#noir au

Bullets for a Wedding

byElDiablito_SF (E, 31k, wangxian)

Summary:Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are disgustingly in love and happily cohabitating six months after the events of “Pearls for a Funeral”. But a vindictive power will not let them rest. Trouble is brewing at work for Detective Jiang Cheng, and just in time to create all kinds of problems for his sister’s wedding (not to mention the invitation list!). A mysterious letter starts off a non-stop, wild, noir ride which takes our heroes from the foggy climes of San Francisco to the verdant hills of Napa Valley. Can Wangxian once again prevail over the powers of darkness and save their love as well as each other? I don’t know, I don’t know, I really don’t know.

Part2ofNoir AU (2 works, series in progress)

My comment: Ah, a very satisfying sequel to Pearls For a Funeral (here’s mypost). In which the bad guys from the first story just won’t stop making trouble, prison and looming execution notwithstanding. POV alternates, and it’s a ride through a visceral 1940s landscape with loads of angst and kidnapping and perilous situations (both physical and emotional). Fun time!

Excerpt:One would have thought once you’ve lived through one abduction, the second one would be a walk in the park, and yet, Lan Wangji was discovering, one would have been entirely incorrect. What was even more beneath his dignity was being held hostage by the man who used to wash his car. Oh no, if Uncle found out, he would be absolutely livid. This assassin, this Xue Yang personage, who had dared beat Wei Ying into a bloody pulp and trespass against his clavicles (a sin for which Lan Wangji had already damned the man to the ninth circle of hell), was barely worthy of so much as being in Lan Wangji’s presence. Unfortunately, he was hovering extremely uncomfortably close to his presence, and leering in such a way that made Lan Wangji pull at his restraints despite his valiant attempts at keeping his considerable cool.

noir au, case fic, 1940s san francisco, established relationship, mystery, intrigue, private detective wei wuxian, rich socialite lan wangji, background nielan, shameless lan wangji, gumshoe wei wuxian,kidnapping, light torture, BAMF lan wangji, hurt wei wuxian, hurt lan wangji, misunderstandings, angst, POV alternating, lack of communication, feels, hostage situations, grief/mourning, happy ending, @jadedbirch​

(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

genre:angst
au: noir au 
warnings: alcohol, implied drugs
wordcount:1k
pairing: f!reader x hwang hyunjin

Your long fur coat settles around you like a puddle of luxury as you take a seat at the counter. It’s slow tonight, with only a smattering of gentlemen flocking around the stage of the woman who sings in a voice made of honey. Cigar smoke wafts throughout the bar, intermingling with the distinct perfume of booze.

Your eyes wander to the expansive shelves behind the bar and take note of the expensive collection of bottles on the top shelf. The golden scotch interests you, but perhaps another time. Before you can call the dark-haired bartender over, he comes to you instead. With a silky smooth smile, he slides a shot of whiskey across to you. “On the house.”

Rule #1 of The Apothecary: Do not drink anything you did not ask for.

You push it back with your index finger. “I’m more of a gin person myself. Clover Club with a shot of oxy, please.”

“Coming right up.”

While he busies himself with your order, you do your best to keep an impassive expression on your face. However, the cleverly hidden door in the far back of the buildings distracts you. Forget the drinks, people only come to The Apothecary for one reason. You keep one hand on the inside pocket of your coat, feeling for the carefully folded bills inside. They are all accounted for; you know that even through the lining.

You listen to the jazz singer croon into the microphone for another minute, watching the men as they talk amongst themselves, raise glasses of bourbon to their lips, wolf whistle when they spot you lounging in the dark. The lipsticked smile you flash sends them into howls.

The bartender sets down your cocktail in front of you. In a low voice, he says, “He’s ready for you.”

The door is now ajar, weak light filtering through the crack, beckoning you to come in. Taking your drink, you make your way inside. A young man with blond hair sits behind a mahogany desk in a chair made of crimson velvet. Just the sight of him makes your heart pound. Saint Valentine in all of his glory.

“Hey there, dollface,” he says. Then he taps the wooden tray on the desk.

Rule #2 of The Apothecary: Always bring an offering.

You place down your pink cocktail, taking special care to not disturb the line of white foam on top. Then you take out the money and set that on the other end of the tray. “Clover Club,” you inform him as you sit opposite of him, “and the usual.”

