Targon1991
Refugee
ok, this is my first fic, comments would be greatly appreciated. 
ok, I don't know or own larry, none of this is real, hence fiction.
I drudge through the rain soaked streets,
towards an obscure place a couple blocks away.
Hoping that it will lift my spirits and make me forget
about the unfortunate setting the city is in tonight.
The rain pours down on me. New York is enveloped in
another dark, stormy night. The moon, a slim
crescent, is concealed by dark gray phantasms,
trapping the faint glow in their clutches. The only
light is that of the lightning that rips the clouds
apart, and roars making me aware of its looming
presence. I ignore its call, and keep walking. Soon, I
find it, attached to closed stores, and vacant office
space, my haven. I walk in, putting my coat on the
rack and wiping the rain out of my long black hair. I
lead my way to a familiar corner booth, adjacent to
one of the windows. I sit and relax watching the
smoke drift lightly through the air. I lay my head
against the window, and listen to the rain as it
pounds out its own drumbeat to the soft saxophone
crooning in the direction of the dimly lit stage. The
imperturbable atmosphere makes the large room
seem much smaller. I hear the door open, and rays
of light coming from the street are scattered across
the floor, dancing to the soft steady drone of the
bass. I barely make out the figure that has entered
the club. It is a man with a light, even beard,
stunning features, short, full blonde hair, and a skull
earring dangling from his right ear. He is wearing a
heavy, black coat under which, a fitting shirt shows
off his physique. He sits in the corner alone and
rests his head against a wall, letting the soothing
music float all his cares away. I stare, captivated by
him. I’ve never seen him in here before. He scans
the room. His eyes moving fluidly, as though he’s
looking for someone. He turns and looks straight at
me, but I don’t look away. He burns a hole right
through me, and it feels as though he’s looking at
my soul and can read my thoughts. He leans
forward in his seat, looking to see if anyone is with
me. After he finds his answer, he sinks back, lights a
cigarette, and watches the band. His hands start
tapping the table, playing on a non-existent drum. I
watch him, and the beat he’s playing matches the
one pounding next to my ear. I shift slightly towards
the wall, looking out the window. The storm is slowly
clearing up, moving along to reveal the sharp light of
the moon. I lose myself in my thoughts and the
buzz of the music. I stare at the moon, thinking of
the day before. Suddenly I feel the booth sink,
accommodating the strange man. I turn quickly, and
his face is several inches from mine, I find myself
strangely at ease, staring directly into his silver-blue
eyes. He sits there staring at me, fixed, enchanted
by my exotic looks, and dark hair. I blink, and he
snaps back to reality and moves back into the booth,
laughing softly at himself and his abnormal actions.
“Hello, sorry about being so… oopfront. I’m
Larry.”
‘Wow.’ I think, ‘what an accent.’ His deep Irish
brogue dances melodically in my ear, and makes the
simple introduction intrigue me. I finally get past his
voice and respond. “That’s okay, nice to meet you.”
We sat there talking to each other, about trivial
things, like the weather, both casting secret glances
at each other. Listening to the band, commenting on
their style.
"How did you find this place? I’ve never seen you
here before." I ask.
“I try to keep meself low-key.”
“I bet that’s hard; with the looks you have, you
should be a model. What do you do, by the way?”
“Um… I hit things.”
I laugh but then I realize he’s not joking. I look at
him, puzzled. “You hit things?”
“Yes, I hit things.”
“And people pay you to hit things?”
“Very much so.”
“What type of things do you hit?” I gasp, “Oh my
gosh! Are you a hitman?!” My eyes growing wide.
“No, no. I hit mostly percussion things, but every
one and a while I get to hit a guy with an oversized
ego and big mouth.” He laughs half way through the
comment, obviously poking fun at someone I didn’t
know.
“So you’re a drummer. I’ve always liked drummer
boys.”
He chuckles at my compliment. His throaty laugh
filling our little corner.
