All Brooklyn's Men~ by Crunch
*shifty glance around*
Woo hoo for my debut ambiguously abstract slash fic! Yes, I am wading into the world of slash, one step at a time. Wish me luck! Ah, and the angst. Well, it started OUT fluffy. . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Take a left at the Oyster Bay Harbor, on the very outskirts of the borough. Across the sunny docks where hordes of Irish children linger, hurling them towards the green and glassy surface of the water to escape the beatings of the bright yellow sky upon their coiled young backs.
On towards the deep dark heart of the harbor, careful not to look the rabble of meaty young men in the eye, for if they see fear, they'll pounce like frenzied wolves at the first whiff of blood.
Harden your face and stiffen your back and keep going- climb the rickety wooden steps of an old fishery, now a burned out and gutted skeleton that squats in the midst of progress like a rotten vegetable in a vendor's sidewalk stand.
Weave your way through the creaking wooden posts and rafters- watch out for rusty nails, loose boards and drunken bodies.
Cross to the back boardwalk, a dilapidated shaft of wooden planks where harbor masters and fisher boys once stood amongst the writhing silver sea of their daily catch; their bread and butter.
Give a marble or two to the beefy boys playing at body guards, and when they begrudgingly nod you on, straiten your vest and say a prayer, and step into the exoskeleton of an old hook shed. The rusted lobster cages and yellow rain slickers are gone, removed or looted, and the smell of ripe earthworms is replaced by the sweetish odor of whisky. Here, by a pile of crates in the shape of a throne, on a boardwalk above his subjects, stands Brooklyn himself.
As wiry as a cable pulley, but as grand as the purple mountains majesty, Brooklyn guards his kingdom with nothing but a winning smile and a dead-on sling shot.
It's not with brawns that he guards the borough- his arms are thick as drinking straws compared to some of his ogre-ish foes.
Perhaps it's his eyes. . .his eyes are supposed to be blue- ocean blue, cerulean blue, ultra magnetically intensely blue. Few have seen them, just the ghost of them beneath the shadow of his checkered gray cabbie hat. But they're supposed to be a hypnotic sea of unconquerable blue. At least, that's what everybody says.
I don't know why they say that. His eyes are green.
Pretty green- no doubt in my mind about that, but not blue. Maybe a touch hypnotic, but certainly not unconquerable.
But Brooklyn will never admit that he is not unconquerable.
Smile respectfully, but not suggestively- drop your head and don't speak until spoken to. If he stays on his throne and shakes his head ( not enough to upset the jaunty angle of his cap or the dirty golden strands beneath, but noticeable enough if you're looking for it, and I always am) then nod and throw a casual "See youse around" over your shoulder as you turn to go.
But if he descends from his perch and offers up the sacred spit shake, then the time is right. "Let's go fer a walk, eh?" He'll say, and follow him closely- you must remember to stay a footfall or so behind, so that even among the commoners he remains royalty.
Keep your head down as you pass his minions, wait politely as he pauses here and there to pat an ally on the shoulder, or whisper into a foot soldier's ear. These are all Brooklyn's men, and even though you've come the farthest to meet him, because he NEVER comes to meet you, Gawd forbid- even so, Brooklyn's men come first. Everyone else comes first.
When you reach the alleyway, your special alleyway, a long-abandoned number so gloomy and deep into the intricate maze of the crumbling harbor that even the winos can't find it, stand by- stand very still and wait for Brooklyn. He likes to be the first to move; he likes to be unconquerable.
Bite your lip and keep quiet as he pushes you against the scum splattered bricks, even as you crack your head against the wall from the unrestrained force of his thrust. The moaning will come later, but if you make a sound, any squeak to give away your position to an imaginary scout or spy, then all bets are off.
Don't kiss him- just kiss him back. There IS a difference, and he knows it because he's like a live grenade; any shift in air currents or change in pressure, and he goes off. If he thinks you're making the moves on him, the tryst is over. Because Brooklyn doesn't swing that way. Really.
And when he moans "Jacky-boy" in the heat of the moment, ignore it. Tell yourself he doesn't know what he's saying- he doesn't mean it. Tell yourself you're lucky to be here, just to be with Brooklyn himself. Tell yourself it doesn't matter.
Tell yourself whatever it takes, just don't quit..
Because nobody in their right mind quits on Brooklyn. Just learn the rules- live or die by them. I've learned the rules by heart, because I'll never know Brooklyn by heart. There's only one man capable of that, but he'll never know, because I'll never tell, and neither will Brooklyn.
He would never tell anyone that he swings THAT way. He would never admit to weakness or desire, which are really just the same thing.
Because rule number one is that Brooklyn is unconquerable.
* * * * * * * * *
So? Give me an R! Give me an EVIEW! Short, pointless, and angsty. . . all the things I love in a fic. Bonus points if you guess which newsie this is. . .
