tyson. Yes, the show originally starred white performers but the way it was produced and directed for this revival was specifically for Black performers. All of Michelle Williams’ understudies in Death Becomes Her are Black. When her contract is up another Black woman is going to take on the role of Viola. Like…y’all have to get over yourselves and come to terms with the fact that your opinion, and I say that loosely, is not the end all be all.
Summary: She says she needs you. That you’re her second chance. You let her fix your curls and call you “baby.” Anything to make her smile like that again.
Warnings: big age gap, possessive Rose, obsessive dynamics, fluff, reader is Baby June’s replacement, reader is naive, grooming undertones, smut, mommy kink?, oral, wet dreams, fingering
AO3
AN: This ended up fluffier than intended but oh well 🤷♀️
The wig smells like mothballs and old hairspray. It itches against your scalp as Rose pins it tight, murmuring to herself while her hands work fast and practiced. Her fingers are cool today—no tremble. That only happens when she’s been drinking.
You sit still on the stool in front of the mirror, spine straight, lips parted just enough to keep from smudging the rouge she dabbed on five minutes ago. You can feel her breath on your neck. Hear the soft click of bobby pins between her teeth.
“You’re good at this,” you say quietly. She hums like she didn’t hear you. But she did. You can tell by the way she softens behind you—just a little. Just enough to stop fussing with the bow at the nape of your neck and rest a hand there instead.
“You’ve got better posture than June ever had,” she murmurs. “Smile sweeter, too. And those eyes—those eyes, baby, I swear—they’re gonna look so pretty under the footlights.”
Your heart beats harder at that. Not from excitement. Not quite. It’s something else. Something fluttery and unsure that lives just under your ribs lately.
She brushes a bit of powder off your shoulder, lets her fingers linger on the pale pink tulle. The dress had to be taken in for you—your waist is smaller than June’s was. She seemed almost offended when she said it. But she still looked pleased when you stepped out of the dressing room and asked, “Like this?”
She looked at you like you’d hung the moon.
“You’re not her,” she says now, suddenly. Her voice is sharp. But then—softer—“You’re not. You’re better. You listen. You love me.” Her hand tightens slightly at your nape. “You’d never leave me, would you?”
You blink at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are glassy, but focused. Hungry. Waiting. “No, Mama,” you say, voice small and certain. “I wouldn’t.”
She lets out a breath. Like you’ve just saved her. Then she kisses the crown of your head and says, “That’s my good little girl.” And suddenly the wig doesn’t itch so much.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧
The dressing room still smells like powder and sweat, stale perfume settling in the heavy air. The door clicks shut behind her as you sink into the low vanity chair, heels kicked off, stockings wrinkled at your ankles.
Your cheeks are sore from smiling.
She’s quiet behind you. Just the rustle of her coat slipping off, the soft clink of her purse hitting the counter. The show’s over. Everyone’s gone.
Except her. Of course.
You watch her in the mirror. She moves with purpose, always has. But tonight there’s something slower in it. Something careful. “You did good,” she says finally, voice low. “Real good.” You look down. “You think so?”
“I know so.” She steps closer. Her fingers reach for your chin, lift it. “But your face is all gunked up. Let’s fix that.”
She wets a cloth at the little sink and comes back to you, kneeling this time. Not beside. Between. And your legs wrap around her waste. One of her hands at the back of your head, the other working the warm cloth over your cheek in soft, firm circles. You close your eyes.
The cloth smells like her hand lotion—roses and something powdery. It’s gentle, but rough in places, and she doesn’t stop when she reaches your mouth. She lingers there, pressing the rag against your lips like she’s trying to memorize them with her hands. Her fingers are warm now.
“You’re softer than June,” she says, quiet. “Prettier, too.” Your eyes open slowly. She’s already looking at you. “You were born for this,” she whispers. “I just had to find you. Dress you right. Show you off a little.”
You swallow.
Her hands drop lower, brushing down your arms, finding the zipper hidden at the back of your bodice. Her knuckles press into your spine as she works it down, eyes still fixed on yours in the mirror.
“Turn around” she says. You do it without thinking. She slips the dress off your shoulders, careful not to snag the tulle, folding it back like she’s undressing a doll. The fabric pools at your waist, then falls to the floor.
You stand there in your slip, bare shoulders catching the light, chest rising and falling faster than before. You don’t know where to look. But she does.
