#nothing can hurt me if there's mediocre comedy in my ear

[candledapple]

fighting night anxiety w my army of cozy game twitch vods

[newcaptainofsquad9]

Not So Korean Drama~Park Sooyoung(Joy) x black!fem!reader

Pairing: Sooyoung/Joy x reader

Genre: Romance, Comedy(not really), College AU, Fluff

Summary: The it girl on campus, acting major and international student, Park Sooyoung  is all you can think about. You aren’t the only one, every person has a huge crush on her too. You want to ask her out, yet in the back of your mind you know everything about it would be unconventional.

  Warnings: Anxiety, Mentions of bi-phobia (nothing major), Mentions of Microaggressions 

Word Count: 4,206

Author’s Note: Here’s some Red Velvet, I also decided to write more black readers because I want to write more for black women like me. Also I know this is very niche so I hope you guys enjoy it regardless if you identify with the main character or not. Hope you guys enjoy!

Sometimes I see this mediocre, yet funny life of mine as a television show. A world where I’m surrounded by so many generic people, well they aren’t really generic, just similar to one another. That’s usually how it goes at La Rouge University , or as most of the students of color call it, La PWI. It’s weird though, I don’t really fit in with the other black students either, nothing against them but I’m just more on the nerdy side. I know that doesn’t make me unique, but there aren’t a lot of nerdy black girls on campus. The only one I found was Brianna, who was close to Wendy and Yeri. I found my band of friends but Wendy can be a bit insensitive at times. That’s one of the reasons why I keep my budding crush on Sooyoung. Where can I begin about Park SooYoung? There’s so much about her that draws me towards her, well regardless of her sense of style, straight black hair and the ability to pull off any lipstick color. 

“Um, earth to Y/N?” Brianna asks. 

I blink up from my book, a page that I clearly checked out from. I totally forgot we were in the library of all places, whoops. Of course Brianna’s holding a smug grin while she taps Yeri. 

“Look, Y/N’s lost in thinking about Sooyoung’s eyes,” she teases.

Yeri giggles as she takes Brianna’s hand tightly. 

“I know right, I don’t know why you don’t just ask her out already,” Yeri says. 

I cringe at how loud she said it as Wendy approaches our table with her usual blue sweatshirt, tan pants and bag slung across her shoulder. She must have gotten from her English class since she’s clutching her literature book for dear life.     

“Who’s asking who out?” she asks as she pulls up a seat. 

“Um, no one,” I say quickly. 

Wendy throws a deadpan look my way. 

“It’s gotta be about you Y/N,” Wendy notes. “You’re the single person at the table and if Bri and Yeri were cheating on each other I’m sure they wouldn’t discuss it in front of each other.”

Both Brianna and Yeri shrug as they link arms and kiss each others cheeks. 

“You haven’t found someone else, have you babe?”Yeri whines. 

Brianna nuzzles against her cheek. 

“You know I haven’t jagi,” Brianna coos. 

Yeri giggles at the pet name she taught Bri, earning a kiss on her lips. They’re cute, teeth rottenly so, but I always wonder how they got together. Of course they’re in the same major and have an obsession with Boba tea but what about their obvious racial differences, with Yeri being Korean and all. I’m curious but then again, it’s not my place to ask. It’s their relationship. 

“So, are you gonna tell me who it is?” Wendy asks while she pokes me with the end of her pen.

“Nobody,” I say.“None of your concern.”

Wendy pouts as her pokes grow faster. 

“Ah come on! You were fine with telling Yeri and Bri about it!” she groans.

“Yeah, but you’ll just kill the vibe,” I explain, “plus you know them so.”

Wendy gasps. 

“Really? Ah! So it won’t be hard to guess!” she says.“Is it Minseok from the Starbucks?”

Yeri giggles. 

“Uh, it isn’t a he, Wendy.”

Wendy blinks at Yeri’s statement as I send a Brianna a knowing glare. She nods and pats my hand. 

“Oh, I didn’t know you were into women, Y/N,” Wendy says. 

“Yeah, but I’m still into men too Wendy,” I say. “But yes, this crush is on a woman.”

“Oh ok,” Wendy says. “I didn’t know that was your thing but ok.”

I hold back my words, but Brianna doesn’t. Thank God.

“And what’s that supposed to mean Wendy?” she asks.

Yeri pinches the bridge of her nose as Wendy glances at each of us in confusion.

“What?” she asks.“Aw, did I overstep again?”

I nod sharply when Brianna scoffs. 

“Took a giant step over the line,” I say. “I’m bi.”

Wendy’s eyes soften. 

“I-I’m sorry Y/N,” she says. “I hadn’t realized and you never talked about it with us.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her with a pat of her hand. 

“So,” Yeri says, breaking the tension.“When are you going to ask her out?”

Fortunately Wendy’s all smiles again, yet she goes to asking me again.

“So, who is she? Oh! is it-”

I don’t even register who Wendy’s talking about as my focus shifts towards the entrance of the library. The double doors slide open, slowly (maybe its my hyperactive mind) and steps in the woman herself. Park Sooyoung. Of course she’d step in now of all times with her stylish tan trench coat, white turtle neck and dark skinny jeans. Just like in the TV shows she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Ok it is my hyperactive imagination, she’s even walking this way. Shit, no that’s actually happening. Wendy pokes me again. 

