Jessica Rabbit Fanfiction

Jessica Rabbit Story

Commissioned by: anongreay

Written by: Danni Lynn

Word count: 3,500 words

January 10th, 2023

Synopsis: A rewrite of Jessica Rabbit's performance scene from the movie, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, in Jessica's point of view.

Rating: PG-13, suggestive content, not explicit

The lights of my vanity sizzle to life and cast a murky golden light across my dressing room. The dressing room walls are covered in an assortment of framed pictures and news articles. A long couch is on the wall behind me alongside the door out to the Ink and Paint Club’s stage. I can imagine the golden star on the door to my room as I look in the mirror, my long red hair spilling over my shoulders. I open a drawer and place an array of make up on the vanity: eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, foundation, and more. I brush, paint, and bring my face to life, highlighting the narrow bridge of my nose, highlighting my eyes with glittering white makeup and filling my eyelids in with lilac-colored eye shadow.

I flick my wrist and put a wing to my eyeliner and then cake on the mascara for a lash-lengthening effect.

“Get out of here, get me some money too…” I sing, puckering my lips and lining them with bright red lipstick.

A knock comes at the door.

“Five minutes!”

“Thank you, five!” I respond. I put down the lipstick, flip my hair over one shoulder and stand up to examine myself with a swell of warm pride in my chest. I’m dressed in my favorite red dress—sparkling and bejeweled with thousands of rhinestones—high heels, and long purple gloves that stretch up past my elbows. The skirt of my dress splits high on my thighs and is backless, the open sweetheart top clings to my breasts, presenting them brazenly and in a beautiful fashion.

I sigh with a smile. I feel good. I have one more show to do tonight and then I’ll be able to go home to my husband, Roger. I begin to hum, lilting my voice up and down a selection of scales, trilling to the top and sliding down low into husky undertones. I touch my waist and sway my hips, imagining the warmth of the spotlight on my exposed skin, the way I’ll sparkle under the lights, before the audience of drooling men. Men at my control, hanging on to my every word.

As my hips sway, the dress shuffles, the fabric sliding off and across my thighs, exposing even more skin. I shuffle on my high heels, nearly standing on my toes, as they accentuate my posture, thrusting out and bringing attention to my physical endowments. I’ll have them drooling for sure—I’ll tease, impress, and awe. My skin tingles, and my heart is light as if an airiness is bubbling up in my chest and belly—room enough for butterflies.

I love performing. I love singing. I love the stage, the lights… the power of it all. I feel invincible standing in the spotlight with all eyes on me. Not pervasive or unwanted eyes—eyes I invite and attract through my own actions and prowess. Up there, I am beloved, and the best part? I stop swaying and wrap my arms around my thin waist. I get to go home to Roger’s arms afterward and sink into his warmth and support.

“Curtains ready!”

I shake my hands and twirl my wrists. I shift my wait, sliding my smooth calves against each other then stretching my arms high over my head, stretching my lithe body as I feel the nervous pre-performance energy run through me. I sing another strain and throw my voice in the air, going up and down, breathing in and out as my psych myself up.

“Let’s go, pretty lady. Knock their socks off,” I murmur to my reflection. I kiss my hand and blow the kiss at the mirror before exciting the dressing room.

***

“Jessica Rabbit, curtains are going up in one minute,” a stagehand says.

I walk out onto the stage, between an aisle of curtains, the red ones on my left to the theatre beyond and deep blue velvet curtains concealing the jazz band on my right. My heels tap across the floor, silenced by the growing whistles and applause on the other side of the curtain. I step behind the blue curtains, centerstage, the velvet rippling across my skin.

There is a rustle and a clatter as the front stage curtains open, pulling up into the rafters as the crowd outside whoops and claps—whistles and wolf-howls bursting out loud into a clamoring uproar.

“Jessica Rabbit!”

“Oh wowee!!”