He sips on the drink, making a sour face when he tastes the sweetness. “Gin rickeys are much better than this. Dark or light this time? Or both?”

“Both.”

He procures two glass vials from a desk drawer, and you accept them. One vial is filled with a clear, almost iridescent, liquid, and the other is a deep amber tone.

Rule #3 of The Apothecary: Ensure what you are being served is what you requested.

You uncap the light vial and allow yourself a mere drop of the potion. A warmth spreads through you, and an enchanted serenity falls over you. You feel the ghost of your mother’s arms around your shoulders, the dizzying laugh of your best friend, the rhythm of Saint Valentine’s lilting words. For a moment, you are euphoric, dancing atop of heaven’s clouds with Aphrodite smiling upon you.

Then it all disappears.

Without thinking, you clasp your hand over your heart, almost gasping when you find yourself back in the bar. Everything is dull in comparison to what you just experienced. Disappointment and anguish coat you like tar, and your mouth waters for another drop. However, you tamp your desires down and grab your sleeve for an earthly anchor. Saint Valentine sinks into his chair when he notes that you have come down from your high. He nods to the dark vial, and you roll it into your palm.

You pop off the cap before holding it out to him. “Will there ever be a day where you try it instead of me?”

“You know I don’t dabble in my own goods. It’s bad for business.”

“Of course.”

You take a tiny sip. Saint Valentine clouds your thoughts—his midnight eyes, his marble cheeks, his Cupid’s bow. The droll voice he uses when he speaks to you. That perfectly delectable, plump lower lip of his. He is so close. If you stand up and lean across, he would be yours, and you would be his. You want—no, need—to kiss him.

“I…” you breathe, gripping the edge of the desk for support, “I… love—”

You snap out of the spell, a hot blush creeping up your face as you realize how near you are to him. Even after the effects of the drink have worn off, your passion for him still lingers. One accidental move could mean that you would be touching him. However, you fall back into your seat, trying to appear less flustered. He stares back with a faint smirk playing on his lips. You watch them when he asks, “All to your liking?”

In a desperate attempt to regain composure, you give him a cold look that melts as soon as you notice the bob of his throat when he tries the cocktail again. “They’re perfect. As always.” You stand up and smooth your coat. “I’ll see you next week.”

Saint Valentine slowly blinks at you and devilishly smiles, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Send my regards to the gentleman you seduce next. God only knows how hurt he’ll be when he discovers what your true intentions are. It might even kill him.”

“See you next week,” you repeat.

You stalk out of the room and then out of the bar. The bartender says something to you as you stroll past, but you cannot hear him over the applause from the stage and the rush of wind as you push open the door. You make it down one block before fumbling for the light vial and consuming all of its contents.

This time you only feel Saint Valentine, only him.

psst if you want a fluffy, valentine’s day story with hyunjin:candy hearts 

I know I’ve been talking about a poppy playtime au but I was listening to copacabana and all I keep imagining is Janus as a showgirl. He has like washed up or hazbin Old Hollywood diva vibes and the “with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there” line just solidly sticks in my brain with him. It could work with Roman too but the razzle dazzle diva energy he brings he’s more fit to the role. Roman is dramatic but the sheer pizazz and sarcastic dramatic energy Janus gives us is wildly appropriate. Also it’s the Same Vibe as his skirt photoshoot like he deserves to be fabulous.

I want him like the old forgotten Hollywood beauty. I want him wearing feather boas and being So Dramatic and wanting to be a famous star and maybe he was darling back in the “glory days” maybe he’s bitter about it- he tried the stardom Roman and all it did was bite him in the ass to be tossed aside for younger prettier stars. The glamor and swagger and martinis and cocktails fading and now as a discarded old fashioned star brought around only enough to be at special occasions and to-dos.

Or even coat star Janus already in the limelight rhat Roman aspires aspires to be like- Janus with his snakeskin purses and black feather boas and sequined dresses and massive hats and those silk gloves past the elbow on the covers of magazines, the shining old fashioned star and he sings and he dances backwards and in heels. Make a romantic his counterpart and give me that sweet 30s or 40s Era dancing.

