#benoit blanc fic

[starryevermore]

Hey I’m a new knives out/glass onion/Benoit blanc enthusiast and I noticed your requests were open. I was thinking about Benoit being very easily flustered around his s/o (always blushing, being at loss of word) and maybe how others around him react to THE Benoit blanc just turning into mush whenever his little human is around 🙃 you can do whatever you want with that, I just thought it was a fun idea

lovestruck detective ✧ benoit blanc

angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)

request: Hey I’m a new knives out/glass onion/Benoit blanc enthusiast and I noticed your requests were open. I was thinking about Benoit being very easily flustered around his s/o (always blushing, being at loss of word) and maybe how others around him react to THE Benoit blanc just turning into mush whenever his little human is around 🙃 you can do whatever you want with that, I just thought it was a fun idea  - anon

pairing: benoit blanc x male!reader

word count: 457

warnings?: fluff, not proofread

it was almost comical, how flustered blanc got around you. how the usually calm, collected man would trip over his words. how his face would burn red. how he’d forget what he was doing the moment he laid eyes on you. 

in your not-so-humble opinion, that was the true marker of someone being in love. your mother had always told you, don’t trust a man who’s suave and can sweet-talk you into anything. those kind of men don’t care about you. those kind of men only care about what you’ll for them. no, no, she’d say, fall for the man who’ll trip over their own feet when they see you. fall for the man who can’t think straight because you occupy his mind. fall for the man who’d move the heavens and the earth just to see you smile.

when you first met blanc, it was at some stuffy party. a friend of his invited him, apparently in an effort to get the stoic man to lighten up a little. you had gone to network. both of you ended up bored out of your minds at the open bar. you caught his eye as you flagged down a bartender. he spilled his bourbon straight down his shirt. you laughed so hard you snorted. that night, you left with his number and a promise that he wouldn’t make another mess like that again. 

except, well, he did. he took you out to dinner, a real nice restaurant with a menu of foods you could hardly fathom the pronunciation of. he offered to order something for you, and you agreed. but when the waiter came, blanc was too busy staring at you to notice. when he finally did order, he stammered his entire way through until he was red in the face. he was so flustered that, when the food arrived, he ended up dropping his entire plate on his lap. you still didn’t understand how he managed to do that. 

people hardly understood how a man like benoit blanc could get so tongue-tied and starry-eyed around you. they’d always comment to you that he wasn’t what they expected. that they expected someone like james bond or batman. someone who didn’t let their feelings show very often. and, to be honest, that was usually true. blanc wouldn’t have the career he did if he wore his heart on his sleeve. but you brought out a side of him that he couldn’t hide—that he didn’t want to hide. 

so, yeah, blanc became something of a lovestruck full around you. he’d turn completely to mush the second he was with you. but you loved every second. because you’d be lying if you said you weren’t the exact same around him. 

[leverage-ot3]

I need this for science

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

alright so my pitch for the FOURTH Knives Out movie is as follows:

Benoit is invited to a Great Gatsby party at some obscure millionaire's mansion

He scoffs at the theme as he gets ready and tells Philip, "Great Gatsby. Plllease. This is a Roarin' Twenties party. The only way to make it a true Great Gatsby party is for someone to be floatin' face down in the pool by the end of the night."

Philip smiles, teases, "Don't jinx it."

Cut to Benoit inside with all of the guests, mingling awkwardly. We hear a scream outside. Everyone rushes to the balcony that overlooks the pool, and low and behold, the host (of course wearing a white jacket) is face-down in the now red-tinted pool, a bullet wound in his back.

Benoit just sighs, "Aw, hell."

