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~A/N: I am a sneaky devil, I know lol. I'm sorry for posting on such a family-oriented day, but the truth is this is the first time in my life I'm not able to spend Thanksgiving with my parents/family. So I figured I'd spend it with people I also love so very dearly: you guys!! To those who are also having to spend today alone, I'm there with you in my heart. I love ya'll~

~Jessica=Jessie~

Strawberry fields.

That’s what it always reminds you of as your hand weaves in and out of thick waves, twisting them over and beneath each other in ways that often pulls soft hums and, perhaps, a tired groan. Your fingers move down to the slender yet taut shoulder muscles, bare and dotted with the faintest of freckles only you have knowledge of. The sinew barely yields to the circulating pressure you apply, but you don’t really notice. Every thought in your mind is focused on the silkiness of the flesh, of the spiced cologne that’s stirred whenever your nails accidentally rake against the tanned plane, of the grating sighs that vibrate through your groping palms. The vibrant, fire waves spill over your wrists and you happily return your attention to them, and yet a pair of hands rise to grip yours, returning them to the shoulders.

You silently laugh through your nose at the guy sitting in the chair between your legs. “Jessie, you don’t have time for this,” you say from your position on the table and, instead, pull up the red-sequined blazer that hangs around his biceps. “You have to practice your new set for tonight.”

The man groans. “But I need to relax, and this is relaxing.”

The blood that tints your cheeks is grateful for his back being to you, and you purse your lips to withhold a moronic grin, but only because you know you can’t hold to heart the words that come out of those full, pouty lips of his. Jessie’s an entertainer. You’d label him a singer, but what he does on stage—on the hormonal, quivering women that flock to his stage—works far more muscles than just the throat. He’s a natural womanizer, and a damn good one at that. Everything from his swooping fire-orange hair, his devilish smirk, his intoxicatingly chiseled body, to his voice is seemingly manufactured for the sole purpose of seducing women till it’s his name that stains their lips in the heat of the night.

Yet, as much of a wicked delight he takes in seducing hordes of women, it’s your job—or what could be called such—to reign him in for his own good. You were dubbed the one woman he’s forbidden to toy with, regardless of the time, place, or your ever growing needs.

“That’s what you get for whipping your hair again last night. How many times do I have to tell you to stretch beforehand if you’re going to do that?” you ask.

The only reply you get is a dark chuckle hindered on the thought of himself, sitting on the edge of the stage, back arched as he flipped his shoulder-length hair over his face. You roll your eyes and pull a card you know will demand his focus.

“I can always call you a professional masseuse.”

Jessie turns around and catches your eyes with his of powder blue. “And let some strange woman get intimate with my body? I’d never dream of such a thing, doll,” he stands from straddling the chair.

“Tell me again how a masseuse is any different than the strange women who stuff wads of cash down your pants?” You cock a brow. You strain to keep your gaze on his angled, coy face as he palms your thighs and settles his weight onto them.

“You of all people know I don’t have the time to acquaint a new gal with the ins and outs of my body,” he hums, smirking. “All the tense parts, the sensitive ones—the ones that are off limits.”

His grip widens your legs and a gasp slips through your parted lips, yet you settle down once realizing your slowly tightening legs were pressing into a dangerous part of his ribs. A part that, with the right amount of pressure, could turn any situation problematic.

“Sorry!” you exhale quickly and brush your (h/c) bangs back, keeping your hands there to shield your flushed face. Through your fingers you can see the shirtless plane of his torso and the still unzipped V of his dress pants.

Jessie smirks at you. “Stop trying to replace yourself, (y/n),” he sighs as brushes hair behind your reddened ear. “You’re invaluable to me; I can’t trust anyone like I trust you.”

The tone in his typically raunchy, seductive voice turns somber, and you look up at him, though you can only see half of his face behind his swooping bangs. He smiles and gently presses his lips to your forehead before walking backwards towards the stage. “Plus I’ve worked my ass off to teach myself you’re off limits,” he taunts as he zips up his pants.

The space between your knees is sealed shut. “You certainly don’t treat me like I’m off limits.”

He gives a meek, guilty expression. “Sincerest apologies, sweetheart. A man can only do so much when left alone with a beautiful gal,” he sighs, cocking his head. The funny thing is, you know him well enough to know he’s being sincere despite the playboy attitude that smolders in every facet of his being. It’s like his natural musk, an intoxicating pheromone that even you find yourself falling victim to. Jessie never seems to mind, however, when he catches you staring, teeth absently biting your bottom lip, cheeks a faint tinge of red.

