ahsfan05 - Tumblr blog

ahsfan05 · 2 months ago

Text

Take the Lead, Mama

Pairing: Mama Rose/Reader

Words: 3.5k

Summary: Backstage after a show, Rose finds you exactly where she wants—eager, trembling, and looking at her like she hung the moon. She decides to put on a different kind of performance. One just for the two of you.

Warnings: Older Woman/Younger Woman, Rough Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Hair-pulling, Thigh riding, Rough make out sesh, Dom/sub Undertones, Semi-Public Sex, Praise Kink

AO3

AN: This is inspired by one of @anthewitch beautiful drawings.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not backstage. Not alone with her. Not pressed up against the vanity, legs shaking, lip bitten raw.

But ever since that night—when she’d stepped between you and your no-good boyfriend like she’d been waiting for the excuse—you hadn’t left her side.

He’d grabbed your wrist too hard outside the stage door. Thought no one would notice. Thought you wouldn’t scream. You didn’t have to. Because she was there. And Rose doesn’t wait for permission.

He ended up on the pavement with her heel in his gut and her voice like a whip through the air—“Touch her again, and I’ll feed you your own teeth, you little son of a bitch.”

After that you hadn’t left her side. You trailed her like a second shadow, clutching her coat, carrying her purse, fetching her smokes, falling asleep curled on her couch with one of her girls draped over you like a cat. She never told you to leave.

And tonight? She made sure you stayed. The show had ended. The theater emptied. And the second June and Louise were gone, she’d turned the dressing room bolt with a click that sounded final.

Now, she was in front of you, taking her time as she rolled her sleeves up to the elbow, fingers flexing. Her lipstick was half-faded, but her smirk wasn’t. You could smell the stage on her—powder, sweat, the heat of lights—and beneath that, something darker. Something hungry.

"You were watchin’ me like a girl starvin’ through a bakery window,” she said, voice a rasp that scraped down your spine. “So here I am. Eat.” Your breath caught. She stepped closer.

“I see everything,” she murmured, running one hand up your thigh, her nails rough like she didn’t care if she left marks. “You think I didn’t notice you starin’? You think I didn’t know what you were beggin’ for every time you said ‘thank you, Miss Rose’ like your knees were already halfway to the floor? You think I didn’t hear how you moaned my name when you thought I was asleep on the couch?”

Your eyes widened. “Oh, honey.” Her smirk curved like a dagger. “You’re not subtle. Not with me.” She grabbed your chin, made you look at her. Those eyes—so hard behind the stage, so blazing right now. “Say it.”

“Say...what?” Her grin widened. Cruel. Pleased.

“What you want, sweetheart. You think I’m here to be sweet?” A laugh, bitter and low. “No. You want sweet, you go find yourself a boyfriend who won’t raise his hand. But you came to me. You want somethin’ real? You get rough. You get Mama.”

She gripped your chin, hard enough to make you gasp, and tilted your head back.

“I know what he did to you. I saw it in the way you flinched, the way you waited for me to get mad when you spilled coffee on my script.” Her voice dipped low, dark with steel. “He taught you to be small.”

Her thumb brushed your lip, then pressed in hard, claiming, cruel, perfect. “Well. I don’t do small. I don’t do scared. You want Mama? Then you stand up, you take it, and you don’t make me ask twice.”

You nodded, quick, eager, but she grabbed your hair, twisted it until your scalp prickled. “Words, baby.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“…Yes, Mama.” Her hand fisted in your hair and she shoved you gently—but firmly—down to your knees.

“There. That’s where you belong.” She stepped in front of you, pulling her blouse open, exposing her sharp hourglass silhouette like it was a reward she’d earned by surviving. “You don’t get anything 'til I say. You don’t touch ‘til I say.”

She leaned in, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching. “You don’t get to beg. Not yet. You don’t get to touch. Not until I say. That mouth of yours?” She tapped your lips twice. “That belongs to me tonight.”

Then she leaned down and bit your neck—sharp, fast, marking you like a signature on a contract. You cried out, and she laughed under her breath like you were the best damn encore she’d ever earned. “Oh, honey,” she said, cupping your jaw, dragging her thumb over your cheek like she was marking you. “You got no idea what you’ve signed up for.”

She dragged you back to your feet just to slam you down into her vanity chair. The bulbs above your head cast a golden halo on her curls as she straddled you, all thigh and intent, corset spilling open, tits pushed high. The edge of a garter caught the light.

You looked up at her, breathless, already undone. “I don’t care what he told you,” she growled. “You don’t belong to him anymore.” Her hand slid between your legs—slow, then hard, just to hear the whimper punch out of your throat.