“Y/N? Oh!” she gasps, realizing. 

Sooyoung steps up to our table with a tiny smile and a wave. 

“Hi Wendy, Yeri,” she greets.

Her attention shifts over to Brianna and I. Me. Park Sooyoung is looking at me. 

“Oh! This is Y/N,” Yeri says as she squeezes Brianna’s hand. “And this is my girlfriend, Brianna.”

Sooyoung grins, flashing a few of her teeth as she bows slightly, reaching for Brianna’s hand, shaking it then holding it out to me. I. My skin flares as my words begin to disperse. 

“Nice to meet you,” Sooyoung says. “Brianna. Y/N.”

Her attention is back on me, her eyebrow raised as she notices that I haven’t taken her hand yet. I grip it quickly and shake it just as swift.

“N-Nice to, meetyoutoo!” I manage to blurt out. 

Sooyoung turns back to Wendy. 

“I just wanted to ask if Professor Philip put the PowerPoint online,” she says. “I had to miss lecture today because of rehearsals.”

Wendy waves her off. 

“You’re in the clear,” Wendy reassures. “He’s going over it again next class.”

Sooyoung releases a breath of relief, another smile engulfing her striking features yet again. 

“Thank you Wendy,” she says.

It’s as if the entire library started to notice Sooyoung, guys start to pop up that I don’t even know. I know one of them, Jackson Wang, a friend of mine, we aren’t close, yet I didn’t know he knew Sooyoung.  

“Yo Y/N!” he greets. “Bri, Yeri, Wendy!” 

He then turns back to Sooyoung.

“We should get going,” he says. “JB and Bam Bam are waiting.”

“Ah, you’re right!” Sooyoung exclaims. “It was nice meeting you both, see you guys around!” 

And just like that Sooyoung’s gone and around the corner with Jackson flanking her. Are they a thing? Last time I checked Jackson was endlessly flirting with Namjoon, the library’s part time receptionist and full time genius. I’ve confided in Jackson about my sexuality before, but I’ve never talked to him about Sooyoung. Oh God, they must be dating.

“Y/N, Y/N you still there?” Yeri asks.

I turn my attention back to the table. Brianna holds a shit eating grin as always, Yeri tries to stifle a laugh while Wendy narrows her eyes at me.

“Sooyoung,” she says. “You have a crush on Park Sooyoung.”

“Not just a crush,” Brianna notes. “A school girl crush, I know you saw how nervous Y/N got. She could barely speak.”

I hunker down further in my seat as my face flares again.

“Shut up,” I groan. 

Wendy giggles. 

“It’s cute Y/N, but I’m not sure if Sooyoung’s-” she pauses prior to continuing. “You know.”

I get an uneasy tingle from Wendy’s words. She’s right, what if she isn’t into women. What if she doesn’t like black people? Another stab that would hurt more.

“What Wendy?” Yeri asks. “Gay or Bi? it’s ok, you can say it.”

Wendy frowns. 

“Guys, I don’t mean to come off like that,” she groans. “I just don’t want her to get hurt. Sooyoung hasn’t been here in the states for a while, I’m not sure if she’s-accepting.”       

“Well if she’s hanging out with Jackson, who’s big bi energy by the way,” Brianna explains. “She’s got to be somewhat accepting.”

Yeri’s eyes soften at me as she reaches for my hand.

“That doesn’t mean you should give up,” she says. “Just talk to her.”

I slip further down into my seat, it’s easier said than done. Sooyoung’s an international student which means she only hangs out with other international students. I only know two of them: Wendy, born in South Korea but studied in Canada prior to moving here and Jackson who moved here from China on a football scholarship.  They’re friends of course, but even they blow me out of the water with their style and the looks they get from students. Sooyoung especially. 

“I guess, ah look at that!” I say while getting out of my seat. “I got class in ten.”

Brianna grins. 

“Your class doesn’t start until 3:30, it’s only 3:05.”

I nod with a quick smile.

“I know!” I say. “I just need to get away from this conversation. Talk to you guys later!”

I’m out and away from the table before they can utter a goodbye.

***

Class was dull as usual. Thankfully it ended before my eyes glazed over and I can grab some dinner before heading back to my dorm. The classroom empty's out quickly, I rush to the exit of the building, ready for that cool air to hit me. 

“Ey! Y/N!” a booming voice calls.

I turn to see Jackson. He’s clad in his black and red Letterman jacket with the letters L and R embroidered on the front. His hair’s also gelled back to perfection, it looks awesome might I add. 

“Hey Jackson,” I say. “What’s up?”

I slow my pace for him to catch up with me from down the hall. The cool air hits my face, I sigh, then turn to Jackson, who’s already behind me as I hold the door for him. 

“Thanks,” he says as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You done with classes for today, right?”

I nod sharply. 

“Yep, you?”

Jackson chuckles.

“You know I don’’t have classes on Thursday,” he notes. 

I roll my eyes. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have asked. That’s what I want to say, but I restrain. I find myself doing that a lot here at La Rouge University. Don’t want to come across as that kind of black girl. Sure, Jackson and I are cool, I just don’t want him to put a thought into his head. I’m sure he’s seen many stereotypes of black women, black people in general. I don’t want to put that risk out, especially when Brianna and I have to had many talks with Wendy about it.       

