dailyd0ses

[dailyd0ses]

At Her Mercy

Stella Coffa x Female Reader

Note: It's just a little fluff and spice for this first part, but don't worry- I'll feed more in pt. 2

---

You were screwed.

Absolutely, completely, irrevocably screwed.

Because after that night in the library, there was no going back.

Stella didn’t change overnight—not entirely. She still played her games, still teased, still carried herself with that same untouchable air of confidence.

But now?

Now there was a difference.

Now, every touch lingered just a little too long.

Now, every glance held something heavier, something unspoken.

Now, when she passed by your desk, her fingers would ghost over the inside of your wrist, barely there, just enough to leave heat in their wake.

And God, it was maddening.

But you weren’t about to let her have all the control.

A week later, you found your chance.

The library was quiet, as usual, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the shelves. Stella sat at one of the tables near the back, a book open in front of her.

You approached slowly, watching as she lazily turned a page, her nails tapping idly against the paper.

“You actually reading that,” you murmured, “or just pretending so you can lurk?”

She smirked, not looking up. “And if I said both?”

You hummed, stepping closer, resting a hand on the edge of the table. “I’d say you’re slipping.”

That made her glance up, brow arching. “Slipping?”

You shrugged, leaning in slightly—close enough to catch the way her breath hitched, just for a second.

“You’re predictable,” you mused, tilting your head. “All these little games. All the teasing. But you don’t actually do anything about it.”

Her expression didn’t change. But you saw the flicker in her eyes—the slight tightening of her jaw.

She closed the book slowly, deliberately.

“Careful, sweetheart.”

You smirked, shifting closer. “Or what?”

For the first time since this whole thing started, you had her cornered.

For the first time, she was the one waiting.

And God, you could get used to this.

You reached down, brushing your fingers against the back of her hand, tracing slow, idle patterns.

“Tell me something, Ms. Coffa,” you murmured, your voice low, teasing. “How long are you planning to drag this out?”

Her fingers twitched.

You smiled, pleased, and moved to pull back—

But you never should’ve let your guard down.

Because before you could take a single step, she grabbed your wrist—firm, unyielding, dangerous.

Then, so fast you barely had time to react, she stood, pressing you back against the nearest bookshelf, her body flush against yours.

Your breath caught.

Her lips hovered just inches from yours, her hand braced beside your head, trapping you in place.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was pure, velvety.

“You really think you can turn the tables on me?”

Your mouth went dry.

She smirked, tilting her head slightly, letting the tension pull, stretching it just to the breaking point.

Then—softly, deliberately—

“Adorable.”

You exhaled sharply, glaring at her, but any retort you had died the second she leaned in, brushing her lips just barely over the corner of your mouth.

Not a kiss.

A warning.

A promise.

Then she pulled back, as composed as ever, smoothing a hand down the front of her coat.

You were still pinned against the shelf, still trying to breathe, when she reached for her book, tucking it under her arm with an infuriating smirk.

“Better luck next time.”

And with that, she strolled off, leaving you standing there, wrecked all over again.

…You really should have backed down when you had the chance.

---

Two days later, you made your next move.

The library was empty, save for the two of you. Stella sat at her usual table, lazily flipping through a book, her attention half on the pages, half on you.

You felt her watching as you moved around the room, running your fingers along the spines of books, pretending to search for something.

You weren’t.

You already knew exactly what you wanted.

A book sat on one of the higher shelves, just slightly out of reach.

Perfect.

You stretched up on your toes, fingers just barely grazing the spine, biting back a smile when you heard Stella shift behind you.

You stretched a little more. Let out a soft huff of frustration.

And there it was.

The quiet exhale. The rustle of fabric as she stood.

You had her.

Sure enough, before you could even glance back, her presence loomed behind you, heat radiating from where she stood far too close.

A slow smirk curled at your lips.

Hook, line, and sinker.

Her voice, low, amused. “Need help, sweetheart?”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly but not looking back. “Depends. You offering?”

She chuckled softly, and then—without warning—her hand brushed against your hip as she reached past you.

You almost lost your composure.

Almost.

She plucked the book from the shelf with ease, but just as she moved to hand it to you—

She stumbled.

It happened so fast.

A misstep. A sharp inhale. The sudden, unexpected force of her body knocking against yours—

And then, before you could even process what was happening—

Your back hit the shelf.