PUT THEM AS THE FATED DUO IN RHE FILM NOIR. Make Janus the Femme Fatale to Roman’s Dashing Protagonist.

I dunno I have a lot of Thoughts about this……

“Course I knew Finwe well.” the dame says. Real classy, her clothes. Puts some of the mooks out there to shame. Unfortunately, she also puts out a dimly lit cigarette on my desk. Fourth client this month to do that. Some bird outside my office probably told them it’s an ash tray. But whatever song they’ve got is none of my business. I’m not here for a theatre thrill. I prefer more of a murder mystery myself.

The cost for a private eye in Valinor is hell, but with their hell comes my high tide. Nobody trusts each other in the city these days, and deep pockets get lightened by the best floozy, or the best detective in the city. I fall into the latter, former on Wednesdays, but that’s a story for another day. Any punk can stroll up to a crime scene and flip a card and jerk some strings. But they’re no puppetmaster. I run the circus where nobody’s got nothing but peanuts to throw.

For those of you who haven’t read the paper, mayor took a hit yesterday, the kind where you don’t get back up from. Those kinds are the worst, the higher you are. In his defense, opening a door for a stranger in the middle of the night isn’t good for you, but neither is the remaining two shots in my glass, nor the five in a pocketed holster near my twisters, and we aren’t doing anything about that.

“His death was a real shocker, ma’am.” I answer politely. The curtains are drawn, no snooping peepers besides my own are allowed in the office. But I’ve seen a couple of dames, been with a few of ‘em. This one’s not telling the whole story. I know the story sinks deeper, like the mulch in the sewer. Think you got everything, and there’s more, and their uncles and aunts and in-betweens. Like everyone behind a desk, I’m a patient man when money is involved.

“Lotsa people would want a mayor dead.” she says, and I nod again. Another tick on the terms and agreements. “But the coppers couldn’t get a trail on who clipped my husband.” she continues, and I hum. The broad seems inconvenienced by his death, but annoyed enough to find me.

A case with thousands of leads, hundreds of which will lead me skint face-down a ditch, with an orchestra playing all the wrong instruments. I mull over the case with my buddy, perched on a desk with a glint in her brown eyes when the light rolls around her right, 60% alcohol and best served on the rocks. My buddy rubs my shoulders and gives me the confidence to grip up an answer.

“You’ve got yourself a case, lady.”

“Knew I could count on you, Olorin.”

“What are your thoughts on destiny, Viktor?”

There he went again. How many hours had Viktor spent in this room by now, and how many evening sessions had they conducted in which Yuuri sat in that overstuffed chair, plucking out questions and statements that he would then wield with surgical precision, until he could peer into Viktor’s mind? He’d lost count by now, although he could have probably done the math if he’d tried hard enough.

Still, that was something: even after all this time, for better or for worse, Yuuri never quite failed to surprise him. “Getting all philosophical on me tonight, Doc?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Well, we’ve already discussed all of your past cases under Mr. Feltsman’s employ, as well a few other topics I’d planned to go over with you when I first started charting the course of your therapy.” Yuuri paused, and glanced up at Viktor over the rims of his glasses. “Save for one, as you know.”

“Save for one,” Viktor echoed in a murmur.

“Relax.” Yuuri crossed one leg over the other, a single, fluid motion that was as graceful as it was entirely distracting. The action ended up raising his notebook a few inches, making it easier to write down the few short lines he scribbled in the meantime. “We won’t be talking about that tonight.”

Viktor frowned. “But you just said - ”

“I’ve decided to change my approach a little bit.” Yuuri met his eyes with a small smile. “Instead of pressing, I’ve decided to wait until you are ready to broach the topic yourself. Until then, we will discuss only the things that you want to talk about.”

Viktor turned those words over and over in his head, as if doing so enough times would help him to find the awful, gaping loophole in them. There was always a catch, right? Not that he wanted to think that Yuuri was treating these sessions of theirs with any malice; at this point, and after all they’d been through, he sure as hell hoped he wasn’t.

But if last session had been anything to go by…

“You know you’ll probably be waiting a long time, right?” Viktor muttered.

“I’m aware of that, yes.”

“You might end up waiting forever.”

“And so we would end up being ‘forced’ to see one another like this, every week, forever.” Ever so slightly, Yuuri tilted his head. “Would that really be so terrible?”