I wrap my fingers around the edge of the curtain, unseen by the audience. My butterflies grow and my whole body vibrates with the building energy of the moment. Behind me, a band of cartoon crows strike up the slow jazzy tune. I breath in and then expend all the air from my body, pushing out all nerves and sharpening myself into a silky confidence. I grip the curtain harder, digging my fingers in and then relax and take my first step.

“Ya had plenty money—”

I extend my leg, sticking it out of the curtain and reach out my toes, the heel reflecting in the spotlight. Waves of yells crash over me and whistles punctuate the crowd’s hunger. I pause, soaking it all in before I bend my leg at the knee and pull the heel back to lightly touch my shin, letting the sight hover as my voice carries the lyrics on a velvety vibrato.

“—1922.”

I push the curtain and step out, bust first, into the full spotlight. The room before me lights up into a darkness full of fireflies as I am mercifully blinded by the spotlight, existing in my own musical bubble of soft clouds and white light. The tables around the stage are only visible for their table lamps, the entire audience is in the dark, save for a few well-dressed begging men who are already pawing at the edge of the stage with their mouths and eyes wide open.

“You let other women make a fool of you.” I put my hands on my hips, flare my elbows out and strut across the stage, sashaying with every step. With each heel strike, I thrust out my chest in a wave of motion, moving languidly like a flower swirling down a stream. I walk to the edge of the stage and put my back to the wall, arching the small of my back and pushing my shoulders against the frame as I slide down, bending my knees in a half-crouch. The dress slides from my thigh and exposes my flesh to the crowd’s delight. I smile, letting the words slip from behind my teeth and pout my lips, turning the lyrics into a sappy croon, enough to make any man wilt.

I stand up and walk back to center stage slowly, each line and step holding the room’s attention. I move deliberately slow, leaning into the capricious march of the song, stretching it along until I am the only guide, leading the show through my maze of lyrics and saucy gazes. I can make this performance as long as I like, and I know they will never look away from my siren song.

I go down stage until my toes are on the edge. A man stands up and reaches for me, his eyes wide, as if he is staring into an all-consuming light. I tap over and gently put my foot on his forehead and push him away, swinging my leg dramatically only when he has fallen back.

“Get out of here,” I serenade. He catches his balance with a laugh and returns to his seat, heart nearly thudding out his chest. I saunter back to center stage and begin my way down the stage’s extension, one slow step at a time.

“Now, if you had prepared twenty years ago,

“You wouldn’t be a wandering now from door to door.”

The men all around me lean out of the seats as if they are savoring every move I make. I stop and stretch out my leg, striking a pose, lifting my chest which blooms under the spotlight with the intensity of the sunlight reflecting off a car’s fender or gathered together to brighten a ray of light through a magnifying glass, to burn those all around with sore love and want. I lift a delicate hand into the air and stroke my arm with the other hand, as I stick out a hip and look at the men.

What will I do to them? I think to myself. I can make them drool, lust, and reach for me without ever receiving my direct touch. I can lead them on and make them feel all the rapture of a moment. A man to my left stands up, his eyes struck by the spotlight washing over me. I tap my finger on his nose and then spread my palm slowly across his face, not missing a beat as I sing the next verse. He slowly sits back down, nearly cross-eyed as he tries to look at my hand on his face. He drops back into his seat and I pull away.

“Why don’t you do right?

“Like some other men do…”

A man sitting close to the stage extension stares at me with a dumbfounded expression. A cartoon, Betty Boop, a woman in the old age’s black and white style bats her eye lashes and whispers to the man with dark hair, a bowler cap, and layer of a jacket, suit jacket, and a button up shirt, accented by a long tie. He looks unsure, shocked even, but when Betty Boop reaches over and shuts his open jaw for him, he looks bewildered and a little enraged, as if he doesn’t know what to think. What? Has a cartoon never made him shiver with desire? He looks as if he is suffering an internal argument.

“She’s married to Roger Rabbit?” he says over the crowd to Betty Boop.

Betty Boop shimmies her shoulders and clasps her hands with a sigh. “Yeah, what a lucky girl.” She blinks dramatically. I give her a small smirk.