Her hands caught herself against the wood beside your head.

Her body, flush against yours.

Trapping you.

Silence.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

Your heart was a hammer in your chest, pulse pounding, your hands braced against her waist from sheer instinct.

Her eyes flicked down.

Then back up.

And then—slowly, so damn slowly—

A smirk.

“Well,” she murmured, voice like velvet. “Isn’t this interesting?”

You swallowed. Hard.

Your fingers twitched against her waist, and her smirk only deepened.

“What’s wrong, darling?” she teased, her voice a slow, dangerous drawl. “Not so cocky now, are you?”

You scowled, shifting against her—but that was a mistake.

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers flexed against the shelf.

And suddenly, the teasing wasn’t just teasing anymore.

The air thickened.

Her smirk faltered—just slightly.

Your breathing shallowed.

Neither of you looked away.

Neither of you moved.

Then, softly—deliberately—Stella’s fingers ghosted over the side of your throat, tracing lightly down to your collarbone.

You shivered.

She exhaled sharply, eyes dark.

Then, voice barely above a whisper—

“What am I going to do with you?”

Your fingers curled against her coat.

And, pulse hammering, you finally answered—

“Anything you want.”

Her breath caught.

And then—

She kissed you.

[dailyd0ses]

should I write a stella coffa x female reader smut? 👀

[dailyd0ses]

A Rose Without Thorns Pt. 2

Mama Rose from Gypsy on Broadway x Female Reader

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.

[dailyd0ses]

A Rose Without Thorns

Mama Rose from Gypsy on Broadway x Female Reader

The city never truly slept, but tonight, it felt emptier than usual. The neon glow of a burlesque marquee flickered in the distance, its bright letters spelling out a name that was once just a dream. Gypsy Rose Lee.

The name echoed in Rose’s head like a final curtain call she wasn’t ready to take. She sat on a bench in the biting cold, hands folded tightly in her lap, staring out into nothing. Her fur coat, the one she had worn proudly through countless auditions and backstage battles, suddenly felt heavier than it ever had before.

Louise was gone.

Not gone in the sense that she’d disappeared, but gone from her. Living her own life now, standing on her own. The moment should have been triumphant—Rose had spent years pushing her daughter toward stardom—but instead, it left a hollow ache inside her chest, one she wasn’t prepared for.

She had no more dreams left to chase. No more curtains to pull. No more daughters to push.

And for the first time in decades, she was alone.

That was how you found her.

You had been passing through the quiet streets when you saw her, hunched over on a park bench, her head bowed as if in prayer. But she wasn’t praying. She was crying—silent, restrained tears that barely made it past her lashes before she wiped them away with sharp, hurried movements.

Something about the sight of her struck you. Maybe it was the way her shoulders sagged, a stark contrast to the indomitable woman you had seen on stage before. You weren’t a stranger to her reputation; Rose Hovick was a name whispered with awe and sometimes fear in show business. A force of nature, people said. Unstoppable. Relentless.

But right now, she just looked... tired.

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer. "Are you alright, ma’am?"

Her head jerked up, eyes narrowing in immediate defense, but there was no real fight left in them. Only exhaustion. Her gaze flickered over you—calculating, assessing—before something in her softened just slightly.

"Do I look alright to you?" she replied, voice hoarse from holding back emotion.

You smiled gently, undeterred by her sharpness. "Not particularly."

She scoffed, a sound that was half a laugh and half a sigh. "Well, aren’t you observant."

There was a beat of silence before you took a seat beside her, leaving enough space so she wouldn’t feel crowded. She didn’t tell you to leave, which you took as a good sign.

"Rough night?" you asked.

Rose let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Try a rough life."

You nodded, as if you understood. Maybe you did, in your own way.

"You’re Rose, aren’t you?" you asked after a moment.

She turned her head toward you sharply, surprised. "And how would you know that?"

"I’ve seen you before," you admitted. "Watched your girls perform. But mostly, I watched you. You have a way of stealing a scene, even when you’re not trying to."

She huffed, but there was something close to amusement in her expression now. "Yeah? Well, that’s the damn problem, isn’t it? Stealing the scene don’t mean much when the show’s over."

Another silence fell between you. She wasn’t looking at you anymore, staring down at her gloved hands. They were fidgeting, like she needed something to do but couldn’t figure out what.