I knowww… it’s been forever ;_;

Expect 14 to drop late at night on the 23rd/just barely before the 24th of Feb (EST)!

Today (well, yesterday in some time zones, but today in mine!) marks the one-year anniversary of @iruutciv’s and my Yuri On Ice + Detective/Noir AU, But Monsters Are Always Hungry, Darling♥♥♥

Gosh, but how did this even start? I’d tried my hand at writing noir before, in another fandom that I’m now no longer a part of. I didn’t finish it, but the idea of wanting to play with that universe never really went away, even chasing me through the next couple of fandoms that I flirted with. Well, I remember talking to Iru about it on tumblr, though I had absolutely no plans of actually writing it out at the time. Iru then thought it was a good idea to bribe me by basically saying: ‘if you write it, I will draw it!’

Well - long story short, here we are, 12 chapters (soon to be 13!) in, a little over halfway through this story that’s kind of morphed into a monster of its own. We can’t thank you enough for all of the support that this story has gotten, and the love that we’ve received from the readers who’ve connected with us, yelled out speculations and predictions to us, and just kept urging us to press on. I can’t speak for Iru, but I don’t think I could have continued to undertake such a huge project without you all, so thank you. Thank you so, so much! We love you, and we hope the rest of this story - which will probably take us to the end of 2019 - will live up to all of your expectations, and be worthy of your love.

Anyway, without further ado: here is the official preview for BMAAHD Chapter 13, scheduled to go out on either the 29th or 30th of December, to close out 2018. ^_^

“You didn’t have to gamble like that at all.” Viktor glanced up to meet Yuuri’s eyes, curious to see if he could guess what the other man was thinking. This usually wasn’t so hard for him. But Yuuri was an anomaly that way. Maybe he’d always been. “Twenty’s a hell of a good hand.”

“You could have still beaten me,” Yuuri said. “If your other card was an ace.”

“And what do you think the chances of that were?”

Yuuri shrugged. “I suppose that’s something I really ought to work on, then - knowing to quit while I’m ahead.” A soft, lazy smile stretched out across his face, as he leaned back in his chair, and pulled out his cigarette case from an inside pocket. “Take the win, Viktor. Claim your prize.”

He watched, silent as Yuuri lit his cigarette. It took him three tries to do it, and Viktor wondered at that moment if that was yet another testament to his luck, or lack thereof. Then again, three tries for a light to take didn’t quite equate with three cigarettes lit from the same match. But there was an eerie symmetry there, completely lost in Yuuri’s calm, sated expression.

Yuuri raised an eyebrow, and - right. His prize.

What would he ask about, at a time like this? With the honesty of Yuuri’s answer guaranteed by his promise, Viktor was of course tempted to ask about that orphanage - what had set off that fire, perhaps? Or he could ask what exactly had happened to Yuuri after his days there, because from the documents he’d found that sketched an outline of the rest of the doctor’s life, this was only blind spot that spanned years. Then there was a question that had been sitting unanswered since they’d first met, the simplest one no doubt, but also one that carried the most risk of coming out to be in poor taste: how had Dr. Yuuri Katsuki, who’d abruptly aborted his own career as a surgeon before it could have even begun, and slotted himself into a field of medicine that was relatively new and unknown around these parts, amassed such a massive amount of wealth?

Viktor could have gone with any of those questions, or any of a hundred more. But instead, he found himself asking, “Would you really leave everything here behind - your practice, your friends, your prestige - and run away with me? If I asked you to?”

Yuuri, without even batting an eyelid, murmured, “I would leave in a heartbeat if I could.”

“But…” And he’d remembered as much from their first visit to the beach house. “You can’t yet.”

“Not now. Not until I’ve repaid all of my debts.”

Of course. Viktor knew a thing or two about unpaid debts, albeit only his own. He had no idea what Yuuri had still hanging over his head, and who or what entity might have been holding the other end. And maybe he would find out one day, but for now, he only hoped it was nowhere near as bad as the debts Viktor had on his account. He hoped, earnestly, that Yuuri had not done anything so foolish as he once had, and made a deal with the devil of his own.