“Hey,” Jackson says softly. “You good?”

I blink up at him as we stroll through the courtyard with the wind nipping at our skin. 

“Yeah, uh, I’m fine.”

Jackson smirks and leans closer to throw an arm around my shoulder. 

“So, Miss Y/LN,” he starts. “Tell me, how long has your little crush been a thing?”

I jolt at his words.

“Huh? C-crush? Nah, uh what do you mean a crush?”

Jackson chuckles and bats his eyes jokingly. 

“Don’t play coy!” he exclaims. “You looked like you were going to pass out around Sooyoung.”

My skin burns at his words. I wasn’t that obvious, was I?

“I-I, um, Sooyoung, who? Never heard of her.”

“Sure Jan.”

“When the hell did you watch the Brady Bunch?” I ask.

Jackson shrugs.

“I watched it with Yeri last weekend, you should have came over. I heard its a major part of American slang and memes which are hilarious.”

I nod in agreement. 

“Yeah, let’s discuss memes instead of Park Sooyoung oh-”

Jackson jabs his finger at me.

“You even know her last name, ha!” Jackson says. “You’re totally crushing right now.”

I sigh in defeat. 

“Fine, yes I like her all right. It’s not a big deal anyway.”

Jackson frowns. 

“It totally is,” he says. “Sooyoung and I are friends, along with classmates. I even know her schedule, for class and drama rehearsals.”

“Oh nice,” I say.

“I know that she’s free right now. Chilling at Reveluv Cafe, going over her lines, drinking some coffee or what not, looking stunning.”

I flush and cross my arms. 

“Yeah, probably flocked by drooling people,” I say. “She’s too stunning for her own good.”

“Yes, but unlike those drooling losers you’re going to talk to her.”

“I’m sorry, what? Jackson, no way,” I say. “She’s an actress, didn’t she act in a couple of K dramas?”

Jackson nods.

“Four actually,” he clarifies. “The first three were cameos, but the latest one she played a huge supporting role, over shadowed the male and female leads.”

“That doesn’t make my situation any better,” I deadpan. “she’s got status in her home country, gorgeous features and a promising career ahead of her. What the hell do I have?”

Jackson’s arm tightens around me.

“You’re sweet, pretty and nice to talk to,” he says. “You also have a career ahead of you crazy, that’s why you’re studying remember?” 

“You’re a friend,” I groan. “You’re inclined to say that.”

“Yeah, but even before we became friends, I always found you hot,” he admits.

I elbow him playfully in the ribs.

“Jackson Wang! Stop playing!” 

Jackson shakes his head.

“I’m dead serious, black women are sexy. And you definitely aren’t the exception.”

“Stop!” I laugh and playfully push him away. 

“What?” he chuckles. “look I know you find Asian guys attractive too! And I know good and well you like Asian women.”

He narrows his eyes and wiggles his eyebrows.

My face heats up as we enter the library for the second time today.

“Is there anything I can do to make you stop?” I joke.

Jackson nods.

“Talk to Sooyoung,” he suggests. “Hey, I can help! Start the conversation!”

I just stare at him as he puts his hands together. 

“Please?”

“Fine.”

***

Reveluv cafe is bright, a little too colorful for my taste, but still homey and comforting. The walls are covered in various fruits, some hand drawn and neon to bring, I guess variety. It’s cute. Even the floor is bright red, leading up to the counter that’s decorated with other tropical themes, the employees even wear sashes and white uniforms with fruit based buttons.

Jackson leads me to the lounging area of the cafe which has an area of circular tables and higher tables near the windows. Sitting at one in the corner at the far back is Sooyoung, her straight hair spills down her cream colored turtle neck. Her head’s down in a book, she’s transfixed on the page. 

“Jackson, maybe we shouldn’t-”

“Sooyoung, hey!”

Damnit Jackson.

Sooyoung’s head jerks up as a soft smile graces her lips. 

“Jackson, hi!”

I watch from behind Jackson. He walks up to Sooyoung, she stands and engulfs him in a hug. 

“How are lines going?” 

Sooyoung giggles.

“Great so far! What brings you and-” she pauses to look at me. “Hi, Y/N, right?”

I nod sharply. God, she remembered my name.  

“Yeah, hi Sooyoung.”

Jackson smirks with a knowing glare at me. Hasn’t this man clowned me enough?

“Y/N here was just nervous to speak to you.”

My hands start to tremble as Sooyoung looks to me with confusion.

“Why?” she asks. “You’re friends with Wendy and Yeri, so by default I think you’re cool.”

Wow. Park Sooyoung just called me cool. 

“Oh, she is,” Jackson declares. His mouth opens to say more, yet a slight buzz in his pocket stops him. 

“What is it?”

Jackson takes a look at his phone quickly before grinning back up at me, then Sooyoung.

“Sorry ladies, I kind of have a study date with Mr. IQ 148!” 

Sooyoung’s brows furrow. 

“Um, who?”

“Namjoon,” I say. “Jackson! Ah!”

I take his arm and whisper.

“You can’t leave yet,” I groan. 

Jackson pats my arm. 