"You know your reputation makes you out to be a gentleman despite your on-stage presence,” you mutter.

Jessie lets out a throaty chuckle between his grinning teeth. “I don’t think my fans would be too disappointed if they saw how I behaved around you,” he says. “And I am a gentleman when it comes to a lovely lady I’d like to court.”

You avert your gaze elsewhere, biting the inside of your cheek. These however playful reminders of how you’re basically a “eunuch” to the most lusted after man in town aren’t faring well in your heart. The chance to be Jessie’s, well, whatever it is he needs you to be was offered because of unorthodox circumstances. No, you weren’t cherry-picked from the crowd upon some magical first look or anything even remotely as romantic. The general populace isn’t aware of this, but you and Jessie are no strangers to each other.

To put it plainly, you were the one that got away—kinda.

Back when you were training to be a PA, Jessie Rabbit was just beginning to build a reputation for himself. Girls were regularly assigned to follow him as a mutual exercise to see what the professional world should be like, so it was fair to say you worked in very close proximity to him, close enough that he could hear the jokes you often recited. But he faithfully stopped whatever it was he was doing just to listen to your one-liners and knock-knocks, regardless of how busy his schedule had him. It was always his melodic chuckles that you heard above all others, his fiery hair bouncing on his shoulders as he walked away laughing that stood out like a beacon you could never run after.

But then you “graduated” and were whisked away into the real world far from those strawberry fields. Two years passed before you ever heard from Jessie Rabbit again when he randomly but specifically asked for you to work with him. It didn’t take much to coax you to agree to the job, but you had to know: why you?

Jessie thumbed his long bags behind his ear along a crooked smirk. “You make me laugh, darling,” was all he said. Since then, nonetheless, he’s made it clear that you are not his PA or even his manager. In fact, he doesn’t want you to have a title. You’re there to make him feel like a human rather than a pleasure toy, though some sewing and performance tips aren’t unusual.

It’s been over a year, and your relationship with Jessie hasn’t gotten any clearer. He says you’re off bounds so he can focus, and yet whenever he touches you it lingers, it burns your skin wherever it dares to wander. His eyes always end up on you no matter where he is as if he simply relishes in watching you, except when men try to flirt with you. Never once did he express that he disapproved of such a distraction, but if a guy even hints at trying to pick you up, Jessie’s at your side within seconds, his arms weaving around you and his hands holding you firm to his body. He never has to say anything for the courter to back off, nor do you ever really complain.

Such behavior is done often enough at the lounge he performs at that coworkers and even regulars have begun to believe you two really are an item despite Jessie seducing women while performing. What more, should someone ask Jessie who you are, his answer is always “My girl.”

I just don’t get this guy, you think, sighing. The phone in your pocket vibrates to alert of an incoming text. Unlocking it, you read the message from Jessie’s set manager.

Jessie rolls his neck one final time from his spot on stage and glances at your focused expression. “Honey,” he calls in a way that gets your attention.

You look up at him. “Yes?”

He smiles at you unintentionally accepting his pet name. “Tell me something,” he says coolly, arms crossing over his bare chest.

“Okay…”

“Why haven’t I performed for you?”

The muscles in your face simultaneously slacken and go numb and you stare at his coyly amused face as he saunters to the edge of the stage. “What do you mean…” you say.

“You always hide backstage when I perform.” His voice comes as a pout and he yet his steps down the stage’s steps are confident, dominate.

“I’ve seen what happens to women after they’ve seen you perform,” you say. It was meant to sound as a lighthearted jest, but it came nervous and wavering, as though you fear turning into another slave to the burning need of a mere glance from this man. “You’re not using this rehearsal to push the boundaries of our already questionable relation.”

But by then, Jessie is standing a foot away. “Nothing’s questionable about what you are to me, darling,” he says, gripping your chin. “You’re my girl.”

“Which warrants further explanation, don’t you think?” Instinct, in order to let you retain a calm composure, was defaulting to a catty persona, which quickly is deemed as a bad idea, for Jessie’s behavior is urged on.

“I’d offer you an explanation without a second thought, sweetheart,” he says as he palms the table beside your legs and leans in. You’re practically a statue filled to the brim with raging nerves at the sight of his eyes that regard you with shameless yearning. His lips stop a matter of inches from yours, however. “But you’ve forbidden me from doing so, haven’t you now?”

The table screeches, effectively snapping you out of your trance, when Jessie begins dragging it to the end of the catwalk. “And since you’ve also forbidden me from performing for you, at least pretend to be a clientele so I can practice.” Your mouth opens to proclaim a false rebuttal, but a finger is pressed to your lips. “All you have to do is sit there and offer me this.”