She bends to pick up the dress, folding it with slow precision. Places it on the chair beside you. Then her hand comes up again, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Her palm lingers at your cheek, thumb soft at the corner of your mouth.
“You’re everything I hoped she’d be,” she says. “But sweeter.” And before you can think, before you can ask what that means, she presses a kiss to your temple. Firm. Possessive. Almost reverent.
Her lips are cold. Or maybe your skin is hot. You close your eyes again. You don’t move. You don’t want her to stop. Then she’s pushing your coat on and pulling you out the dressing room towards the stage door
The night air is still warm when you step outside, the kind of warmth that clings to skin long after the curtain falls. The streets around the theater are quiet now—stage door now locked, marquee lights humming softly. You can still hear the ghost of applause in your ears.
She never hurries on the walk home. Never lets anyone else walk you back either. Says it’s safer this way. Just you and her, hand in hand.
You slip closer to her side without thinking about it. You always do. Your fingers hook around her wrist first, then her arm, then her waist. By the time you’re halfway down the block, you’ve pressed your whole body against hers, head tucked just beneath her shoulder like you’re trying to disappear there.
She chuckles low in her chest, not surprised. “Can’t walk two feet without grabbin’ me, huh?” You shake your head against her shoulder, cheek brushing the rough wool of her coat. “Don’t want to.”
“Good thing I like it,” she says, and her arm slips around your waist, pulling you in until her hip bumps yours with every step.
The city smells like rain and smoke. A man sweeping outside the bakery nods at her as you pass. She doesn’t nod back. She looks down at you instead, the corner of her mouth curling.
“You get cold so easy,” she murmurs. “Always runnin’ to me like I’m a radiator.” You smile into the fabric of her coat. “You’re warm.”
“And you’re sweet.” She leans down a little, so her words are against the side of your face now, warm and close. “You know that, baby?”
You squeeze her tighter in response, breath fogging into the night. Her hand slides lower on your back, not in a hurry, just claiming space like it belongs there. She walks with her chin up, proud, like she’s escorting a star.
Your building isn’t far. Just a few blocks, old brick with peeling paint and a little iron gate that always sticks. She lets you go only long enough to give the gate a hard yank. It creaks open and she looks at you over her shoulder, a spark of amusement in her eyes.
“Come on, baby. Home sweet home.” You catch her arm again before you’re even through the gate, holding on like she might disappear if you don’t. She doesn’t pull away. She never does.
Up the narrow stairs, the smell of dust and something sweet from the neighbor’s kitchen. You know every creak by heart now. You know exactly where her hand will land on the small of your back, guiding you up. You lean into it. Into her.
The world is big and loud out there. But here, pressed against her side, the only sound is the soft drag of her breath and the click of her heels on the worn steps.
When you reach the apartment door, she tilts her head down, eyes soft but sharp beneath the hallway light.
“Can’t live without me, huh?” she teases. And the scary thing is… you don’t even think before whispering back, “No.” Her hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm. “I know, baby,” she says. “I know.”
She locks the door behind you. Two turns, like always.
Your coat's still buttoned up to your throat, but you're already reaching for her. Fingers brushing her waist like your body doesn’t know how to be apart from hers. She lets you do it for a second—lets you lean into her, your cheek against her chest, the soft thud of her heartbeat underneath.
Then her hands come up, steady and warm. “Let me,” she says, brushing your hands aside.
She starts at the top button of your coat. Works her way down, slow but sure. You stand still as she undoes you, like she’s peeling off the night itself. The coat falls open. Her hands slip beneath the lapels, smoothing over your shoulders, easing the fabric down your arms until it’s puddled behind you.
“You’re always too cold after curtain,” she murmurs. “Like a little icicle.” She sets the coat on the chair, folds it neat. When she turns back, her eyes flick down your body. You’re still in your pink slip. Stockings. Nothing else.
Her fingertips catch the edge of the shoulder strap. “Arms up.” You obey without a word. The slip lifts—light, soft, easy. She pulls it over your head and off in one practiced motion. The air brushes your bare skin. You cross your arms over your chest for half a second before her look stops you.
She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. You lower your arms. She sets the slip aside, neat as always, then kneels in front of you like it’s nothing. Her hands slide down the backs of your thighs, slow and smooth. Fingertips catch the top of your stockings. She rolls them down with care, her touch firm but soft, knuckles dragging over the curve of your knees, your calves. She hums something low as she works. You can’t tell if it’s a tune or just a sound she makes for herself.