“You got this babe, I promise to give you all the details with Namjoon if you give me the details you get with Sooyoung.”

God, this man is incorrigible.

“If I fuck this up you owe me so many smoothies.”

Jackson chuckles.

“You got to try first sweetie, she’s cool, you’ll see.”

Jackson says a quick goodbye to the both of us.

I turn back to Sooyoung who’s looking dead at me with her hands behind her back. 

“Would you like to sit?” she asks with another bright smile.

“Yeah, uh sure.”

She gestures to the empty seat across from her, I slide into it quickly, Sooyoung follows. 

“So, are you an English major like Wendy?”

I shake my head. 

“No, actually I’m a creative writing major.”

Sooyoung’s face lit up as she took a swig of her coffee.

“Really? So, you write your own books and stories?”

I nod, and try to hide a smile behind my hand. Her attention is fully on me. 

“Yeah, but mostly poems though,” I say, pausing once I meet Sooyoung’s eyes. I don’t finish, God I can hardly face her. If Jackson can see it than its got to be obvious to her.

“Y/N?” she asks. “Are you ok?”

“Y-Yeah, I-I I just-”

Sooyoung’s eyes soften as she takes my hand, which is already starting to get clammy and sweaty. 

“It’s ok, breathe,” she coaxes. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

I giggle, the action eases some of the anxiety. My heart rate goes down a bit, just a bit because Sooyoung’s hands are still over mine.

“I-I guess not to judge me, or freak out even,” I say. “I know we’re different, ok. And we’re both women.”

Sooyoung giggles, teeth baring rather sweetly.

“You’re cute,” she coos. “Yes, you’re American and-”

“Black,” I blurt. 

Sooyoung nods.

“Oh, I didn’t even notice,” Sooyoung jokes. She raises our interlocked hands together drawing my attention to my brown hand and her lighter, almost porcelain one. “Why? Is that an issue? Is that what’s making you so nervous?”

“Part of it, the truth is, I like you,” I admit. 

Sooyoung’s eyes widen, forcing me to pull my hand away from her own. She draws back to as she tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. My trembles don’t die down, but the flaring in my chest does. I nod as my eyes travel down to the table, I can’t look at Sooyoung right now. Of course I made a fool of myself.

“I uh, I can leave you alone now-”

“Wait, Y/N!”

She grabs my wrist before I can get up, it startles me. 

Our eyes meet again, Sooyoung giggles, the confidence she oozes makes me glance down at the legs of her chair. 

“Can I admit something too?” 

I nod, she then sighs lowly. 

“Can you look at me? Y/N?” 

Before I can register her question warm fingers juts my chin up, forcing my attention on her face. She smiles and I swear her eyes lingers down at my lips for a moment prior to moving back up to my eyes. 

“I’m flattered,” she whispers. “You’re really pretty, I’d love to go out. Maybe next week, if that’s ok?”

“I, um, yeah,” I mutter. “I-I’m looking forward to it.”

***

Weeks come and go. The teasing from Jackson, Brianna, Yeri, even Wendy (surprisingly) continues as the dates with Sooyoung get frequent. We’ve start to hold hands even, which is a huge step for me (Sooyoung initiated it first of course).  Dating Sooyoung has been surprising to say the least, she’s even more flirty now that we know more about each other, which makes me more anxious to be around her now. It’s fun to be around her, she’s interested in aspects of American culture that she doesn’t know much about. One in particular being memes, thanks to Jackson himself and even slang. It rubs me the wrong way to hear her say, ‘sup sweetie’ at times but she’s still learning. Right? I’m just thinking too much into it. I’m sure she won’t start talking black and Jackson learned not to from me, along with a quick, yet needed scolding from Brianna.  

 I arrive at Sooyoung’s apartment a sweaty mess. This is the first time I’ve been to her apartment and I already feel like I’m gonna mess this up. She talked about living with someone, but what I didn’t expect was a stunning woman with straight, blonde hair to answer the door. I don’t remember seeing her around campus, I’m sure the people would flock to her as much as they flock to Sooyoung too. 

“Hi, uh,” I pause at how intimating she looks. “I-I’m uh, Sooyoung invited me.”

The woman chuckles as she gives me a quick once over. 

“You must be Y/N,” she notes. “Come in.”  

She steps aside for me which I do. 

The house looks like a loft inside: a low, white couch sits in the middle of the living room, a flat screen hugs the far wall, the carpet is clear and fluffy covering most of the floor, leading to the staircase. 

“Joohyun!” Sooyoung calls while rushing down the stairs. “Y-Y/N, hi.”

I give her a tiny wave as Joohyun chuckles. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to your date,” Joohyun says with a quick wink at me and a narrow eyed glare at Sooyoung. 

“How long are gonna be out unnie?” Sooyoung asks. 

Joohyun giggles and raises an eyebrow.

“Why?” she asks. “You both aren’t going to have too much fun, are you?”

My eyes scan down to the carpet to memorize how spotless it is. 

“Joohyun! Y-You’re so embarrassing!” Sooyoung exclaims. I see her black sock covered feet next to mine. 

“All jokes Sooyoung,” Joohyun explains. “I’ll be staying at Seulgi’s tonight. It was a pleasure meeting you Y/N.”

