Title: Watch, and Do Not Look Away
Author: Culumacilinte
Rating: R
Pairing: Shannon Hazelbourne/Jerry Devine
Summary: An uncomfortable seduction; interactions between Jerry and Shannon leading up to the infamous orgy.
Disclaimer: I disclaim! I disclaim! I own nothing, not this glorious, glittery movie, nor the characters of Shannon or Jerry. They belong to the writers of said glorious, glittery movie, and to Emily Woof and Eddie Izzard, respectively
Author's Note: There is positively no fic out there about Jerry, and I quite simply don't know why. Ok, I'm lying- I do know why, but still, I rather thought the lack needed remedying, as it were. So, here we are. My next goal is to write Jerry/Brian and make it plausible, though I'm not entirely sure how I'm going to go about accomplishing that.
'Call me Jerry,' he had said, 'please.' and smiled.
Shannon had grinned back, nervous, and clutched her handbag to her, a feeble shield against the strangeness all around her. She had been working for Bijou for at least a month now, but still she was shy, frumpy Shannon Hazelbourne, inescapably out of place, and Jerry Devine with his mismatched suits and his fat muttonchops was a strange figure to her.
'Of course, Mr. Devine,' she had said, and then, stuttering, 'I mean- Jerry.'
He had smirked at her then, as if sharing some secret jest, and sent her on her way.
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He had sauntered around the doorway, cheroot dangling lazily from his fingers, and waved a file of papers at her so that the pages fluttered against each other loudly. Shannon had looked up, startled.
'Costume designs by yourself, my dear.'
She had blinked. 'Oh, yeah. Are they alright, then, Jerry?'
A slow smile had crept over his face- a cat with a quart of stolen cream in its belly, Shannon thought. 'They're astounding, actually,' he had said, 'Exactly what we're looking for. You have remarkable talent, you know.'
She had blushed, but said nothing, and Jerry had continued. 'The only thing I fail to understand… is why you're not wearing any of it yourself.'
Shannon had looked down then, away from the figure in the doorway. 'I don't think- that is, I'm just the costumer and- and secretary, and-'
A hand had waved, decadent and jewel-covered, lazily dismissing all her protestations. 'Bollocks,' he'd laughed, and shouldered himself off the doorjamb, made his way over to her. 'You're a good-looking girl,' he'd murmured, and a hand had come up under her chin, 'You just need a bit of showing off.'
His touch had lingered for a moment, the blunt fingertips surprisingly gentle against her skin, and then he'd pulled away, tossing the folder of concept drawings on her desk.
'Draw something up for yourself, Shannon,' he had said, 'I'll see that it gets made.'
She had sat heavily down at her desk as soon as he'd left, not even trying to quell the shaking of her limbs.
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It had seemed entirely accidental at the time, at least to Shannon. Walking down the hall, calling to Micki, she had stumbled over her own platform boots, still unused to their heaviness, the height they gave her. She had fallen, papers scattering from her arms, whirling in the air like computer-printed leaves in an office-cubicle autumn. But before she had crashed to the floor, there had been a pair of strong hands, catching her and drawing her up against a body, solid and firm.
It had been Jerry, and he'd cocked an eyebrow at her, smiling a leisurely, satisfied smirk. She'd blushed and looked away, feeling acutely aware of the sudden physical contact, but reluctant to pull away, lest he take offence.
He had stepped back, though, and Shannon had half-thought she'd imagined the swift flicker of his eyes down her body. 'You'll want to be careful there, Shannon.' He'd said, playfully admonishing, and she'd nodded, grinning, bending down to gather up the papers strewn across the linoleum.
He'd lingered for a moment, watching her with interest, and then left, after seeing her off.
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There had been lips against the back of her neck, and hot breath smelling of cigar smoke. Teeth too, pressing at the soft skin there, and the brush of a fringe of hair against her own.
His hands had stayed on her shoulders, and she had not moved.
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She had known, when he watched her, known that for whatever reason, little Shannon Hazelbourne had intrigued Jerry Devine. He'd tarted her up like the personal wardrobe mistress for Brian Slade ought to be, watched her from under his eyelids as he blew his smoke rings and made his important phone calls.
And sure, he was a reasonably attractive bloke, but working at a place like Bijou, where it seemed that every male there was young, virile, bisexual, and gorgeously androgynous, he simply didn't stand out. Or rather he did, but not in a way that was particularly flattering.
But Shannon dared not say anything- he was after all her boss, and she was rather desperate to keep this job.