When both stockings are off, she folds them. Stacks them with the rest of your clothes. Now you’re standing in just your panties, the lamplight catching on bare skin and pink silk. She looks at you for a moment—just a beat too long—and then pulls your nightgown off the back of the couch.
It’s the soft one. The one that smells like her perfume and lavender from the drawer sachets.
She bunches it up and slides it over your head herself, hands guiding it down, smoothing it along your waist and hips. She’s done it a hundred times. She’ll do it a hundred more.
“There,” she says, voice low. “My pretty girl.” You don’t say anything. Just reach for her again. Curl your fingers into her shirt. Press your face to her chest.
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath all night. “Come on,” she murmurs, palm warm at your lower back. “Let’s get you into bed.” You go with her without letting go.
The sheets are warm from the radiator and the worn weight of the quilt, but it’s her perfume that makes it feel safe. That powdery, floral trace of her still clinging to the pillow beside you. You pull the blanket up to your chin, knees curled, one hand tucked under your cheek.
She’s still moving around the room. You watch her. First she checks the window latch—twice. Even though it’s shut. Even though it never opens right. Then she takes off her earrings slowly, placing them one by one in the velvet tray on the nightstand. Then her bracelets. Then her rings. Her watch. Each one has its place. Her hands move like muscle memory. Like ritual.
You shift on the mattress, eyes following her in the dim light.
She goes to the closet. Pulls out her robe. Not the thick one she wears on Sundays—the thin one, pale peach with lace trim. She drapes it over the back of the chair. Then she opens the vanity drawer and takes out her cold cream, unscrews the lid, dabs it over her cheeks and chin, working it in with small, perfect circles.
You don’t know how she does it every night. The same way. The same rhythm. Like a play with no audience.
Then it’s the powder. Then the little tin of salve for her cuticles. Then the brush she uses only for her bangs. You swear she brushes them twenty times. No more, no less.
You blink sleepily. “Why do you do all that?” She glances at you in the mirror, one brow lifted. “Do what, baby?”
“All that… stuff. Every night.” Her hand doesn’t stop moving. She takes a tissue, blots at the corner of her mouth. “You wanna look this good at my age, you better start early,” she says. You smile against the pillow. “You looked fine before.” She snorts softly. “Fine don’t sell tickets.”
You watch her slip out of her blouse next, unhooking her stockings with one hand like she’s done it a million times. The camisole comes off. Then the skirt. She folds each piece. Places them on the chair with her robe. Only then does she turn off the overhead light and move toward the bed, her body lit in soft outlines by the streetlamp glow through the window.
She gets in like she always does—one knee, then the other, a little huff as she settles under the covers. And you’re already turning toward her, curling instinctively into the space she makes for you.
“Still cold,” she murmurs, sliding an arm beneath your shoulders, pulling you in like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.
“You always do so much,” you whisper. “Someone’s gotta keep the world spinning,” she says, fingers brushing your hair back from your forehead.
And when she presses a kiss there, you let your eyes close. Because she smells like powder and peppermint. Because her nightgown rustles when she breathes. Because you don’t understand half the things she does—but you know you want her to keep doing them. Always.
The room is still. The kind of still that only happens before dawn. The radiator ticks softly. Somewhere down the street, a truck rattles past, but you don’t hear it.
You’re too deep in it.
In the dream, she’s behind you. Just like always. Her hand on your hip, her breath hot at your ear. She’s whispering things you can’t quite hear but feel all the same—warm and low and full of praise. She calls you baby. Darling. My girl. Her hand slides higher. Slower. Fingertips brushing the edge of your panties and staying there, right there.
You whimper in your sleep.
In the dream, she kisses your neck—mouth open, tongue soft, teeth just barely grazing. You arch into it, thighs pressing together, desperate and restless. The kind of need that builds in silence. The kind that has nowhere to go but down.
You squirm under the covers, a soft gasp caught in your throat. Your leg rubs against hers. Your panties are damp. And that’s what wakes her. She shifts behind you, still half-asleep, but aware enough to register the heat coming off your skin. The way your breath hitches. The way you’re moving.
“Baby…” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “You alright?” You freeze. But your hips are still twitching. She presses her hand to your stomach, just below your ribs. Not holding. Just resting.
“You’re dreamin’,” she says, quieter this time. Closer. “You dream about me again?” Your throat’s too dry to answer. You nod instead, just once. The smallest movement.
She hums. “That why you’re all wiggly?” Her voice curls around the word like a secret. “Thinkin’ about Mama?” You close your eyes tight. You feel hot all over.