My regular, the jolly, the happy ACME sits at his usual table next to the stage. The smell of a heavy-handed use of cologne surrounds him like a cloud. Sweat beads on the bald top of his head and his round face holds a big nose between round eyes and a bigger smile. He is dressed up in a worn plaid jacket and colorful bowtie.

From the stage, I reach out a hand and step onto the tablecloth covered top of his table. ACME leaps up and takes my hand delicately, hardly putting any pressure on my fingers, as I step down onto a chair and then the ground as if I simply walked on a set of stairs from the stage. ACME sits back down, nearly quivering with excitement—different from the other men—and his eyes never leave mine. His gaze does not sweep across my body or drink in the curves I display, he only watches my face and hangs onto every word with that big cheesy smile.

“Get out of here…” I repeat. I walk around ACME who does not turn to follow me. I bend over, my dress stretching flatteringly over my backside, and pinch his cheeks, shaking his face playfully from behind. ACME yelps with joy and stays still as I play with him. A sweet man. Innocent. Next, I pluck a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and rub it on his head as if polishing the surface.

I leave ACME and step into the depths of the room, weaving between tables and caressing a few different people as I pass. A cartoon penguin working as a waiter chortles as I go past and I tickle him under the chin. I take one man’s hat and swing it on my finger before giving it to another. I reach to some as I sing my verses, only to pull away at the last second and focus somewhere else, leaving them hanging on that unfulfilled moment. I wander over to a table where a well-dressed couple sits. The woman is decked out in fine jewelry and has her hair twisted into an updo. The man wears a sharp suit and has his hair slicked back. As I get closer, the woman’s lip curls, and her brow lowers at my approach. I smirk and walk straight up to her man who eyes are locked on my chest, widening as I get closer and his hands twitching with anticipation.

I continue to sing and come close.

“Gotcha,” I purr. I tuck my hands behind his head and bringing his head close to my belly, his eyes and neck strain to look up at my chest that he so wants while the rhinestones reflect in his eyes. I shimmy my shoulders, bouncing my breasts just above his head and stroke down his neck before pushing him back unsteady into his chair. I tap the woman on the chin as I get up and she leaps back before slapping her man on the shoulder.

“What are you doing?!” she hisses at the man. He winces.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“You’re right. You didn’t do anything! You just let her—”

They continue to argue in harsh whispered tones. As I step away, I look over my shoulder and see his eyes on me again, taking in the sight of my curves. The woman gasps and pinches him. Hurriedly, he flushes a deep red and leans away, sneaking a pained glance at me. He’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight for sure. She won’t let him live this down for a long time.

I slip away and continue around the tables, singing each verse to the vibrations of the deep bass and piano on stage. The band plucks away as I strut and come up to the man with the dark hair sitting next to Betty Boop. Betty flutters her eyelashes at me and steps away as I approach. I stop in front of the man and slide onto his lap, sitting down and pressing my breasts upon his sternum. His body goes stiff, and he stops breathing as his eyes widen and every fiber of his being looks at me, struggling to not look down with me so close and aware of his open lust.

“Get out of here…” I lean in even closer and take off his hat and wrap my fingers into the lapel of his shirt. Underneath the shirt, his shoulder and chest jerks, jumping with shock at my touch. I slither my fingers in farther, curling them around his collar and stroking down his chest. Then, I lean in, my breasts swelling out of my top to press against him as he goes from skeptic a to a begging dog.

“Get me some money too…”I sing, holding myself close to him a moment more as his body shivers. My hair slides off my shoulder and drapes against the side of his face before I slide off his lap, pressing against him lightly to make my presence remembered. He looks like he thinks he is so strong, so in control but that is not the case, not while he is under my power. I push my breasts against his face and a suck of breath rattles him as a soft moan escapes his lips, stirring from somewhere deep within his body. Satisfied, I stand up and touch his chin and trace his face from chin to ear, dragging my manicured nail across his smooth skin. He isn’t in control as he hangs onto this touch, leaning toward me even as I move away. The pupils in his eyes dilate and his mouth begins to go limp again, hanging open with his jaw toward the floor.