“Same here,” I say. 

When I meet Joohyun’s eyes her intimating demeanor disperses. An easy, toothy smile now replaces it. Once she waves and is out the door, Sooyoung’s hands are on my face. 

“I’m so sorry about her,” she groans. “She didn’t frighten you too much, did she?”

“Not really,” I admit. “Does she always do this to people she doesn’t know?”

Sooyoung giggles.

“Yeah, she’s just protective is all,” she explains. “Now, would you like to watch the show here in the living room or.”

She steps up to rest her hands on my sides. 

“My room could work, I have plenty of stuffed animals,” she suggests. “We could cuddle.”

She smiles, my heart flutters as she intertwines our hands together. I lose my breathe as she steps closer, our faces suddenly an inch apart. She’s using a bright, red lipstick, perfect at this distance. Kissabl-

“Can I kiss you?” she asks.

I nod, she tilts her head to the right before our lips meet. Her lips are smooth, with a cherry taste. I didn’t even know lipstick could taste this good. She smiles against my lips, her hands wind themselves around my waist in order to deepen the kiss. Sooyoung’s fevered kisses keep my lips moving with her, it continues until I run out of breath, forcing me to pull away. 

“How was that?” she asks prior to biting her lip. 

“It was I-”

It takes me a minute to gather my words. I never kissed a woman before and that was-

“Amazing,” I manage to say.  

Sooyoung chuckles lowly, takes my hand and leads me to the couch. 

“Yeah, would it be dope if we continue?” 

I cringe at the word dope, she notices right away.

“What is it? I’m rushing things aren’t I?” she asks.

I shake my head, but think about it for a moment. I want to have this conversation about our different cultures. Of course it’s something we’re got to talk about but why do I feel as if its so awkward? It’s just a few words, right? I just don’t want to come across as that kind of person. That kind of black person especially. 

“Y/N,” Sooyoung says. “Are you ok?” 

“Yeah, it’s just uh,” I pause to finally form coherent words. “Slang, it’s um kind of weird when you say it-not saying that it’s bad or anything its just.”

I pause again to sit next to Sooyoung, who listens intently. 

“It’s your thing, right?” she asks. “As an American?”

“As an African American, as a black person,” I say. “I just don’t want you to use certain terms without knowing where they come from. I’m curious about Korean too, but I want to go by it respectfully. I want to respect you.”

Sooyoung’s eyes lighten up, her fingers play with my right hand as a smile spreads across her face.

“I want to respect you too jagi, ah! To be honest I got most of those words from Jackson anyway.”

I roll my eyes. 

“I’m not even surprised.”

“So, can we still watch the drama?” she asks with a playful frown.

“Of course!”

Sooyoung lets out a delighted giggle, presses a quick kiss to my cheek and moves to turn the flat-screen on. Maybe dating Park Sooyoung wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. 

[shinyoliver]

Verse 3: A shrine to underground punk

At 7:23, Reg stepped off the bus onto the curb and got his first sight of Three Stories Public House. The brick face of the two above-ground stories stared down at him with orange-glowing windows. The clear night, though free of any snow falling from the crispy sky, bit at his cheeks with cold. The windows had gold-leafed lettering proclaiming it the Three Stories Public House, est. 1932. The glowy light from the inside looked warm, which attracted Reg. The deep breath he took, to steady his nerves, made him cough. The cold air hurt his lungs.

He trudged to the door of the bar, walking with care across the damp-looking sidewalk, unsure if it was wet or covered in ice.

The inside smelled warm and wooden. The floors were wood, the ceiling was wood, and all the chairs and tables were wood. Some people played pool at one of two tables in a deep corner of the main room, and Reg could hear the clicking balls even over the music. The music wasn’t too loud, probably because it was still early in the evening.

Unless his ears deceived him, the song was “Humans Being” by Van Halen, which comforted Reg somewhat. In his experience, bars might play Van Halen fairly often, but he’d never heard “Humans Being” in public. He didn’t know why nobody seemed to like “Humans Being.” Reg thought it was a solid Van Halen song.

Seeing as it was not quite 7:30 on a Thursday, the crowd in the bar hardly filled the main room. The people at the back playing pool made up most of the crowd. Five guys in button downs and slacks laughed over a couple pitchers of beer at a table. Aside from a few other individuals scattered around, the floor had plenty of room for even the most aggressive elbows swinger to have plenty of space.

Lounging at the bar, where Reg had pretended that his attention had not been immediately drawn the moment he walked in, Poppy Swicker watched the door. She wore pants of black satin with redundant zippers and metal loops on them, and a shiny silver shirt with no sleeves. Her bare shoulders looked strong.

Thick, dark makeup around them made her eyes bright in the dim bar. A smirk pulled half her face up when her gaze lighted on Reg. He walked toward her, although it felt like stumbling.

She reached behind the bar when he got close.

“Can I get a drink?” Reg said.

“You drink water, soldier-boy,” she said, slapping a moist bottle of the stuff into his chest. Picking up a black satin jacket equipped with as much redundancy in the zipper and loop department as the pants, she led him through the bar to the top of a set of stairs. They went down to the last story of Three Stories Public House.