She shifts closer. Her body fits against yours like it always does. But now her arm curls around your waist. Holding. Thumb stroking slow over your nightgown.
“You always get like this when you dream about me,” she whispers, her breath warm at the back of your neck. “So sweet. So needy. Like you want me even when you’re sleepin’.”
You nod again. You don’t mean to. Her hand travels lower. Stops just above your hips. Then it stays there. Not moving. Just waiting.
“Go back to sleep, baby,” she says finally. “You’ll tell me all about it in the morning.”
But you don’t. You lie there, burning under the covers, heart hammering against her palm, her voice still echoing in your head. Like you want me even when you’re sleepin’. And she’s right. You do.
You try to be still. Try to bury your face deeper into the pillow, ride it out, let your body calm down on its own. But it won’t. You’re hot and restless under the covers, all ache and no air, like the dream cracked something open and now you don’t know how to shut it.
It slips out when you rub your thighs together for the hundredth time, breath catching hard in your throat. Your panties are wet, clinging in all the worst ways. Your clit won’t stop throbbing. The dream still wraps around you like smoke—Rose’s mouth on your neck, her voice in your ear, her hand between your legs. The heat won’t leave.
Behind you, Rose breathes in deep. Her chest rises against your back. She’s awake. Her hand, resting at your waist, tightens just slightly. “Baby.”
You freeze. Your breath catches. She presses her mouth close to your ear, voice thick and raspy from sleep. “You alright?” You nod. A little too fast. A little too breathless. She waits. But you don’t settle. Your thighs are still rubbing together. Your body’s betraying you.
“Still thinkin’ about me?” she asks, softer now. Not teasing—just knowing. You nod again. This time slower. Shame burning in your cheeks.
She hums, thoughtful. You can feel it in her chest. Then her hand slides from your waist to your belly, light and steady, her palm warm against the cotton of your nightgown. “You’re wound up like a watch,” she murmurs. “Can’t sleep like that, sweetheart.”
“I tried,” you whisper. “I just…”
“I know,” she says. “Shh. I know.” Her hand moves lower. Smooth. Patient. Like she’s done it before. Like she’s been waiting for this. “You’re so worked up,” she says, fingers sliding over your stomach. “Can’t even stay still.”
You’re trying. But it’s useless. Your hips keep moving. Seeking pressure, friction—anything. “Alright,” she breathes. “Come here.”
She pulls you back against her chest, strong and sure, and her hand moves straight down, no hesitation this time. She finds the hem of your nightgown and pushes it up, slow and careful, until it’s bunched around your waist. The air kisses your skin—cool, too cool—and her hand slides up and down your stomach slowly.
She presses her nose to the crown of your head, breath fanning over your hair. You suck in a sharp breath. She hushes you again. “You need mama to touch it?” she whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Need me to get my fingers on that little pussy so you can sleep?”
You nod quickly, breath catching. “That’s what I thought.”
Her hand slides down now, slow and sure, fingertips dragging over your bare skin, then dips under the elastic of your panties. She strokes lower, knuckles dragging over your soft, heated skin, until her fingers slide through the slick mess pooling at your center.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes. “You’re soaked.” You whimper, pushing back into her hand.
She doesn’t tease. She doesn’t play. Her fingers find your clit and start circling—slow at first, just enough to make your hips jerk, then harder, faster. Her other hand tugs you closer by the waist, pinning you to her chest. “That’s it,” she whispers. “Just let me.”
Your thighs fall open for her. She cups your pussy, middle finger sliding between your lips, gathering up every bit of wetness before pushing two fingers inside—deep, slow, filling you up.
Her fingers curl inside you, finding that spot so easily it makes your legs twitch. She starts moving faster now, wet sounds filling the quiet room. Your clit throbs against your panties. You’re soaking her hand. You don’t care.
You’re rut against her palm now, shameless, hips jerking with every pass of her fingers. “God, you’re so fuckin’ soft,” she growls, barely audible. “You’re makin’ a mess down here, sweetheart.”
“You just needed me mama touch you, huh?” she murmurs. “My poor little thing. Dreamed yourself desperate.”
You moan, loud enough that she shushes you with a kiss behind your ear, her tongue tracing the shell. “Shh. You want the neighbors to hear you, huh? Want them to know what a mess you make for me?”
You shake your head, but you don’t stop grinding into her hand, chasing every press of her palm, every twist of her fingers.