“Well I like you, you’re so different from everyone
else, but in a good way. It separates you, makes you
special.”
I look down at the table fumbling for words, hoping
my crimson hot cheeks don’t give me away. I look
out the window, try to concentrate on the moment,
and get my head straight. When I finally get a hold of
myself, I turn back to him.
“Let me buy you a drink, what do you want?” he
offers.
I giggle, trying to stifle my laughter.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, that’s such a clichéd line.” I say, my
laughter fading, leaving him and I both feeling silly.
He sits back down, looking at me. And a new song
starts, a deep, hypnotizing type of song that pulls
you in on the first riff of the guitar. He shifts closer
to me while keeping his eyes on the band, our hips
touching. The song picks up, and Larry puts his hand
on both of our knees, slowly moving it onto mine.
The songs moves into its second verse, and he
moves his hand to the top of my thigh, flexing his
hand, massaging. The solo starts, and Larry’s hand
responds to the highs and lows of it. Moving slowly
down, closer, he feels me tense up. He moves his
hand back to the top, stroking my knee with his
thumb, still staring at the band. I put my hand on
his face, and he turns to me. Our faces are inches
apart again, but this time he kisses me, pressing our
lips together. I pull back smiling, and my lips, tasting
chocolate on them. “Sweet.” I say as my eyes open.
He moves in for another kiss, more passionate that
the last. Being as passionate he could in a dark
public place filled with smoke, with a musical
distraction. After several minutes, an out-of-breath
Larry stands up from the booth, and helps me out of
it. His arm around me, he leads toward the exit. We
both reach for our coats, which are coincidentally on
top of each other. He grabs my hand in his, and our
coats in another. He holds me close, and looks into
my dark brown eyes.
"What's your name?"
I move closer and whisper in his ear. He smirks, and
puts his hands around my waist and leads us out of
the club, asking as if he may have misheard it, "Ok...
Babydoll...”
And the storm has passed, the clouds
disappeared, and the sky is clear.
ok, I don't know or own larry, none of this is real, hence fiction.
I drudge through the rain soaked streets,
towards an obscure place a couple blocks away.
Hoping that it will lift my spirits and make me forget
about the unfortunate setting the city is in tonight.
The rain pours down on me. New York is enveloped in
another dark, stormy night. The moon, a slim
crescent, is concealed by dark gray phantasms,
trapping the faint glow in their clutches. The only
light is that of the lightning that rips the clouds
apart, and roars making me aware of its looming
presence. I ignore its call, and keep walking. Soon, I
find it, attached to closed stores, and vacant office
space, my haven. I walk in, putting my coat on the
rack and wiping the rain out of my long black hair. I
lead my way to a familiar corner booth, adjacent to
one of the windows. I sit and relax watching the
smoke drift lightly through the air. I lay my head
against the window, and listen to the rain as it
pounds out its own drumbeat to the soft saxophone
crooning in the direction of the dimly lit stage. The
imperturbable atmosphere makes the large room
seem much smaller. I hear the door open, and rays
of light coming from the street are scattered across
the floor, dancing to the soft steady drone of the
bass. I barely make out the figure that has entered
the club. It is a man with a light, even beard,
stunning features, short, full blonde hair, and a skull
earring dangling from his right ear. He is wearing a
heavy, black coat under which, a fitting shirt shows
off his physique. He sits in the corner alone and
rests his head against a wall, letting the soothing
music float all his cares away. I stare, captivated by
him. I’ve never seen him in here before. He scans
the room. His eyes moving fluidly, as though he’s
looking for someone. He turns and looks straight at
me, but I don’t look away. He burns a hole right
through me, and it feels as though he’s looking at
my soul and can read my thoughts. He leans
forward in his seat, looking to see if anyone is with
me. After he finds his answer, he sinks back, lights a
cigarette, and watches the band. His hands start
tapping the table, playing on a non-existent drum. I
watch him, and the beat he’s playing matches the
one pounding next to my ear. I shift slightly towards
the wall, looking out the window. The storm is slowly
clearing up, moving along to reveal the sharp light of
the moon. I lose myself in my thoughts and the
buzz of the music. I stare at the moon, thinking of
the day before. Suddenly I feel the booth sink,
accommodating the strange man. I turn quickly, and
his face is several inches from mine, I find myself
strangely at ease, staring directly into his silver-blue
eyes. He sits there staring at me, fixed, enchanted
by my exotic looks, and dark hair. I blink, and he
snaps back to reality and moves back into the booth,
laughing softly at himself and his abnormal actions.