[humanthatexistsrn]

there are two kinds of benoit/phillip fics:

1. phillip “”holy fucking shit my husband might’ve died in an explosion holy shit” because obviously he was worried it was AN ISLAND WIDE EXPLOSION” blanc

2. phillip “yawnnnn oh hello darling how was the trip… oh the mona lisa was burned? the island you were on exploded? mhm sounds nice” blanc

both are equally accurate

[asexualandalwaysshipping]

I just want one of the next Knives Out movies to take place in like a prestigious boarding school or something, filled to the brim of entitled rich kids whose parents are bribing the teachers, bullying, and loads of corruption going on with the staff and such. And when like the headmaster or someone eventually gets murdered, the blame is put on the scholarship student whose family pools all of their savings together to hire Benoit because that would be very special to me please and thank mr. rian johnson

[cas-kingdom]

White Flower

A/N: Definitely a long time coming. I've been so slow in my writing since starting university but I'm glad to finally have this one done. Hopefully you all enjoy the introduction of my OC!

Set in the aftermath of Glass Onion.

Title: White Flower

Summary: Fleur Blanc, art student and only daughter of the world's greatest detective, wants to steal the Mona Lisa.

Words: 2336

Despite the alarm and the impassive yelling of “this is a smokeless garden”, Benoit Blanc believed he quite deserved this cigarette, thank you very much. Trying was one word to describe the weekend he’d had. All-round tits up was another.

Besides. The island was pretty much a raging pit of alarms, fire, and general chaos by now. One more addition didn’t make much of a difference, and there certainly was no stopping the activation of the hydrogen fuel now.

“Oh, do shut up,” he said anyway, because it felt good, and because the first yell had made him jump and squish his cigarette between two fingers.

He reached for another and let his sunglasses fall over his eyes, squinting into the distance.

The horrifically neon pink of Birdie Jay’s sunhat stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of the remaining participants of the weekend’s fiasco. They were all fanned out across the beach, as far apart from each other as possible, waiting impatiently for the policeboats to arrive. Ironic, really, considering how they’d arrived, each one a suck up to the next.

Benoit lit his new cigarette and shook his head with a scoff. “Megalomaniac, Janus-faced…” He muttered the words under his breath and took a puff. The alarm and impassive yelling restarted, and the second cigarette promptly joined the one on the ground.

“For the love of...”

He was owed a proper vacation after this, at the very least.

The yelling stopped abruptly with a crackle and a robotic groan. When Benoit turned, he was met with the sight of a young woman, her feet precariously placed between the gaps of the odd white sculpture that the yelling emanated from.

No longer.

After a violent snap, she held a handful of the offending wires, a look of irritation settling on her face. A flick of long hair and a moment later she tossed the wires onto dry land and followed them down into the shallow water with a quiet splash. Benoit rose a brow and fit his third cigarette neatly between smirking lips.

“Why, thank you, my darlin’.”

Fleur Blanc, twenty-year old art student and daughter of the world’s greatest detective, offered a mock bow as she stepped out of the water. She stretched out a leg and shook her foot dry as her father turned his gaze back towards the beach.

It hadn’t been his idea to bring Fleur along on this particular adventure, and he had in fact protested against it when she and that good-for-nothing roommate of his had suggested it, remembering quite well the last time his detective business had taken him on a wild ride. Alas, lockdown had turned Fleur into a firecracker and Philip had eventually boiled Benoit’s options down to “you take her with you, or I take myself out with the shotgun in the safe.” All fun and games, of course. Of course.

He couldn’t say her presence had been unappreciated. Apart from the obvious ease in her company, and the slightest spark of feeling like they were on a proper vacation, she had helped with the investigation, too. His little detective in the making, he’d always teased, though for as much as he was sure she loved the thrill of investigation, he was certain her career path would lead her straight to the arts.

That certainty was consolidated at the unusual silence coming from Fleur. When he turned, she was standing with her back to him, her eyes fixed on what remained of the Glass Onion. The structure that had once been so…not on fire generated quite the backdrop for his obviously preoccupied daughter. Her head tilted, arms crossed, feet bare and loose hair billowing behind her in the summer breeze, one would assume she was the picture of innocence.

Benoit knew better.