Her thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight, hot circles. Her breath is ragged now, too. She’s muttering praise against your skin—so pretty, so sweet, you take me so well, that’s it, that’s my girl—over and over, her words turning to static in your ears as everything sharpens.
You’re so close. Your hips stutter, your pussy clenching around her fingers, and she knows—she always knows. She keeps you there, teetering, making you feel every second of it
“Come on, baby,” she growls softly, biting the side of your neck. “Let me feel you. Cum for mama.”
You break—mouth open, head tossed back against her shoulder, body shaking apart in her arms. Your orgasm rolls through you in hot, desperate waves, her fingers still working you through it, making sure you give her everything.
When you finally go limp, spent and gasping, she pulls her hand free, dragging your nightgown back down, pressing a filthy, possessive kiss to your jaw.
“Now go to sleep,” she murmurs, wiping her fingers on the sheets. “You’re not dreaming anymore.” You melt into her, boneless, satisfied, your breath evening out as her arms pull you closer, her lips pressing against the back of your neck—her girl, her secret, her everything.
And this time, you really do sleep.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧
You wake up slow.
Heavy-limbed, warm all over, cheek pressed into something soft that smells like her lotion. Powder and rose, maybe a little of last night’s cold cream. The quilt’s pulled halfway down your back. Her arm’s still around you, weighty and sure.
Your face is buried in the side of her breast. Not just touching. Pressed.
You can feel the curve of her through the thin nightgown, the edge of her nipple just under your cheek. Her skin is soft in that way older women’s skin gets—loose, warm, lived-in—and it makes your breath hitch before you even open your eyes.
You should move. You don’t. You just breathe her in.
There’s a draft coming in through under the door but it doesn’t reach under the blankets. Not with her wrapped around you like this. One leg tangled with yours. Her hand splayed low over your belly, the weight of it more comforting than the covers. You shift a little, trying not to wake her—but her fingers twitch immediately. Pull you closer. Like she knew you were trying to slip away.
“Mm,” she murmurs, rough with sleep. “Stay.” You freeze. But she’s not upset. She never is when you end up like this. “You up already?” she mumbles, lips brushing your hair.
“Sort of,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “Didn’t mean to…”
“To what? End up right here again?” she asks, low and close. “You always do, baby.” You try to lift your head. She keeps you where you are. “S’fine,” she murmurs. “You’re alright.”
You’re not sure what to do with your hands, so you just let them rest against her waist, fingers curling into the soft cotton of her nightgown. You know you should move. You know this isn’t how most people wake up with their… their whatever-you-call-this. Roommate. Protector. Mother.
Except none of those words have ever really fit.
She shifts again, and the breast your face is pressed into rises gently with her breath. She smells like sleep and powder and something hers. Your face flushes hot.
“I can’t believe I slept like that,” you mumble. “I can,” she says, quiet. “You always do when I’m holding you.” Your chest tightens.
She strokes your back lazily now, soft and slow, like this isn’t the first time. Like this is just what she does in the mornings. And maybe it is. You think about how many nights you’ve shared this bed. How many times she’s tucked you in. Undressed you after shows. Kissed your forehead and called you sweet girl. Said things like “you don’t need anyone else,” and “I’ve got you, baby.”
Your eyes flick up to her face, still barely visible in the early light. “Rose?”
“Mhm?” Your voice comes out small. “What are we?” She laughs. Not loud. Not mocking. Just soft, like she’s been waiting for you to ask. “You’re my girl,” she says simply. “You have been for a long time.” Your heart stutters. “But I never said—”
“You didn’t have to,” she says. “You sleep in my bed. Wear what I buy you. Let me dress you up like a little dream. You never go anywhere without me. And when I touch you…” Her fingers trace your waist, just barely. “You never tell me no.”
You swallow hard. You don’t have an answer for that. Not one you can say out loud. She brushes your hair back from your face and cups your cheek, thumb stroking under your eye.
“You’re mine,” she says again. “Whether you realized it or not.” You blink. You don’t move. You think you should feel nervous. But you don’t. You feel warm. Safe. Held. Like maybe you’ve known it all along.
You’re still curled under the blanket when you feel her fingers brushing your cheek, then your shoulder, then your waist—slow and lingering, not waking you up so much as easing you toward it.
“Come on,” she whispers. “Time to get ready, baby.” You groan. Curl deeper into the mattress. “No,” you mumble into the pillow. “Too early.”