You watch as he brings out a $5 bill and holds it out for you between his pointer and middle finger. “No lap dances,” you say with a firm tone and take the money. It’s not because you wouldn’t enjoy it—God knows you would—rather you don’t think you can handle it at the moment. Even from back stage, the breathless, trilling gasps and whimpers of women who were on the verge of utter submission painted a perfect picture of what was happening in front of them: a smoldering look, eyes that undressed you where sat, a lithe body whose moves were an endless beckon, hips that gyrated, fingers that left you aching for the softest touch.

The mere thought forms a rousing pool in the pit of your stomach. Jessie grins, well aware of what’s crossing your mind. “No lap dances,” he repeats. “Unless you desire one. It’ll cost you, though.”

Your legs pulse inward. It does not go unnoticed by the redhead. “Darn,” you exhale. “Fresh out of cash.”

He hums, but the way he does so unsettles you, like he doesn’t believe a word you say nor the resolve you’re struggling to fabricate. “Pity,” he says and climbs back on the stage. The mic stand is positioned to his liking—he readies the remote to play his music—and he closes his eyes to concentrate, brows furrowing, and as his hands leisurely slide up the stand, he begins to sing.

“I’ve been really trying, baby, to hold back these feelings for so long,” he croons. Your heart skips several strains of beats and you start to panic before Jessie starts chuckling. “I’m kidding, darling! Relax.”

I’m going to murder him, I swear to God. You wipe your suddenly sweaty palms down your jeans and take a calming breath.

Jessie turns somber yet again while he hums the beginning notes of a song, exchanging them for “Ah’s” on the last measure. “My cherie amour, lovely as a summer day. My cherie amour, distant as the milky way.” His free hand languidly reaches straight out in front of him, then moving to his chest. “My cherie amour, pretty little one that I adore. You’re the only one my heart beats for. How I wish that you were mine.”

The mic is popped out of its clamp. Jessie takes smooth yet assertive steps down the stage that further draws you into his allure. “In a cafe or sometimes on a crowded street, I've been near you, but you never noticed me.” He kneels and makes a gesture as though he’s lifting the chin of an enamored audience member. “My cherie amour, won't you tell me how could you ignore that behind that little smile I wore, how I wish that you were mine.” His powerful voice tilts his head and body back, expanding the muscles of his stomach and chest into solid columns as the unhindered passion of the song affects even you.

The way he sings is so different than what you’re currently hearing. It’s typically husky, smokey, a drawl that slithers from the pocket of his cheeks. The voice he’s using now—it’s fervent yet sultry, his flawless vibrato wavering even the highest and lowest of notes that he belts out. Soon he’s descending the stage left steps, fingers tracing along every table and chair he passes.

“Maybe someday, you'll see my face among the crowd. Maybe someday, I'll share your little distant cloud,” he sings, and what little focus remains within you triggers the $5 bill to be held up, only you’re capable of a meek gesture and not one of confidence. How deeply you’ve been swept away by his performance actually causes him to chuckle mid song. But his duty as an entertainer is second nature.

“Oh, cherie amour, pretty little one that I adore.” He saunters towards to you, keeping his smoldering eyes locked on yours, and sleekly lays his body across the edge of the stage with his hands upholding his torso. Strands of red spill over his shoulder as he reaches out, except it’s not just the money that’s pulled up. Jessie buries his hand behind your head in (h/c) hair and gently raises you up to his face so you’re physically arched beneath him.

“You're the only girl my heart beats for. How I wish that you were mine.” Jessie’s eyes flicker to your parted lips that shape a silent plea that he’s all too familiar with. You feel his grip on the back of your head flex inward, and before you can make sense of it, your lips meet his.

It’s chaste and mostly harmless, but it burns down to your core and buckles your knees, a soft moan tearing from you at the feeling of his jaw moving against yours. Without breaking the kiss, Jessie shifts to his knees so his hands can cup your face, pulling you farther into bliss, closure to oblivion that has you writhing, fingers digging into the thick mass of his thighs. Neither of you are allowed a breath when the first kiss ends, for another one throws you back into each other more passionately than your heart can handle, teeth nipping and tongues swirling till strained groans fill your mouths along yearning sighs.

He languidly breaks away, keeping his lips close so they brush yours with each exhalation. You stare up at his flushed face and he smiles tiredly. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, taking the $5.