The long, claustrophobic room smelled faintly of drywall and old beer. It had a dark, unoccupied bar at one end, and a dark stage at the other that loomed by being so very, very motionless.

Between the bar and the stage, maybe fifteen people sat around on folding chairs at folding tables. Barks of laughter punctuated their murmuring.

Reg somehow liked smaller crowds least. Big crowds kind of faded into faceless mush. Little crowds had expecting eyes and easily seen sneers and just, generally, made the whole experience of nobody liking his material more real. He tried not to muse while he walked toward the stage about how his idea of comedy would probably never entertain anyone. He tried not to think about it, because that way lay despair and the decay into “jokes” and “topical humor.” That was the path of the sellout.

And the fact that Reg struggled with it every time he thought about doing a gig might be something Reg should pay attention to.

Too deep in now, he decided. He took a long swig off the water bottle from Poppy. It barely wetted his throat, but he felt grateful for it anyway. His hand shook around the bottle.

“Want to give me your jacket?” Poppy asked. She stopped at an empty chair at a longer table at the front of the crowd, set up like it was for the judges to sit at for some competition or other. The sight of it and the several people at it facing the stage, one with a legal pad and a pen, sent his wobbly nerves on a little dance.

Yeah, weird was the right word for the gig.

Swallowing again, Reg handed Poppy his coat and scarf and his bag. He sweated without them anyway.

“Well, there’s your arena, soldier-boy,” Poppy said, gesturing toward the stage. She lounged into her chair and relaxed into her smirk. The cockiness radiated so hot off her it itched.

Reg took another swig of the water. The walk to the stage felt like a dream-lengthened slog through pudding. Reg tried to see the funny side.

He climbed onto the stage with slow care. A microphone stood in the middle—it put Reg in mind of a stripped sapling leftover from storms of mediocre acts. It was, aside from that, empty, and dark. He set the bottle of the water at the back of the stage, and took half a second to look around.

He saw scratched messages in the wooden cases for the amps mounted on the walls. Messages from bands, scratched into the wood or written in thick marker, sometimes around and sometimes over and sometimes through a patchwork of stickers—The Windermeres, the Potato Pirates, TV on the Radio, Tattooed Strings. He saw scratches on the floor in distinctive patterns—here the persistent hollowing from a base drum and pedal, from a snare, over there the less consistent clawing of a guitar stand.

He stood in a shrine of the underground punk scene, a place of rage and noise. It gave him a brush of calm so he could walk to the microphone without tripping.

A spotlight flashed onto him. He would have liked the drama of a large, mechanical clack to go with it, but all he heard was a little click from the sound and light board off on the side.

When the light flashed on, Reg shied, throwing his arms up to block his eyes. “Gah! I’m melting!”

Dead silence. It was satisfying in that it felt so familiar.

“Wrong crowd for that one, I guess,” Reg said. “Maybe there are some real vampires in the audience who take umbrage at people making light of their daily problems. Or should I say nightly. Am I right?”

Still nothing. Someday, he felt like he might learn.

Swallowing, Reg tried really hard not to let his hand shake. He took the microphone out of the stand. “Good evening, lefties and Genevans. It is true, I am only a part time vampire. I would have gone full time, but the hours sucked. What?” This last word he said in a raised voice to the shadowy audience, because somebody had said something.

“Is that true?” they said again in a deep voice. He did. Him or a very large woman with a voice like a volcano.

“That I’m a part time vampire?”

“Yeah. How true is it?”

“Well, if you’re asking in the existential sense…” Reg started, assuming that they weren’t asking in the existential sense.

“Yeah, let’s go with that,” the voice said.

Unsure how to put a comedic spin on it just then, Reg zoned out for a second. “I try to be more of a giver than a taker, I think,” he found himself saying. “Although I will take all of your tips,” he said, snapping himself out of his little reverie. “But just the tips. Whoops, that came out wrong. A little like your tips in her mum.”

One, solitary snort from some dark corner of the room accompanied Reg’s sigh of shame from the cheapness of the dirty puns. He worked hard not to roll his eyes. He considered dirty puns the basest and least worthy form of humor, and they always made him laugh, so he often indulged in them.

“I was going to do a lot more vampire based humor in this set, but I’m thinking maybe not. So here’s my racist stuff. Everyone likes some racist stuff, right? I know what you’re thinking: but Slim Jim (can I call you Slim Jim? I had better be able to, there, Slimmy Jimmy). But Slim Jim, you’re thinking, isn’t it too late in the year for casual racism? I hear you thinking. Isn’t this the season of going balls out with everything? Because if you don’t you may as well just bring in a crash test dummy, for all the good you’ll do. Ain’t that right, Slimy Jemima? I bet that’s what you’re thinking. To which I say, ah-hah, but I’m one step ahead of you. Because, you see, I only make racist slurs about Canadians. So pull up your plaid, folks, it’s aboot to get polite in here. What was that?”

Reg raised his voice again because someone had something to say. Reg decided to listen, more the fool that he was.

“Do you know any Shakespeare?” said the deep voice again.

Reg stood stiff, one foot back, and shaded his eyes to peer off the stage. He always hoped, but rarely believed, he looked like Buster Keaton doing it.