“You belong to Mama now.”

She watched you fall apart under her grip with a smile that wasn’t sweet, it was satisfied. Like this was the payoff of something she’d earned, fought for, bled through.

Her fingers were rough through the fabric, not teasing—claiming. You whimpered under her touch and she grinned, broad and vicious.

“Mm. That’s it, baby. Let it out. He made you quiet, didn’t he?” Her hand tightened on your thigh. “Well, I don’t want quiet. I want the whole damn orchestra.”

You gasped as she shoved your skirt up and leaned back in your lap, taking you in with narrowed eyes. She looked good like that, sprawled over you like a queen, corset half-undone, smirk sharp enough to draw blood.

Her expression flickered then—just for a second. Not soft. But raw. “Goddamn,” she muttered. “All my life, I put the wrong people on stage.” You blinked up at her, confused. She met your eyes—dark, burning. Her voice dropped.

“I could’ve done it, you know. I should’ve. Every time I dressed those girls, every goddamn song they sang... that should’ve been me.” She sat back further, legs spread, corset undone just enough to make your mouth go dry. “But nobody ever wanted to see Mama. Just wanted what she could make.”

The silence that followed cracked with tension. She wasn’t asking for sympathy. She was daring you to look away. You didn’t.

And that was when she smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Get on the floor.” You slid off the chair before she’d finished the sentence. Knees hitting the worn dressing room rug.

“That’s better,” she purred, spreading her legs wider. “Mama’s the star tonight.” Your hands trembled as you reached for her garters—she slapped them away.

“Did I say you could touch?” Her voice snapped like a whip. “Look up at me.” You obeyed. Her thighs framed your face now, and her eyes were molten.

“You’re gonna keep your hands behind your back. Mouth only. That pretty little thing is gonna sing for me. And you’re gonna make me feel like I belong on that damn stage.”

You nodded—breathless, shaking, ruined. “Words, baby.”

“Yes, Mama.” And then she pulled her panties aside like a curtain. You buried your face between her thighs like it was prayer, and she let out a sound that was half-growl, half-moan. The vanity lights caught her flushed skin, the curve of her breasts spilling from the corset, the wild fire in her eyes.

You couldn’t see yourself, but you felt the picture she made of you: on your knees, obedient, worshipful. A little star-struck.

It was her show now.

She gripped your hair in both hands, grinding against your mouth, controlling every motion. You licked, sucked, gasped for air—and she didn’t slow down.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” she groaned, hips rocking forward. “Louder. I want the whole goddamn theater to know who owns you now.”

You moaned into her and she shuddered, thighs closing around your head like a curtain on opening night. “That’s it. That’s Mama’s encore.”

When she came, she didn’t cry out—she roared, one hand flying to the vanity table as the other fisted in your hair and held.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t choreographed. It was earned. And when she came down, chest heaving, she looked down at you, lip curled, smug, victorious.

She cupped your chin and tilted your face up to hers. “Well,” she said, grinning, breath still shaky, “I guess I can be the star of the show after all.”

Your knees ached. Your lips were wet with her. You stayed where she left you, kneeling, hands behind your back, chest rising and falling like you’d just come off a five-minute number.

She didn’t speak for a while. Just leaned back in the vanity chair and let her thighs fall open, savoring the afterglow with the same smugness she’d wear if she’d just closed a deal or sold out a house.

And then, slowly, like you weren’t even there, she turned towards the mirror. She pulled open a little compact with a cracked lid, still sitting spread in her open corset like she had all the time in the world. Her lipstick case clicked open. She applied it without needing to check her lines.

She smeared, blotted, smoothed. Rubbed a thumb under her eye. Dusted powder along her jaw. Re-pinned a loose curl. One heel still dangled from her foot like an afterthought.

The room smelled like her: hot skin, sweat, expensive powder and lust. You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak. She liked it that way. You watched her like a sinner in church.

When she was finished—lipstick redone, hair fluffed, corset laced tighter than ever—she looked down at you through the mirror.

The corner of her mouth curled. “Well,” she said, in that same dry, rasping drawl. “Would ya look at that.” She turned in the chair, legs crossed now, one hand cupping her chin like she was judging a contest.

“You down there all quiet… all messy…” She tilted her head. “That’s a better sight than anything I’ve seen onstage in twenty years.”

You felt the flush crawl up your neck. She leaned forward, hand reaching out to trace the edge of your jaw, rough but not cruel, just appraising.