His playful words sober you in a matter of seconds. The situation, the when and who and why, suddenly dawns on you and you’re sent retracting from his hold with a horrified expression that’s countered with his confused one. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

"What the hell were you thinking…?!" you mutter and cover your mouth. The message in your (e/c) eyes is clear as day: since when were you one of his toys? When had you become just like every other fan in Jessie’s mind?

What has you panicking becomes clear to him. He had asked you to pretend to be a clientele so he could practice, so in the heat of that moment, the kiss became meaningless. "It wasn't supposed to go that far," he says, frowning. In spite of the words, Jessie doesn’t sound particularly remorseful. Nonetheless, you knew that he wouldn't. At least part of that had been intentional, after all. But there is still that brief hint of an apology in his eyes—not for the kiss, never for the kiss; for momentarily recategorizing you.

Jessie finds himself staring at you openly, trying to sort through his thoughts, to understand why this had happened and why he isn't more bothered by it, but he has a feeling that he knows the answer to that already. "But (y/c) is more important to me," is what Jessie told his ex-girlfriend once he realized he didn’t need anyone else by his side. Maybe you had been the only one who hadn't seen the words for what they were.

Did Jessie also... You don’t want to think about that, don’t want to think that the man you’re infatuated with had planned this just to... What, give you a reward for helping him out?

Heels clatter on the wood floor under Jessie’s weight when he jumps down and tries to approach you. He takes your hand, but you brush him off. “Stop. It’s not a game, Jessie!” you cry, shifting back and forth. “At least not for me. I’m not one of your toys. You can’t…you can’t just kiss me to get a rise out of me.”

His frown deepens.

“Do you even know the real reason I’m never in the audience?” you ask, coming to an abrupt stop. “Because I knew that, if I gave you the opportunity to seduce me like you do all the other women, I’d no longer be ‘off limits’. There’d be nothing contrasting me from those women, and my emotions—the stupid, overwhelming love I feel for you—it’d all become another plaything for you. I’d be a pathetic, jealous wreck and I’d fight, I’d sell my soul to be the one woman you looked at as though I was your favorite person in the whole damn world.”

You’re vaguely aware of the falling tears that prompt Jessie’s quick but careful steps towards you. He cups your face and forces you to look up at him. “I never saw you as a toy, (y/n),” he mutters. “If this was just a game to me, then none of this would have happened. Or do you think I felt nothing? That this past year and a half there wasn’t a moment that I ached for the mere sight of you? For your voice? Or that whenever I touched you, the feeling didn’t linger in my mind for hours till it robbed me of sleep?”

“If I was such a distraction, why didn’t you replace me?” you whine after a sniffle.

His bearings darken and his hands drop to your arms. “(Y/n), I never quite told you what I did during those two years before I hired you.” If only for a moment, his gaze is cast downward. “I’m sure you probably assume that I spent that entire time building my reputation or wasting it in the presence of women. But the truth is…whatever free time I had was spent searching for you.”

Your ragged breathing ceases at the sight of his eyes that pierce through you. “I did everything I could, used all my resources to find you. I personally called every agency describing you, but it proved nearly impossible cause of the confidentiality barriers. I was recycling through PAs, bored and unfulfilled no matter how gorgeous they came because they simply weren’t (f/n) (l/n). The day I managed to find you, I thought I was dreaming. Two years of fighting for the girl I had fallen in love with, and there you were. Just as gorgeous as I remembered,” Jessie smiles adoringly and runs his knuckles along your swollen cheek.

You laugh at the irony and duck your head, but he raises it back up. “The reason I said you were ‘off limits’ to me was because I knew I’d no longer be able to perform as a male entertainer and make women believe I loved them, for I would know what it truly meant to be in love. And so for a year and a half I was perfectly content simply being around you—and teasing you from time to time.” The two of you share a soft laugh till Jessie sighs. “Still…I was a fool for believing that I could happily live with the woman I loved just within my reach but never being able to hold her. I didn’t know what to do. Like I said, a man can only control himself for so long. That kiss was me finally losing that control, though I had taken advantage of the situation like a pig.”

“Not a pig,” you mutter. “Just an idiot.”

He chuckles and settles down when you lean into his touch. “...‘But (y/n) is more important to me,' I told my ex that day..." he whispers, laughing faintly to himself. You say nothing in response to this, not quite sure just where he’s going with his words. "Even she must have been able to see it then. Kind of sad that I couldn't."

"What are you talking about?"