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He had watched her watching him, and watched him watching him, completely oblivious to her.
Sitting at his desk, his lips had curved, heavy smoke slipping from the corner of his smile, floating up in wisps and insubstantial tentacles curling in the light filtering in from the window.
Preoccupied with their own watchings, nobody noticed Jerry Devine watching all of them at once, like some strange, omniscient god at the sunlit altar of his desk at the head of the room.
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'Care for a drink, Shannon?' He'd asked, fur coat dangling over one shoulder.
She had smiled wanly. 'I don't think so, Jerry. I'm pretty tired, y'know.'
He had glided over from the doorway, coming rather closer than was perhaps entirely appropriate, as was his wont. 'Come on now,' he'd murmured, his eyes flickering from Shannon's eyes to her lips, 'Just a quick drink down the pub. I'm not asking for a night out clubbing or anything.'
'Really,' she'd tried, her voice quavering a bit, as it had done when she'd first come to work here, 'I think I'm just gonna go home, um, take a rest.'
But one of his hands had circled her small wrist, holding it between their two bodies. His thumb had crept out, caressed the fragile flesh of her inner arm, feeling the warmth of the blood beneath the thin, white skin. She had been able to smell the cologne he wore, something spicy and rich and somehow deeply uncomforting.
'For me, love?'
And she had agreed.
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Now though, he was holding out a hand to her, gentle, disarming. He was wearing nailpolish- a faint, pinkish mauve colour, better suited to a woman's hands than his own, large and capable as they were. His smile was mischievous as she laid her hand in his, feeling very small indeed, and smoothly he pulled her through the doorway, negotiating bodies naked but for the glitter makeup they wore, bodies in leather and sequins, male and female and everything in between.
Something deep within her revolted, cried to pull away, go back to her office, back to her home, her tweed skirts and unflattering jumpers, but then she was up against the wall, and Jerry's hands were on her, his mouth on her neck, and she could move nowhere. His tongue flickered out, tracing over her pulse point, and a little whimper caught in her throat, despite herself. Sharp teeth bit at her skin, and looking over suddenly across the room, she saw Brian.
Brian laying back on a couch, his eyes closed, lips dark and pouty and half-parted, looking as though he slept. How innocent he seemed, even here, with a slender, black hand tracing up his chest and a slim boy kissing the side of his neck; an angel fallen amidst filth and debauchery. Bollocks, whispered a disobedient, spiteful voice in the back of her head, as if Brian Slade was ever innocent. She chose to ignore it, and continued staring, hoping perhaps that his eyes would open, that he would see her, take her away…
She watched Brian and could not look away, as Jerry ripped open the zip of her shirt, kissing down her chest, licking at the soft, tender skin of her breasts, breathing hot and wet against her. Oh, he was experienced, and she was not, and it was so strange, this feeling. Watching Brian it felt so good.
Vaguely, she saw Jerry's head moving down, down, kissing a little path down the curve of her stomach, and she slid her hands into his hair, more because she felt it was the thing to do than because of any particular desire to. It was nice, though- soft and fluffy, threading easily through her fingers. His voice buzzed against her stomach as he spoke.
'Have you ever done this before, love?'
She started, tearing her gaze away from Brian. On his knees, Jerry gazed up at her, his eyes dark, his expression appreciative, amused, and lit with something like lust. Shannon shook her head.
'Never.'
'Well,' he grinned, 'Let's make it worth your while then, yeah?'
She closed her eyes as his head dipped in, fingers undoing the button of her trousers, sliding them gently down around her legs, pants following. Her hands tightened in his hair as his breath ghosted the nest of dark curls at the juncture of her legs, and the wetness there throbbed strangely, heat curling in her belly. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, urging her to open her legs, and she did, awkwardly, hesitantly. Another kiss, then, higher still, and then a finger sliding up into her, strange and alien, and she could feel herself tighten around him. He chuckled low in his throat and bent forward, and Shannon's body tensed horribly as his tongue flicked out, licking against her, once, twice, ever so gently. He did it again, and her whole body shuddered. Her fingers dug into his scalp, one hand sliding down onto his shoulder, and he made a little sound like a moan. The noise juddered through her, sending nerve endings alight and setting the muscles in her stomach jumping. Her hips moved slightly, against her will, into the touch of his mouth.
'Look at me,' he muttered, and obediently she opened her eyes. She did not look down at Jerry, though. Instead, her gaze swept across the room, strangely desperate, searching.
Brian was gone.
Jerry took no notice.