“You did real good tonight, sweetheart.” Her thumb slid across your bottom lip. “Real obedient. Real pretty.” Then, a pause—long enough to sting. “Maybe you deserve a reward.”

You swallowed hard. Her grin widened, slow and knowing. “Get up.” You obeyed, legs trembling as you stood. She watched every inch of you rise like she was deciding what to do with you.

When you were fully upright, standing in front of her, she reached out and grabbed your waist. Pulled you between her knees. Tilted her chin up and locked eyes.

“You wanna know what it is?” she asked. “Your reward?” You nodded. She smiled. Then she yanked you down into her lap, hard, until you were straddling her, hips flush. Her hands slid up your back—possessive, rough. “You get to cum on Mama’s thigh.”

“Alright,” she said, voice like the flick of a match. “Go on, then. Show me how bad you want it.”

You moved like you couldn’t help it—dragging your hips forward, then back, slow and shaky, pressure blooming sharp between your legs. Her thigh, warm and strong beneath you, was unyielding. You tried to breathe but it came out broken.

She didn’t move to help. Just leaned back in the chair, one leg still propped under you, watching with a hunger that made your skin flush.

“That’s it,” she murmured, eyes fixed on your face. “God, look at you. Already wrecked and I’ve barely touched you.”

Her hand slid up your side, knuckles grazing under your shirt, not guiding—just there. Just reminding you who put you there.

“You’ve been chasing this, haven’t you?” she said. “All that time you looked at me like I was something you weren’t allowed to want. And now?”

Her thigh tensed, just slightly, and you gasped, hips stuttering. “Now you’re gonna lose it right here.” You bit your lip, struggling to stay quiet, but she caught your chin in two fingers and tilted your face toward hers.

“No. Don’t hide from Mama.” Her eyes were molten. Her voice dropped to a rasp. “I want to see every second of you coming apart.”

Your hips ground down harder now, friction just right, sharp and overwhelming. She didn’t stop you, but didn’t speed you up either. She let you work for it, let you struggle.

“You’re not even thinking anymore, are you?” she breathed. “Just feeling. Just chasing. Like you’re starving.” You nodded, dazed.

Her thumb traced the corner of your mouth. “You wanna finish?” You nodded again, desperate. She leaned in until her breath brushed your cheek. “Then show Mama you can earn it.” That broke something in you.

You moved faster now, more ragged, rhythm dissolving into need. She kept her eyes on you the whole time—sharp, steady, ravenous. Her leg tensed just enough to keep the pressure constant, every roll of your hips a plea.

“Good,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “That’s good. Just like that.” And when you came, body trembling, gasping into her shoulder like a confession, she didn’t soften. She just held you there, one hand gripping your waist, the other brushing your hair back, slow and possessive.

You collapsed against her, still straddling her lap, boneless and wrecked. She exhaled—long and low—and let the silence stretch for a beat. Then she murmured, with a smirk you could feel against your cheek: “Now that was a performance worth watching.”

She let you collapse against her, your breath still catching in your throat, body trembling from the effort of holding back and then giving in so completely. Her hand slid slowly up your spine, smoothing the sweat-soaked fabric of your shirt, grounding you. And when your head tipped forward—dazed, breathless—she caught your chin.

Tilted it up. “Look at me.” You did. Your eyes met hers, and something in her face had changed, not softer, exactly, but clearer. Focused. Like she was done watching now. Ready to do something about what she saw.

And then she kissed you. Firm. Claiming. A kiss like a stamp: mine. She tasted like lipstick and heat and salt. She didn’t rush it. Didn’t let you lead. She took your mouth like she’d already decided you belonged to her.

And when she finally pulled back, just enough to speak, her voice was low and steady. “I want more.” Your breath hitched.

“I want to feel you,” she said, thumb brushing your cheek like a brand. “Not just like this.” Her hand slid down, across your waist, lower. “I want to feel you from the inside.” She paused, watching your face, eyes glittering. “I want to take you apart properly this time.”

You swallowed hard, your whole body already starting to respond again, twitching to life under her touch. She smiled—slow and sure—and stood, keeping you steady with a hand at your waist.

“Come on.” Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rasp. “Get on the couch.”

She didn’t give you time to answer. Just took your wrist and guided you toward the velvet couch against the far wall. Worn, narrow, and still warm from her sitting there earlier. She sat first, legs spread, corset pressing tight against her ribs, then pulled you down on top of her like she’d rehearsed it.

Her hands were everywhere—spreading over your hips, dragging your skirt up, fingers digging into the soft curve of your ass. “Straddle me.” You did, heart thudding, thighs still trembling as you settled over her again—this time, with nothing between you but breath and heat and the ache of want.