"I’ve probably always been an idiot," Jessie murmurs, closing his eyes again and sighing, pulling you against himself. "I told her I loved her, even though the only person I was even thinking about was you. I spent that day with her—all of those days with her—and the only person on my mind was you. Even confessing to her was for your sake. Maybe it's that—"

Whatever he had been about to say is halted by warm lips pressed against his again; there’s no demanding desire this time, just simple and comfortable understanding. A gentle, soft, lingering kiss, the very sort that Jessie had intended to give you earlier, and the very sort that had led you to where you are. You pull back slowly, drawing his lower lip with you as you did and enjoying the soft, longing sigh that comes in response to your actions.

"How long have you felt this way, Jessie?" you whisper against his lips, noting how he shifts his head ever-so-slightly, nose rubbing against your cheek.

The only response is a slight shake of the head, and you understand: Jessie has no idea. It simply was. And you sigh as well, pulling him closer to yourself, tilting your head up to press a kiss to his forehead before reaching up to brush your fingers through soft, fire-toned hair. “What does this mean for our jobs?”

“I can’t be without you, sweetheart,” he nearly cuts in. “Not again.”

You give a bashful smirk and rest your hands on his chest. “I don’t want your performances to suffer. Your livelihood comes first, and you’re simply too well-off as an entertainer to quit,” you say. Jessie nods reluctantly to which you place a hand on his cheek. “But I’m too enamored to even consider going anywhere.”

It’s said in such a dry, sardonic way that Jessie searches your eyes for a reason to not let the swelling excitement get the best of his typically cool composure. “You’ll stay with me, then?” he asks, incredulous.

“Of course,” you smile with your arms winding around his neck, his circling your waist. “We’ll find a way to work things out and keep it from the public eye so women can keep their fantasies alive .”

Though you find it slightly amusing, Jessie doesn’t. His brows pitch in the middle and he averts his eyes elsewhere in aimless contemplation, fingers flexing into your back, whatever his mind settles on eliciting a coy but endearing smirk from him. He shakes his head. “That’s not enough,” he says and takes your hands in his. “I’ve been calling you my girl for a while now, darling, but it’s always been one-sided. I pride myself on being a true gentleman, so with your consent, I’d be more than honored if you start calling me your man.”

A heated whir fills your ears at the sight of him lowering himself onto one knee. “Jessie…” you exhale.

“It’s horrible timing, I know,” he chuckles bashfully. “And this isn’t how I planned it—”

“Planned it? What do you mean planned it?” you pant.

Jessie gives you a guilty but prideful look. “I’ve wanted to marry you since the day we met, (y/n). I never stopped dreaming of this moment, and, granted, it’s not nearly as extravagant as what I had in mind and this is the one day I don’t have the ring with me…but it doesn’t matter. All I want, my dear heart, is you,” he says, hands gripping yours.

“You’ve bought the ring?” you ask. “What? When?”

He laughs at your continued series of shocked questions. “Yes, but will you marry me, (y/n)—hngh!” he grunts when the entirety of your weight is thrown onto him and sends him toppling onto his back, strawberry fields swirling on the dark floor. The chuckles bouncing his chest are muted for your lips are sealed to his immediately.

You break away and cup his face. “God, you’re such an idiot,” you say, the last words being swept away when Jessie crosses the infinitesimal gap separating your lips. He presses hard against you as though it’s physically possible to merge with you body and soul, his fingers tangling in your (h/c) hair and pulsing when the action tears a sharp moan from you, eliciting one of his own. His hard-lined jaw rolls hungrily under your hands, a grating growl that vibrates into you causing for your body to arch into his. A year and a half of pent up passion impossibly passes between the two of you in longing sighs, trilling gasps, grasping hands, shallow breaths that fan down flushed necks and cheeks.

The world blurs when Jessie manages to roll you onto your back, and yet what could’ve easily become more, doesn’t, and only because your alarm to start the show’s preparation goes off. He hangs his head in the dip of your neck and laughs softly. “You always were the responsible one,” he exhales.

“Damn me,” you say. Jessie raises his torso and stares down at you, his eyes and smirk softening. “What?”

“I’ve waited over three years to say this,” he says as he shifts his legs to the outside of yours so you can sit up. He grips your chin so your noses almost touch. “I love you, (y/n).”

What little blood hasn’t tainted your cheeks does so now and you grin uncontrollably. “I love you too,” you say.

He smiles and, in one graceful move, is on his feet to help you stand. “Let’s get ready for opening, Mrs. Rabbit,” he hums, walking, with his arm over your shoulders and rests his cheek atop your head as his infatuated voice begins to sing out, “It had to be you. Wonderful you.”

Your voices suddenly joins his like a vow.

“It had to be you.”