*shifty glance around*
Woo hoo for my debut ambiguously abstract slash fic! Yes, I am wading into the world of slash, one step at a time. Wish me luck! Ah, and the angst. Well, it started OUT fluffy. . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Take a left at the Oyster Bay Harbor, on the very outskirts of the borough. Across the sunny docks where hordes of Irish children linger, hurling them towards the green and glassy surface of the water to escape the beatings of the bright yellow sky upon their coiled young backs.
On towards the deep dark heart of the harbor, careful not to look the rabble of meaty young men in the eye, for if they see fear, they'll pounce like frenzied wolves at the first whiff of blood.
Harden your face and stiffen your back and keep going- climb the rickety wooden steps of an old fishery, now a burned out and gutted skeleton that squats in the midst of progress like a rotten vegetable in a vendor's sidewalk stand.
Weave your way through the creaking wooden posts and rafters- watch out for rusty nails, loose boards and drunken bodies.
Cross to the back boardwalk, a dilapidated shaft of wooden planks where harbor masters and fisher boys once stood amongst the writhing silver sea of their daily catch; their bread and butter.
Give a marble or two to the beefy boys playing at body guards, and when they begrudgingly nod you on, straiten your vest and say a prayer, and step into the exoskeleton of an old hook shed. The rusted lobster cages and yellow rain slickers are gone, removed or looted, and the smell of ripe earthworms is replaced by the sweetish odor of whisky. Here, by a pile of crates in the shape of a throne, on a boardwalk above his subjects, stands Brooklyn himself.
As wiry as a cable pulley, but as grand as the purple mountains majesty, Brooklyn guards his kingdom with nothing but a winning smile and a dead-on sling shot.
It's not with brawns that he guards the borough- his arms are thick as drinking straws compared to some of his ogre-ish foes.
Perhaps it's his eyes. . .his eyes are supposed to be blue- ocean blue, cerulean blue, ultra magnetically intensely blue. Few have seen them, just the ghost of them beneath the shadow of his checkered gray cabbie hat. But they're supposed to be a hypnotic sea of unconquerable blue. At least, that's what everybody says.
I don't know why they say that. His eyes are green.
Pretty green- no doubt in my mind about that, but not blue. Maybe a touch hypnotic, but certainly not unconquerable.
But Brooklyn will never admit that he is not unconquerable.
Smile respectfully, but not suggestively- drop your head and don't speak until spoken to. If he stays on his throne and shakes his head ( not enough to upset the jaunty angle of his cap or the dirty golden strands beneath, but noticeable enough if you're looking for it, and I always am) then nod and throw a casual "See youse around" over your shoulder as you turn to go.
But if he descends from his perch and offers up the sacred spit shake, then the time is right. "Let's go fer a walk, eh?" He'll say, and follow him closely- you must remember to stay a footfall or so behind, so that even among the commoners he remains royalty.
Keep your head down as you pass his minions, wait politely as he pauses here and there to pat an ally on the shoulder, or whisper into a foot soldier's ear. These are all Brooklyn's men, and even though you've come the farthest to meet him, because he NEVER comes to meet you, Gawd forbid- even so, Brooklyn's men come first. Everyone else comes first.
When you reach the alleyway, your special alleyway, a long-abandoned number so gloomy and deep into the intricate maze of the crumbling harbor that even the winos can't find it, stand by- stand very still and wait for Brooklyn. He likes to be the first to move; he likes to be unconquerable.
Bite your lip and keep quiet as he pushes you against the scum splattered bricks, even as you crack your head against the wall from the unrestrained force of his thrust. The moaning will come later, but if you make a sound, any squeak to give away your position to an imaginary scout or spy, then all bets are off.
Don't kiss him- just kiss him back. There IS a difference, and he knows it because he's like a live grenade; any shift in air currents or change in pressure, and he goes off. If he thinks you're making the moves on him, the tryst is over. Because Brooklyn doesn't swing that way. Really.
And when he moans "Jacky-boy" in the heat of the moment, ignore it. Tell yourself he doesn't know what he's saying- he doesn't mean it. Tell yourself you're lucky to be here, just to be with Brooklyn himself. Tell yourself it doesn't matter.
Tell yourself whatever it takes, just don't quit..
Because nobody in their right mind quits on Brooklyn. Just learn the rules- live or die by them. I've learned the rules by heart, because I'll never know Brooklyn by heart. There's only one man capable of that, but he'll never know, because I'll never tell, and neither will Brooklyn.
He would never tell anyone that he swings THAT way. He would never admit to weakness or desire, which are really just the same thing.
Because rule number one is that Brooklyn is unconquerable.
* * * * * * * * *
So? Give me an R! Give me an EVIEW! Short, pointless, and angsty. . . all the things I love in a fic. Bonus points if you guess which newsie this is. . .