“Hello, sorry about being so… oopfront. I’m
Larry.”
‘Wow.’ I think, ‘what an accent.’ His deep Irish
brogue dances melodically in my ear, and makes the
simple introduction intrigue me. I finally get past his
voice and respond. “That’s okay, nice to meet you.”
We sat there talking to each other, about trivial
things, like the weather, both casting secret glances
at each other. Listening to the band, commenting on
their style.
"How did you find this place? I’ve never seen you
here before." I ask.
“I try to keep meself low-key.”
“I bet that’s hard; with the looks you have, you
should be a model. What do you do, by the way?”
“Um… I hit things.”
I laugh but then I realize he’s not joking. I look at
him, puzzled. “You hit things?”
“Yes, I hit things.”
“And people pay you to hit things?”
“Very much so.”
“What type of things do you hit?” I gasp, “Oh my
gosh! Are you a hitman?!” My eyes growing wide.
“No, no. I hit mostly percussion things, but every
one and a while I get to hit a guy with an oversized
ego and big mouth.” He laughs half way through the
comment, obviously poking fun at someone I didn’t
know.
“So you’re a drummer. I’ve always liked drummer
boys.”
He chuckles at my compliment. His throaty laugh
filling our little corner.
“Well I like you, you’re so different from everyone
else, but in a good way. It separates you, makes you
special.”
I look down at the table fumbling for words, hoping
my crimson hot cheeks don’t give me away. I look
out the window, try to concentrate on the moment,
and get my head straight. When I finally get a hold of
myself, I turn back to him.
“Let me buy you a drink, what do you want?” he
offers.
I giggle, trying to stifle my laughter.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, that’s such a clichéd line.” I say, my
laughter fading, leaving him and I both feeling silly.
He sits back down, looking at me. And a new song
starts, a deep, hypnotizing type of song that pulls
you in on the first riff of the guitar. He shifts closer
to me while keeping his eyes on the band, our hips
touching. The song picks up, and Larry puts his hand
on both of our knees, slowly moving it onto mine.
The songs moves into its second verse, and he
moves his hand to the top of my thigh, flexing his
hand, massaging. The solo starts, and Larry’s hand
responds to the highs and lows of it. Moving slowly
down, closer, he feels me tense up. He moves his
hand back to the top, stroking my knee with his
thumb, still staring at the band. I put my hand on
his face, and he turns to me. Our faces are inches
apart again, but this time he kisses me, pressing our
lips together. I pull back smiling, and my lips, tasting
chocolate on them. “Sweet.” I say as my eyes open.
He moves in for another kiss, more passionate that
the last. Being as passionate he could in a dark
public place filled with smoke, with a musical
distraction. After several minutes, an out-of-breath
Larry stands up from the booth, and helps me out of
it. His arm around me, he leads toward the exit. We
both reach for our coats, which are coincidentally on
top of each other. He grabs my hand in his, and our
coats in another. He holds me close, and looks into
my dark brown eyes.
"What's your name?"
I move closer and whisper in his ear. He smirks, and
puts his hands around my waist and leads us out of
the club, asking as if he may have misheard it, "Ok...
Babydoll...”
And the storm has passed, the clouds
disappeared, and the sky is clear.
because i thought you was writing it about yourself!