"You have somewhere to go?" you asked finally.

She hesitated.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it, she said, "Not anymore."

It wasn’t just about a place. It was about them. June had run off years ago. Herby—sweet, patient Herby—had finally had enough and left her. And now Louise...

She had always been the one to leave, never the one left behind.

But here she was.

You made a decision then. "Come with me."

Her head snapped toward you again, brows raised. "Excuse me?"

"I have an apartment not far from here," you explained. "It’s warm, and I make a decent cup of coffee."

She stared at you like you had just offered her the moon. "You’re inviting a perfect stranger into your home?"

You shrugged. "You’re not a stranger, not really. And besides, I don’t like seeing people like this. You look like you could use a place to rest."

She opened her mouth as if to argue, but the words never came. Pride warred with exhaustion on her face, but exhaustion won.

Finally, she exhaled sharply and muttered, "Well. Guess I’ve done crazier things."

---

Your apartment was small but comfortable. Nothing extravagant, but homey in a way that Rose hadn’t felt in years. She stood in the middle of your living room, still wrapped in her coat, as if unsure whether she belonged there.

You disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two mugs of coffee, setting one on the table beside her. She eyed it warily before finally sinking onto the couch with a sigh.

"Not exactly how I expected my night to go," she muttered before taking a sip.

"Me neither," you admitted, watching her over the rim of your cup.

There was a pause before she said, almost to herself, "Men always leave."

The words hung heavy between you.

She looked up then, meeting your gaze fully for the first time since arriving. There was something unreadable in her expression—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper.

"Women, though..." she trailed off, as if she was just now considering the thought for the first time.

You tilted your head slightly. "What about them?"

She studied you, as if searching for something in your face. Then, with the faintest hint of a smirk, she said, "They’re different."

You weren’t sure if she was talking about all women or just you.

But either way, you didn’t mind.

And neither, it seemed, did she.

---

The night stretched on in quiet contemplation. Rose sat curled into the corner of your couch, one hand wrapped around her coffee mug, the other draped lazily over her lap. She was still wearing her fur coat, as if shedding it would leave her too vulnerable.

You let her sit in her silence, knowing that whatever she was working through, it wasn’t something that could be solved with simple conversation. You weren’t a stranger to heartache, to the weight of loneliness, but something about Rose’s presence in your living room—her stillness, her uncharacteristic quiet—felt heavier than any sorrow you’d seen before.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked suddenly.

You blinked at her over your coffee. "Shouldn’t I be?"

"People don’t do things out of the goodness of their hearts," she said, voice tinged with old bitterness. "Not in show business. Not in life."

You tilted your head, considering her. "I’m not asking for anything, Rose."

She let out a small, skeptical huff, but there was no fight behind it.

"And anyway," you continued, "I’ve been watching you for a long time. You’re... something else."

Her eyes snapped to yours, suddenly alert, as if you had struck something tender in her. "That so?"

You nodded. "You’re tough. Loud. Unapologetic. But right now, you look like you’re trying really hard not to fall apart."

Her grip on her coffee tightened.

For a moment, you thought she might snap at you—Rose was sharp-edged, and you knew she wasn’t the kind of woman who took well to being analyzed. But instead, she let out a low chuckle, shaking her head.

"Well, aren’t you a perceptive little thing?"

You shrugged. "I just see you, that’s all."

Another silence fell between you. Rose set her coffee down and leaned back into the couch, finally allowing herself to relax, just a little.

"I should’ve had a plan for this," she muttered. "I always had a plan."

"But not this time?"

She shook her head. "I never thought past Louise making it. That was the goal. That was always the goal. I figured once she made it, I’d... I don’t know. I thought I’d feel different."

"And do you?"

She gave a dry laugh. "I feel nothing."

You swallowed. You understood that, too well. The feeling of chasing something for so long only to reach the end and find nothing waiting for you.

"Then maybe it’s time you stopped living for everyone else," you said gently.

She looked at you then, really looked at you. Her gaze lingered, eyes dark and searching, as if she were trying to read something in your face that she hadn’t considered before.

There was a shift between you, an unspoken weight to the air.

It was Rose who looked away first.

"Men always left me, you know," she murmured. "Three husbands. Then Herby. Even my own damn father."