She laughs softly—really laughs, and it feels warm in your chest. “I know. But you’ve got rehearsal, remember?” You don’t move. She shifts the covers back anyway.
The air’s cool on your skin. You feel it before you feel her hands again—sliding up your thigh, smoothing over the cotton of your nightgown. She could tug it off in one motion. She doesn’t. She takes her time, drawing it up inch by inch, like she’s unveiling something precious.
You squint up at her through heavy lashes. “What’re you doing?”
“Gettin’ you dressed,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on your hips now, the curve of your stomach. “Same thing I always do.” But it’s not. Not like this.
She kisses your thigh first. Then your hip. Then your ribs, her mouth trailing over bare skin as she peels the nightgown up and over your head.
You shiver. “Cold?” she asks. You shake your head. “No.” She’s staring. Her hands skim your sides like she’s cataloguing every inch. Your nipples stiffen in the chilly air, and she doesn’t look away.
“Rose…”
“I just wanna look,” she murmurs. “Just for a minute.”
Her hands slide up your waist, over your chest, cradling you like something breakable. She leans down and kisses your sternum. Then just under your breast. Then your shoulder.
“I’ve had you in my bed for months,” she whispers. “And I’ve never let myself just… take my time.” You nod, too soft and sleepy to do anything else. She kisses you again. The corner of your mouth. Your cheek. The edge of your jaw.
“I love this little body,” she says softly, thumbing the underside of your breast. “My pretty girl.”
You squirm a little, but not to get away. You like the way she’s looking at you. Like she’s seeing you for the first time—even though she’s been undressing you every night. Even though she’s the one who tucks you in and buttons your coats and picks your dresses and rubs lotion into your legs after shows.
“I’m supposed to get dressed,” you mumble. “You will,” she says, smiling. “Eventually.” She leans in again, kisses your lips this time—slow and warm, like she’s soaking it in. You melt into it.
You’re warm from the bed, but it’s not enough. Not after last night. Not after waking up tangled in her arms, your face pressed against her soft chest, the memory of her fingers inside you.
You sit on the edge of the bed while Rose is moving around the room, collecting your stockings, your dress, fussing with the brush like it matters. But you can’t stop watching her. The way her hair is still mussed, the way she hums under her breath, the way she fills the whole room just by moving in it.
Your thighs are pressed together, your panties damp all over again. You want her hands. Her mouth. You want her to tell you you’re hers—again, but different this time.
She pauses, glancing back. Her eyes sweep over you—messy hair, pink cheeks, naked. She sets the brush down and comes closer, slow. “You’re awful quiet this morning,” she says, voice low. “Something wrong?”
You shake your head. Bite your lip. Look away, then back at her. “Can you… touch me again? Like last night?”
She smiles. Not soft. Not gentle. Satisfied. Like she’s been waiting for you to ask. “Can’t stop thinking about it, huh?” You shake your head again. Your voice is barely a whisper. “Please, Rose.”
She steps between your knees, hands on your shoulders, then glides one down your spine. Her mouth finds your ear. “My needy girl. You know I can’t say no to you.”
Her hand slips down, finding the edge of your panties. She hooks her thumb there and pulls them down, slow, letting them drop to your ankles. The cool air against your skin makes you shiver.
She kneels in front of you, hands braced on your thighs. Her breath is hot where her mouth is close—so close you can feel the warmth but not the touch. “You want my mouth, baby?” You nod, dizzy.
She drags her lips up the inside of your thigh, so slow it almost hurts, then finally her mouth is on you. She licks a slow stripe up your pussy, then holds you open with her hands, thumb pressing just above your clit while her tongue circles it in tight, wet spirals.
You let out a soft, desperate sound, hands clutching at the sheets, your hips rocking toward her mouth. She hums low, pleased with you, with herself, with how quickly you come apart for her.
“Stay open,” she murmurs, and you do. She sucks at your clit, then flicks it with her tongue, slow at first, then faster as your legs start to tremble. She slides one hand up to your belly, holds you down when you try to buck against her face. “That’s it,” she says, voice muffled by your skin. “Let me taste how sweet you are in the morning.”
You fall apart for her, soft little gasps echoing in the small room, your thighs shaking as she keeps licking, keeps sucking, until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, too full, and she finally lets you go.
She stands, wipes her mouth, and kisses your forehead like she’s proud. “Look at you,” she says, brushing your hair back. “All ready for the day, just like that.”