I back away and turn around, making sure his eyes are still on me as I go back to the stage and sit on it, crossing my legs, the fabric of my skirt falling open once again as I lean back on my arms, my chest the center of attention.

“Why don’t you do this right?” I lean forward and curl my body toward the melting form of the man. I reach out and grab his tie with a strong hand and pull him toward me. His eyes widen into saucers as he looks up at me, quivering.

“Like some of the men—”

I tilt my head, his breath meeting mine, and half-close my eyes as if I am leaning in for a kiss. Sweat beads on his lips and he looks as if his heart has stopped mid beat in the way his lips part, frozen with amazement. The entire room holds a collective breath as gasps hush into anticipating silence.

I finish the verse after my pause holds the entire room on the edges of their seats. I sing the final, “do,” and let it slip quietly from my lips as the tie now slides from my fingers and I back away, letting him collapse back into his seat, limp, and powerless.

The band plays their last closing refrain and I get back up on stage, parting from the spell I have cast and enter the back centerstage with one more look over my shoulder into the audience before the curtain falls and the music comes to and end.

***

The moments after a performance always feel brand new. It’s like the moment when you kick off your heels and step onto the flat ground, only your foot refuses to flatten, unbending to the world’s will until you stumble around enough and get the feeling back into your feet.

In my dressing room, I kick off my heels and tie up my hair, pulling the long red strands back into a loose updo. I feel shivers, an aftereffect of an incredible performance. While on stage I am calm, I am in the moment and let my body take over, sashaying and leading my mind along, feeling the words I have to sing, showing me where to go and what to do next. It is a blind faith, a natural inclination to know what to do and how to awe the crowd before me. It’s a power to hold in my hands, it is a control that I adore and take care of with a special touch. I know what its like to be in a powerless situation, to be forced into something you don’t want to do so in my moments up on stage, I am the one who experiences the control, I am the one who is beautiful, elegant, and exudes the power that exists within the intoxicating quivers of my voice.

I sit down at my vanity, my skirt splitting over my thighs again to fall over my hips as I now sit bare legged on my stool. I finger the glittering rhinestones, and the starlight they create. I smile. I look into the mirror; at the perfect face I have painted. I imagine washing it all away and going home for the night to my husband’s arms where he views me with so much love no matter how I do or do not doll myself up. Maybe, just for tonight, I’ll keep the make up on and sing for him, in a gentler, innocent way. He loves my voice, and my heart feels so full when he sits back and listens to me practice or sing some of his favorite songs.

Tonight was a good show. I might put it down as one of my favorites. It’s not often that someone who is so unused to cartoons stumbles into my audience. Usually, it’s a love for or an attempted exploitation of womanly cartoons that creates my audiences’ whims—except for innocent ACME—but little do they know, they only walk in to my own control during my shows, instead of the other way around.

I hum a little and remove my purple gloves. I stretch my arms back over my head, the sweet-heart top of my dress jostling to cover me, as little as it needs to. I put my arms back down and look up to the ceiling of my room with a smile. I yearn to be back up on that stage again, to hold the energy of the performance in my heart, to hold the attention in my hand at every moment. It is a high that remains special and is enjoyed only on performance nights, but I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of the room around me, trying to pull it all in and make the moment last a little longer.

What a pleasure it is. And how good, it makes me feel.

Note: All characters, lyrics, and storylines belong to the rightful owners. This is a work of fanfiction, I do not claim ownership over any of these characters or ideas.

Synopsis: A rewrite of Jessica Rabbit's performance scene from the movie, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, in Jessica's point of view.

Rating: PG-13, suggestive content, not explicit

Note: All characters, lyrics, and storylines belong to the rightful owners. This is a work of fanfiction, I do not claim ownership over any of these characters or ideas.