"I’m not a man," you said softly.

She smirked at that, a quiet, almost amused sound. "That’s what’s new about this, isn’t it?"

You raised an eyebrow.

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "I’ve spent my whole damn life being surrounded by men. Always needing them to get what I wanted. Always getting left behind in the end."

"And now?"

She met your eyes again, the smirk fading into something more uncertain. More vulnerable.

"I don’t know," she admitted. "But I do know I don’t wanna be alone tonight."

Your breath hitched at her words.

It wasn’t a declaration, not yet. But it was something. A thread between you, stretched and waiting to be pulled.

You set your coffee aside and stood. "Come on."

Rose raised an eyebrow. "Where are we going?"

"To bed."

She blinked, and you saw the brief flash of guarded surprise in her eyes.

You chuckled. "Not like that, Rose."

She rolled her eyes, though there was a flicker of amusement there. "Oh, I know. If you were, you’d have to buy me dinner first."

You laughed. "Noted. But really—there’s a spare bed in the other room. You need rest."

She hesitated, clearly unused to accepting kindness without strings attached. But after a moment, she sighed and stood, stretching with a groan.

"Alright, alright. Lead the way."

You guided her to the small guest room. It wasn’t much—just a neatly made bed and a dresser—but it was warm, and right now, warmth was what she needed.

She stood in the doorway, eyeing the bed with a strange expression. "Haven’t slept in a bed that wasn’t in some crummy hotel in years," she muttered.

You leaned against the doorframe. "Then maybe this is a fresh start."

Rose let out a small, tired laugh as she toed off her heels. "Kid, I’m too old for fresh starts."

You shrugged. "I don’t think so."

She looked at you again, and for the first time since you found her on that bench, you saw something lighter in her expression. Something softer.

"Goodnight, Rose."

She gave a small nod. "Yeah. Goodnight, kid."

As you turned to leave, her voice stopped you.

"And... thanks."

You smiled. "Anytime."

[dailyd0ses]

"woo!"

[dailyd0ses]

Sway With Me

The soft click of the door behind you both signaled the end of a wonderful night. The warmth of the restaurant still lingered in the air, the scent of red wine and candle wax clinging to your clothes. Patti let out a satisfied sigh, kicking off her heels with practiced ease, her lips curling into a small smile as she glanced your way.

"Tired?" she asked, her voice husky with exhaustion but still carrying that ever-present charm.

"A little," you admitted, stretching your arms before letting them fall to your sides. "But it was a perfect night."

Patti hummed in agreement, walking further into the dimly lit living room. The soft glow of the fireplace cast flickering shadows across the walls, bathing her in a golden hue that made your heart skip a beat. She turned toward you, something playful dancing in her eyes.

"Come here," she murmured, extending her hand.

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. "What are you up to?"

Patti wiggled her fingers impatiently. "Just trust me, darling."

How could you resist? You slipped your hand into hers, feeling the warmth of her skin against yours. She pulled you closer, her free hand resting lightly on your waist as she guided you toward the center of the room.

"Wait, are we—"

A slow melody filled the air, rich and velvety, seeping from the speakers like liquid gold. Patti smirked, clearly pleased with herself as she began to sway, leading you in an effortless rhythm.

"You planned this, didn’t you?" you teased, letting yourself melt into her hold.

"I may have had a little idea," she admitted, twirling you gently before pulling you back in, her arms wrapping around you securely. "I just didn’t want the night to end yet."

Your chest ached in the best way, warmth spreading through you like honey. The fire crackled beside you, the soft music weaving around your movements, and in that moment, there was nothing but her. The world outside could wait.

Patti guided you into a slow spin, her eyes never leaving yours. She dipped you unexpectedly, a mischievous grin forming on her lips as you let out a small, surprised laugh.

"Show-off," you whispered breathlessly, your fingers curling against her shoulder.

She chuckled, her thumb tracing slow circles against your back. "Maybe. But you love it."

You did. More than you could ever put into words.

The dance continued, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, lost in the quiet intimacy of the moment. And as Patti pulled you upright once more, she leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before resting her cheek against yours.

"Let’s do this forever," she murmured.

You closed your eyes, feeling the steady beat of her heart against your own.

"Yeah," you whispered back, "forever sounds good."

(My delusional ass- I apologize for the cheesy song <3)