“You said to ask you again, once you finish your case. Do you remember?” When Viktor nodded, Yuuri asked, “If by that time, I still haven’t completed my… obligations…” He hesitated. “Would you wait for me?”

“Of course,” Viktor said. “We’ll go when you’re ready.”

“Or when you are. Whoever finishes last, the other waits.” Yuuri smiled. “We’ll leave together.”

“It is a shame to see you here as well, Detective. And to think that I went out of my way to warn you.” 

Viktor narrowed his eyes. As far as he could remember, the only warnings he’d ever received from anyone in the Triad were those infuriating half-baked riddles in teacups that Phichit Chulanont had crafted for him, so he had no idea what this was supposed to be all about.

…Or maybe not. A cold, lonely night from weeks and weeks ago, by now long forgotten, resurfaced in his mind. He recalled the mountain of paperwork, the dim lights, the stale air of his office a merciful reprieve from the frigid breeze outside. 

And silence. Until… 

“It was you.” The realization hit him like hoar frost, a slow but deep chill, all the way down to the bone. “You called me at my office, and you threatened me. You told me to drop the case.”

“I told you to think of who you have left.” The reminder came punctuated by a stream of smoke, mercifully directed to the ceiling instead of straight into his face. “A part of me, if you will believe it or not, actually meant well. But it seems those words did not make a difference in the end, did they?”

==========

So… how bout dem plague times, huh? Hope everyone is coping and/or doing okay, this cursed year will be over soon.

Ch. 18 goes up around midnight-ish Eastern Time on Saturday, December 4th5th, 2020. Orchids cannot handle dates. (Usual disclaimer for personal emergencies, world-ending cataclysms, etc., etc.)

Sometimes he dreamt of Mama in the sea, floating alone in a tiny, beat-up boat that looked as though a single sour look would make it fall apart. There was no motor as far as he could tell, or anything else in the boat that she could use to steer it; she was at the mercy of the wind and the tides, every time. 

As for Viktor, he would always find himself on the shore, not too far from their house. He would be six, sixteen, twenty-six, anything else in between. Sometimes barefoot, sometimes not; sometimes in uniform, sometimes not. Sometimes draped in a flimsy hotel blanket, from his latest horrible lapse in judgment; sometimes, wearing spatters of blood on his clothes and hands. 

But one thing was always the same: he would be standing on the beach, as he was now. And he would always know, as he knew full well now, that she’d left him once before. 

And yet - 

“Vitya!” 

No matter how much the sea churned that night, he could always hear her voice, inexplicably clear as a bell. 

“Vitya! Come here!”

She would always be floating the same distance away, her hands cupped over her lips. Viktor jumped into the sea without thinking, as he always did, the frigid water shocking him to his bones, but not enough to paralyze him. He swam and swam, until his limbs ached and his lungs burned.

“Keep going! You’re almost there. Just a little bit more!”

But no matter how hard he tried - no matter how fast or how desperately he swam - he could never close the gap between himself and Mama’s boat, not even by an inch.

“I love you so much.”

==========

Yes, I’m alive, we’re alive!! ^_^;; So, so, so sorry for the radio silence! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, happy ‘we survived what was almost WWIII’, etc. Hope we’re all staying safe and healthy and sane throughout this pandemic crisis (I feel like March 2020 has lasted 10 years…)

In any case, barring any disasters (*knock on wood*), Ch. 17 goes up around midnight-ish Eastern Time on Saturday, April 4th.

(*stares at unanswered AO3 comments* ….. :) )

The city wasn’t as frantic as it usually was during the workweek, but its heartbeat was the rush of air and the clanging of metal as the weekend trains ran along, and it was no less alive. The somewhat sedated state of downtown threw him a bit, only for him to remember that he hadn’t spent a proper weekend in the city in… almost a month, was it? God, but it felt like it had been forever, and yet also felt like the blink of an eye.

And there was a conversation to be had, now that those weekends in Long Island would need to stop. A trip to Brooklyn, an ending, an apology - 

But not yet. Not today. 

Chinatown was a writhing mass of congested criss-crossing roads, abandoned construction projects, and clogged alleyways, almost as organic as it was chaotic. He wasn’t too surprised to find that most of the laundromats from Yuri’s list were actually open on a Sunday. What he was surprised to find - although, after giving it some more thought, perhaps a cynical part of him might have seen it coming - was how all of the boisterous greetings and friendly smiles he was welcomed with shriveled up and died the moment he asked about ‘The Silk Umbrella’. 