She looked up at you, something fierce in her eyes. “Take your damn time,” she said. “I want to feel every inch of it.”

Your breath caught as you rocked your hips forward, positioning yourself just right. She guided you. Not roughly, but firmly, like she owned every second of this. Like she’d been waiting to claim you proper.

And then—slow, aching—you sank down onto her fingers. She let out a breath through her teeth, head tipping back just a little, eyes closing as you took her in. “There you go,” she muttered, low and ragged. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You gasped, muscles tightening around her as she pressed deeper, the stretch intense after the tease of before, but her voice kept you grounded. “You feel that, baby?” she whispered. “That’s me. Inside you. Right where I belong.”

Her other hand gripped your waist, steadying you, while her fingers inside you curled just right, slow and deliberate, like she was reading you—learning how you worked, what made you writhe.

You moved with her, hips rocking slow, mouth falling open with each pulse of pressure. Her eyes drank you in. “God, you’re beautiful like this,” she said. “Dripping for me. Shaking for it.”

Her thumb brushed against your clit, cruel and perfect, and you cried out—not loud, but sharp. She hushed you with a kiss, hand still working between your legs. “You’re gonna cum for me again,” she said, voice rough. “And this time, I want to feel every second of it.”

You buried your face in her neck, your breath stuttering, and she held you—tight and focused—every thrust of her fingers pushing you closer, deeper, until it was all heat and pressure and her voice in your ear: “Let go, sweetheart. Give it to me.” And you did.

You came with a gasp, full-body, thighs clenching around her, hips jerking helplessly as her hand kept you steady through the waves. She didn’t stop until you collapsed against her, breathless and boneless, your body trembling from how thoroughly she’d taken you apart.

You were still sprawled across the couch, legs tangled in your skirt, body loose and twitching from aftershocks, when she finally pulled her hand from between your thighs and exhaled. Not breathless. Not disheveled. Just satisfied.

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then stood. You barely managed to look up as she turned toward the vanity and began fixing her makeup again, cool as you’d ever seen her. Red lipstick reapplied. Powder patted smooth. A hand through her curls, fluffing them back into place.

Like she hadn’t just pulled you apart with her fingers. Like you weren’t still dripping, legs spread on the couch, barely breathing.

“You looked real good like that,” she said, catching your eyes in the mirror. “Didn’t think you could be even prettier when you’re beggin’, but I stand corrected.”

She smirked as she adjusted the collar of her coat—black, structured, tailored within an inch of its life. Then she stepped back over to you, still collapsed, dazed, your thighs trembling.

Her hand came down, brushing back a sweat-damp strand of hair from your face. “Good girl.” You shivered. “C’mon,” she said, voice softer now, but no less commanding. “Let’s get you home.”

You tried to move. Your knees buckled. She caught you before you could fall, steady hands at your waist. “You’re gonna feel that for a while,” she murmured, not even pretending to hide her pride. “Hope you didn’t have plans to walk straight tomorrow.”

You managed a breathless laugh against her shoulder, and she let you lean into her as she guided you out of the dressing room. One hand stayed tight at your waist.

Her coat was warm against your side. She didn’t wait for you to adjust your skirt or fix your hair before she tugged you toward the alley entrance behind the theater.

A cab was already waiting—she must’ve called it somewhere between kissing you and wrecking you. The moment the door shut behind you, she dragged you across the seat and onto her lap, coat parting, your thigh sliding over hers again like instinct.

“You think I’m finished with you?” she whispered, mouth already at your neck. You gasped, your hands bracing against her chest, but she caught your wrist and held it down.

“Driver doesn’t need to see a thing. Sit still.” Then she kissed you. Hot, deep, and full of intent. Her hand slipped behind your neck, angling you just how she liked, and you moaned into her mouth, thighs clenched tight, breath already picking up again.

Her tongue teased yours—slow, possessive, her hand gripping your thigh through your skirt like she was still thinking about the dressing room. Like she was already planning what she’d do when she got you inside.

“You taste like sweat and desperation,” she said, lips grazing your jaw. “I could keep you like this all night.”

The cab jolted to a stop. She smoothed her coat, fixed your collar, then opened the door without a word, like she hadn’t just kissed you within an inch of coherence.

You followed, legs barely steady, breath still catching. She didn’t wait—just took your hand, led you up the steps to the front door, and said with a wicked grin: “You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

#fic rec #patti lupone x reader #mama rose x reader

102 notes · View notes