After a moment, he could see well enough into the gloom to make out the people at the table, only just. At the far left, a big Samoan had almost a smile on his face. His dark eyes almost twinkled. He looked as ready to dismiss Reg with a crude grunt as to start chuckling. Something about him seemed merciless, like he would as readily laugh at Reg’s failure as his jokes that worked.

Reg raised the microphone to his lips again.

“As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d with raven’s feather from unwholesome fen drop on you both,” Reg said. Or, rather, recited, not at first giving the words any life. “A south-west blow on ye and blister you all o’er.” His voice gained a little confidence as he went, and sounded more natural and louder. “Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly. All’s hush’d as midnight yet,” His voice began to rise. The long suspicion that he was being screwed with lent energy to his words. “Nor fetch in firing at requiring; nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish ’Ban, ’Ban, Cacaliban has a new master: get a new man.”

He finished the bit o’ Shakespeare and stared into the continued silence from the scant audience.

For a few heartbeats, he felt like he’d broken into some barrier. Everyone out there stared at him. He felt their eyes. They didn’t stare awkwardly, or incredulously, or derisively. He didn’t see any smirks—except on Poppy’s mug, but that seemed to have stuck there. Although nobody seemed particularly impressed either. It sort of felt like the silence after the rant from someone who had just had it up to the neck and couldn’t take it anymore, and everyone else got it, everyone else felt it, but everyone found it a little irritating that he had pointed out some social injustice that they’d been ignoring.

Then he felt embarrassed. He swallowed and cast his eyes down.

From out there he heard a weird, earth-deep sound—like a repetitive rumble. Reg couldn’t identify what it was. When the Samoan stood up, scraping his chair back on the cement floor, Reg identified the source of the earth-deep sound: the Samoan’s chest.

He turned away.

“I’ll warm up the car,” he said.

His movement broke up the silence. The few people further back in the room broke off staring and began their murmuring conversation again. Poppy started talking to the people at the table with her.

“Bonzer, you got what you need?” she said. The person with the legal pad nodded, then left the table and followed the Samoan. “Reiki, get what you need to keep lookout, right? Hurt’s got nothing to gain ambushing us, but ain’t no reason to trust him.”

A tall woman with black dreadlocks stood from the table and hurried away, saying something about knives in the dark.

“Could you turn that spot off the half vampire? I can smell him roasting from here.”

The spotlight darkened. Reg fell for a moment into the unbalanced dark of a strong afterimage. It started to clear up in a few seconds. Reg had always had a quick recovery time between dark and light and light and dark.

“Come along, dear. We’ve places to be,” Poppy said, holding Reg’s coat and bag out to him.

“Where—” Reg stared.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Poppy said, leading him by the shoulders to a door marked “Employees only” where the Samoan had gone, and Bonzer soon after.

Rethinking what she said, Poppy amended it. “No. I probably won’t, now that I think about it,” she said.

“Explain?” Reg asked.

“You’ve got it, gammy-fingers,” Poppy said.

She hurried him through a dark storage room, mostly empty except a few shady shapes—here a table, there a bed. They went out a door onto a set of stairs that led up into the alley behind the Three Stories. A large town car fluffed fumes in the alley. The Samoan sat in the driver’s seat, and Bonzer got into the back seat on the passenger side. Poppy opened the door to get into the back seat behind the Samoan, pulled Reg in behind herself, and slammed the door behind him.

There was a feeling of finality to that door slamming, like a cleaver coming down on a chicken’s head.

Reg swallowed. He’d left his bottle of water on the stage, and wished he hadn’t.

The tall woman with the black dreadlocks got into the passenger seat in the front. Her door slammed.

“Is this like those scenes in movies where the hero gets into the car he shouldn’t have and only discovers later that he should have been listening to the ominous swell of the music, while the audience screams about how stupid he is?” Reg asked.

“Oh, yes,” Poppy said.

“Why don’t I leave,” Reg said.

Poppy smiled a slow smile. It had a little twitch of a slim eyebrow. Better than any words could, the smile said danger ahead—and you will enjoy yourself in that silent language reserved for women like Grace Kelly, Gillian Anderson, and Poppy Swicker.

Reg swallowed again, and he decided not to get out of the car.

The Samoan put it in gear and started to drive.

*

Earlier that same day, a man called Hurt sat at a small table on the patio of a café. He sipped a cappuccino as if he did not mind, for today at least, the mere reminder of the café in Florence where he went to get a proper cappuccino. He wore a pale grey silk suit and black wool raincoat, and he wore them in a manner like he never did and never would wear anything else, except on a warm day when he would leave the raincoat behind. His vague expression—nearly a smile and halfway towards a sigh—generally inspired people to begin to question themselves and act like they had nothing to prove, which came across as disingenuous because it was acting.

He looked at peace. The view from the patio was a long, sprawling view of this young city, this relatively little cluster of angular, glinting hives on the face of these Great Plains. He looked east, and he could see all the way past the city to the long, far empty that even today stayed sparsely populated. You couldn’t do that with Chicago or New York or Los Angeles. You could barely get high enough to see to the ends of them. And no city in the old world—where the magic was old and the ownership was old—had such youthfulness. Not a single thing visible had stood on this land for more than two hundred years. The land had barely noticed the presence of humans yet.

It looked ripe to Hurt.