“No. No idea what that is,” was what he heard from a man whose laundromat sat on the exact same street as the tea shop. He could even see it from here, the sign with the umbrella sticking out, if he squinted hard enough.

“I can’t help you,” said the next shop, before shooing him away without another word.

“We don’t handle silk,” the next one insisted. “We never handle silk." 

It was already dark by the time he got to the last three on Yuri’s list, all of them right on the border of Chinatown. The first one had already closed for the day - they closed early on Sundays, it seemed, which was a problem that Viktor had thought he would have run into sooner. The next one was populated by staff who insisted that they spoke ‘no English, no English’. No Russian, either. No French. 

Viktor didn’t have high hopes as he let himself be all but shooed from the second-to-last laundromat, and caught sight of the last one from Yuri’s list right across the street. He was also down to his last cigarette, as it turned out, and he forgot to savor it in the frustration of knowing he was very likely about to hit a dead end. What other avenues could he explore, really, after this? With any luck, Otabek’s translation team might have uncovered a case-winning clue in the ledger book since the last time he’d checked in with them, but when had he ever been that lucky? 

Screw it, he thought as he tossed what was left of his cigarette, after fleecing it for all of the warmth and comfort it could offer. He was already here, after all.

Among the laundromats he’d visited, this one sat on the smaller side. A whopping six strides separated him from the front door to the counter, where a middle-aged woman sat filling out paperwork, stopping only to look up when he walked in. Bags of folded laundry, clean if he had to guess, were stacked high and lined both walls. A dozen or so suits of various colors and sizes hung on a rack on the other side of the counter. 

A small blue lantern hung from a hook mounted high on the back wall. 

“Good afternoon! How can I help you?”

There was a young man peeking out from the back room, about Yuri’s age. As Viktor introduced himself, and asked the usual questions, the lady at the counter exchanged a glance with him that she must have thought Viktor couldn’t see. She also must have thought that he didn’t notice the almost imperceptible flinch on the boy’s face as she plied him with more or less the same response he’d been hearing all afternoon. 

“Sorry. We’ve never heard of the Silk Umbrella.”

Viktor let the silence hang in the air, and waited for her to break eye contact first. “You want to try that again?” he asked calmly.

==========

It’s been awhile ^_^;;

Ch. 16 goes up (barring personal emergencies, end of the world, etc.) around midnight-ish Eastern Time on Saturday, September 7th :D

What could he even promise, from this point onward? Perhaps before tonight, even though he’d made himself a target of the Triad from the very beginning, he’d been able to bear that burden somehow. The Triad was a far smaller presence in the city, and he wasn’t new to glancing over his shoulder while walking down the streets at night. And maybe a part of him had clung to the notion that - despite everything it had cost him - while he didn’t have or want La Cosa Nostra’s protection, he at least had been spared from their wrath.

But all of that had changed, in just a few measly hours. Sara had marked him for death, and at the end of the day, it was all a numbers game, wasn’t it? How many guns on this island fired at the whims of the Crispino family, and how many times could you sidestep death before using up all of your luck? He’d already done it once, twice, a thousand times it seemed. Most of those times, someone else had paid a price.

He recalled Yuuri’s words, all of a sudden, from the night they’d first met: careless, weightless words, dropped in the haze of cigarette smoke and the sweet aroma of liquor, after Viktor had followed him into the phone booth only to become trapped by his arms, his lips, his smoldering eyes. At that time, those words had been meant to convince him to stay, let his guard down for once in his miserable life. But they still somehow rang true now.

What if Michele kicked down his flimsy door - it really wouldn’t take much, after how many years’ worth of wear and tear - with a dozen of his lackeys, and made it rain bullets on them both? Or what if Viktor were to slip on the last of the ice still coating some of the lesser-traveled sidewalks from the last snowstorm, cracked his head on the pavement, and never woke up again?  

That would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?

–

After an eternity… this is finally happening ♥ Thank you so much for waiting!

BMAAHD 15 will drop (barring death, armageddon, the usual) late at night on June 8th Saturday Eastern Time ^_^