You’re sprawled on the bed, legs tangled in the sheets, skin tingling and lips swollen from her mouth. The sun’s up now, faint and gold through the window, and you just let yourself bask in it—soft and lazy and so full of her you can barely move.
Rose is at the foot of the bed, laying out your dress and stockings, your shoes in a neat line on the rug. She glances back at you, takes in the dreamy look on your face, and shakes her head fondly.
“Don’t just lay there all morning,” she teases, but she doesn’t sound annoyed. She sounds pleased. Like she likes seeing you this way—soft, wrung-out, too blissed out to care about anything but her.
You giggle. You can’t help it. You feel so good, every nerve still humming, and you watch as she moves across the room towards her vanity. The sun’s sending thin gold ray across the little apartment, catching on the dust motes and Rose’s hair.
You curl on your side, knees tucked up, face pressed into her pillow where it still smells like her—powder, cold cream, something sweet that always lingers on your sheets after a night like this.
Rose is sitting at her vanity, humming quietly as she dots powder on her cheeks, mouth set in a little satisfied smile. You watch her through half-closed eyes, lazy, happy, soaking up the softness of the morning. Her routine is its own kind of ritual—lipstick, powder, brows, always in the same order. She catches your gaze in the mirror, her eyes bright.
“You gonna lay there grinning all morning, sweetheart?” she teases, dabbing a little rouge high on her cheekbones. You just nod, cheek smushed against the pillow. “Feels nice.” She laughs, gentle and warm. “Yeah, I know it does.”
You drift in and out as she gets dressed, listening to the rustle of her skirt, the clink of her necklace, the faint spray of perfume that always means it’s almost time to go. When she’s ready, she sits on the edge of the bed and strokes your hair back from your forehead, thumb pressing at your hairline.
“Come on, love. We can’t be late today. Up, up.”
You let her pull you upright, still smiling. She helps you step into your dress, her hands steady at your waist, smoothing out every wrinkle, tugging the hem straight. She buttons you up all the way, ties the sash with a little flourish, fixes your collar just so. She brushes your hair in quick, gentle strokes, tying it back with the ribbon she likes best on you. “Gotta look pretty for the lights,” she says, tucking a curl behind your ear.
You hold her hand as she pulls you out the apartment and down the stairs, her grip snug, thumb rubbing little circles into your palm. On the street, it’s bright and noisy, the city starting to wake up, but you hardly notice any of it. Rose keeps you tucked close against her side, her arm looped around your shoulders.
She stops you just before you reach the theater—turns you to face her, fingers fussing with your hair, straightening your bow, smoothing your skirt again. She looks you over, proud, a little possessive. Like you’re her greatest creation.
“Perfect,” she says, voice low just for you. “You always are, you know.” You can’t help but beam up at her, heart fluttering. She cups your cheek, thumb stroking gentle. “Let’s go, baby. Curtain won’t wait for us.
You nod, letting her lead you through the stage door, the world blurring around you—because all that matters is her hand in yours, her voice in your ear, and the memory of her mouth on you lingering like a secret under your skin.
And you know you’ll carry that feeling through every spotlight, every song, every step—so long as she’s waiting for you at the end of the day.
The night stretched on, but for the first time in what felt like years, Rose slept.
It wasn’t a deep sleep—she tossed and turned, mumbling in her dreams, fingers twitching as if she were still conducting some unseen orchestra—but it was sleep nonetheless. And in the quiet hours before dawn, when the city outside your window softened into a gentle hum, you found yourself lying awake, thinking about the woman now resting under your roof.
Rose Hovick. The infamous stage mother, the woman who built stars and burned bridges, who had spent her life chasing dreams that never truly belonged to her. The same woman who, just hours ago, had been sitting on a cold bench with nowhere to go.
She was a force of nature. But even storms had to settle eventually.
By morning, the scent of fresh coffee filled the apartment. You were already up, seated at the small kitchen table, flipping idly through a newspaper when you heard the shuffle of footsteps.
"Smells good," Rose muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You glanced up to see her standing in the doorway, draped in her fur coat over the same dress from last night, though now slightly wrinkled. Her hair was tousled, but not in a careless way—it softened her somehow, made her look less like Madame Rose and more like just Rose.
"Hope you take it strong," you said, pushing a mug toward her.
She let out a tired chuckle as she sat across from you. "Darling, after the life I’ve had? The stronger, the better."
She took a sip and sighed, her whole body seeming to deflate just a little.