Falling hard on his reverie, two big hands clapped on Hurt’s shoulders. It did surprise him, but he expressed it only by closing his eyes and cocking his head a wedge or two left. The fact that he had been surprised at all told him who it was. Hurt always had wards of defense and warning maintaining his personal bubble. Only a few people could evade them, and only one of those people smelled of black licorice that had been tossed into a charcoal fire.

The one that everyone knew as Jack Ketch flopped his long, broad body into the other chair at Hurt’s little table. Mr. Ketch also wore a pale grey silk suit, but he wore it like he had stolen it and it would please him if everyone knew that. His small eyes and gorillarish jaw had a dangerous effect on people who tried to outwit him. People who had tried gave him his air of always being about to smile a mean smile. The smile never quite came alive to replace the liar of an expression usually wearing his face: brutishness trying to avoid the effort of thinking.

For a while, Mr. Ketch looked out at the city with his unfaltering expression of thoughtlessness, and Hurt looked at Mr. Ketch without trying to hide his dislike.

“Somehow, I think this conversation will get going when you say something like ‘word on the street is…’” Hurt said in his precise voice.

“Now, why would you have to say that?” Mr. Ketch said. He had a calming voice, fit for reading poetry, that did not go with his face. “An old friend can’t visit without you coming over all suspicious?”

Hurt’s mouth flicked into an expression that had the shape of a smile. It couldn’t be called anything else because of the shape, although it only hinted at that. It lacked any of the emotions that a smile usually conveyed.

“Fair enough—that wasn’t much better,” Mr. Ketch said, his voice seeping through the air like the steam from warm mint tea. “We are creatures of unforgiveable cliché at times, Hurt,” he said, almost with a sigh.

Hurt had nothing to say to that. He didn’t agree.

A long time passed when neither of them spoke. The cold breeze wafted the winter around. It carried smells of snow and running heaters. When it wound around and drew air from behind them it carried the smells from the café. The smells of coffee and the long-lingering smell of bread could not quite hide the wicking smell of the bleach that doused everything in the shop after closing hours.

The cold didn’t seem to bother Hurt or Mr. Ketch. When a harsh gust came up and slapped them, Hurt’s only reaction was to take a deep breath and let it out slowly in what looked like a growl but made no noise. Mr. Ketch did not react to it at all in spite of having no coat over his suit.

Both these men generally communicated by waiting for the other person in the conversation to explain the situation to themselves. When they sat down to speak together it became a battle of wills where they would always see who would break the silence first.

Due to their natures, Hurt almost always lost. Mr. Ketch had most in common with a stone, sat in the middle of a desert that had once been a sea bed and before that been miles under ground. Heat may beat on him—cold may freeze him—water may work him. But he would still be after.

Hurt was a flame, and he shared many of his character traits with that element. Including the low smolder that never quite went out.

“Have you bought property here yet?” Hurt asked. He gestured with two fingers, barely lifting them off his leg, and managed to encompass the countryside for a hundred miles in every direction with the gesture.

“A little,” Mr. Ketch said.

“Did you like your realtor?” Hurt asked.

Mr. Ketch looked at Hurt for the first time since sitting down.

“I never met her,” Mr. Ketch said.

“And yet you know she’s a woman,” Hurt said.

Mr. Ketch’s stony face had not gained a new expression, and it did so in an expressive way. He looked back out at the city.

“Erica Hernandez,” Mr. Ketch said. “I guess I like her. Goat never complained.” Goat was one of Mr. Ketch’s aides.

“Do you think I could get her card?” Hurt said. “It can be difficult to find a realtor who respects our particular needs.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Mr. Ketch grunted. “I’ll have Goat send you her digits.”

Hurt nodded his thanks.

They sat for a few more quiet seconds. Hurt sipped his cappuccino.

“So you haven’t,” Mr. Ketch said.

Hurt offered another of his smile-shaped frowns.

“Bought any property here yet, I mean,” Mr. Ketch said.

Hurt’s not-a-smile lingered.

Mr. Ketch grunted deep in his throat. A knowing noise.

“Sent you out here without a plan, didn’t he?” Mr. Ketch said. “Ah, just like the old wizard.”

The old wizard, Ronan Craw. The capo at the top of Hurt’s organization.

It was just like him to send Hurt with only half a plan. Because Dr. Craw operated according to a different idea of urgency than Mr. Ketch did.

Hurt knew that Mr. Ketch only prodded at the point because Dr. Craw’s business, overall, represented one of Mr. Ketch’s main competitors. Hurt knew that he ought to be able to rest on that with confidence.

Dr. Craw’s enigmatical calm wasn’t here now, though. Mr. Ketch’s gruntish, disarming face was, however.

And Mr. Ketch irritated Hurt.

“You’ll land on your feet,” Mr. Ketch said. “You always do.”

Hurt turned the whole, limp force of his ghostly non-smile on Mr. Ketch. Mr. Ketch obligingly ignored it.

For a while longer, they looked out at the silver and stone outbreak of acne on this cheek of the world. Hurt spent the whole time wishing that Mr. Ketch would leave.

The sun set behind them. The earth breathed out cold, and shadows from the mountains clawed across the city.

Soon enough, Hurt had to leave to make his way across town to his next appointment.