For a while, there was only the quiet sound of coffee cups clinking against saucers.
Then, finally, she spoke.
"So, what’s your story?"
You raised an eyebrow. "My story?"
"You took me in last night like it was nothing," she said, studying you over the rim of her mug. "Either you’re a saint, or you’ve got your own ghosts keeping you up at night."
You smirked. "Maybe both."
Rose hummed, as if she weren’t entirely convinced, but she let it go.
Instead, she leaned back, tapping her fingers against the side of her mug. "I don’t know what the hell I’m doing," she admitted.
"With what?"
She gestured vaguely. "With this."
You tilted your head. "With staying here?"
"With..." She hesitated, searching for the words. "With letting someone help me. With letting myself stop for once."
That caught your attention.
"You’ve never stopped before, have you?" you asked gently.
She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Not once."
You studied her for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. "Maybe it’s time you did."
She scoffed. "And do what, exactly?"
You shrugged. "Figure out what you want. Not for June. Not for Louise. Not for show business. Just you."
Rose fell silent at that, her fingers tightening slightly around her cup.
It was a terrifying thought, wasn’t it? She had spent her whole life chasing dreams on behalf of others. What was left when there was no one left to chase for?
Finally, she exhaled, shaking her head. "You really are something, you know that?"
You grinned. "So I’ve been told."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but there was something else in her eyes now. A quiet curiosity. A shift.
"You could stay," you offered before you could stop yourself. "At least for a little while. Until you figure things out."
Rose arched an eyebrow. "Are you always this generous with broken women?"
"Only the interesting ones."
She let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. "You’re dangerous, kid."
You smirked. "Not half as dangerous as you."
For a long moment, she just looked at you, something unreadable flickering across her expression. And then, ever so slightly, she nodded.
"Alright," she murmured. "I’ll stay."
Rose stayed.
At first, it was temporary. A few days, she told herself. Maybe a week, just until she figured out her next step. But days turned into weeks, and weeks stretched into something that neither of you bothered to name.
She made herself at home in small ways. Leaving her fur coat draped over the back of your couch. Setting her coffee cup in the sink but never actually washing it. Fixing the placement of your picture frames with an absentminded precision, as if she were arranging props for a show.
She still carried the weight of years spent fighting, pushing, demanding—but in your space, she started to ease, bit by bit.
One night, you found her in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing a dish with the same intensity as if she were directing an orchestra.
"You don’t have to do that, you know," you said, leaning against the doorway.
She scoffed. "What, you think I don’t know how to do dishes?"
"I think you’ve spent too many years having other people do them for you."
She smirked. "Well, maybe I’m finally learning to fend for myself."
"That’s assuming I kick you out," you teased.
Rose turned her head slightly, giving you a long, unreadable look. Then, to your surprise, she sighed and muttered, "You’d be a fool to keep me around, you know."
"Why’s that?"
"I ruin everything I touch." She rinsed the dish a little too forcefully, the water splashing over the sink. "Everyone leaves. Even when I give ‘em the world, they still go."
"You didn’t give them the world, Rose," you said gently. "You gave them a dream. There’s a difference."
She stiffened.
For a moment, you thought you’d pushed too far. But then, she let out a breath and shut off the sink.
"You’re a smart one, aren’t you?" she muttered.
You smiled. "So I’ve been told."
She grabbed a towel, drying her hands with slow, thoughtful movements. Then, she turned to face you fully, leaning against the counter.
"You never told me why you took me in that night," she said.
You shrugged. "Because you looked like you needed it."
"That’s it?"
"That’s it."
She studied you, her sharp gaze searching, as if trying to decipher a script that hadn’t been written yet.
"You know, I’ve never—" She stopped herself, clicking her tongue. "Ah, never mind."
You tilted your head. "Never what?"
She hesitated.
Then, with an almost defiant lift of her chin, she said, "Never been looked at the way you look at me."
The words settled in the air between you, delicate and dangerous all at once.
You swallowed, holding her gaze. "And how do I look at you?"
Rose exhaled sharply, like she couldn’t believe she was even having this conversation. "Like I’m more than just the mess I’ve made."
You took a step closer. Not too close—just enough to let her know you were listening. That you saw her.
"You are more than that," you said softly.
She didn’t look away.
For once, Rose—who had spent her whole life running, chasing, fighting—didn’t retreat.
Instead, she nodded. Just slightly. Just enough.
And for the first time in a long, long time, she allowed herself to believe it.