The moment she glanced over her shoulder, a twinkle in her eyes and the—in this case—horrifying beginning of “Dad?” on the tip of her tongue, Benoit pulled his cigarette from his mouth and pointed it at her. His own head dipped dangerously low, and his brows raised in what Fleur knew to be warning.

“No,” he said. Firm and simple. He would not deny she often found herself wrapped around his little finger, but this was one thing he’d be ridiculous to abide by.

“But—”

“My goodness, Fleur, no!”

Fleur narrowed her eyes and whipped her head back around. Benoit saw her fingers tapping rhythmically against her forearm. He remained still, waiting, ready. Because when a thought entered Fleur’s mind, she was hard-pressed to get rid of it.

With a defining nod and not a single glance back, Fleur slipped her flip-flops on and started walking with absolute intent. Benoit rushed after her. He grasped her shoulder and stopped her before she could take another step.

Fleur was ready for him. “I’m doing it,” she stated, “I’ve decided. I have to.”

“You are insane if you truly think—it’s—you are just preposterous, child!”

“But, Dad, it can’t be a crime, right? Most of it’s already destroyed!”

Benoit spluttered. He dropped the cigarette and, with a sudden distaste for the thing, squashed it under the toe of his shoe.

“Jesus, God, Satan, give me strength,” he muttered under his breath, not for the first time concerning his daughter and certainly not for the last. He grasped her by the shoulders, ensuring she couldn’t avoid his gaze, then, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Fleur, sweetheart, you want to steal the Mona fudgin’ Lisa.”

“Rehome,” Fleur was quick to correct. “And it’ll have a better life with me! You really think Miles appreciated it as much as I will?” That was a given. “And—and only a small part, Dad, that’s all I want.” She suddenly hardened her stare, that familiar seriousness suddenly reappearing. “That’s all I need.”

The detective’s speechlessness after that closing statement could have been due to a number of things. One, because the pure gall of this girl never ceased to amaze him. Two, because something seemed to blow up behind them, a puff of smoke emanating from the top of what used to be the Onion. Three, the most likely contender, because the moment said explosion had him distracted, Fleur ducked under his hold and made her way intently towards it.

Like father, like daughter, was all he could think. And he wasn’t referencing himself.

Surprising, considering he followed after her with absolutely zero hesitation.

The Glass Onion’s majesty was long gone. The maddest of people would advise anyone and everyone to stay about a hundred feet from its flaming mess, armed with a hard-shell helmet and a fire extinguisher, just in case anything went even more wrong. Which, looking at it, was likely.

Still, as was typically—stupidly—the case, Benoit Blanc stood in the middle of it all.

One hand wrapped around his daughter’s, the other gripping the doorframe for easy escape, his wide eyes darted around the Onion. If he was any less focused on the state of his surroundings, he would have been more concerned at his daughter’s lack of concern. True, the fire had somewhat died down, and the structure itself looked less ready to cave in than it had done before, but safe was still not a word he would use to describe it.

Helen’s stunt had certainly done a number on poor Mona, but the world of aesthetes could decidedly remain relieved with the knowledge that some parts of her were untouched. Surrounded by what had once been her glass refuge, she sat still in the place she had done since Miles had obtained her. One eye was black, the other pristine. A side of her hair reflected the fire, the other had been destroyed by it. Needless to say, the majority of her was gone, and if Fleur had the time, Benoit had no doubt she’d be down on her hands and knees, collecting the ashes in a little pot and shamelessly risking her life in the process. Alas, he would sooner drag her out, kicking and screaming, than have her be here a moment longer than she apparently needed to be.

Benoit watched his daughter’s eyes as they scanned the room before landing on Mona. In less than a second, that tell-tale glint went from inquisition to pure delight. It seemed no amount of staring from outside of the case could prepare her for now. True, the painting was charred more than not, and his watchful eye did catch a spark of disappointment, but it only seemed to spur her determination in getting it safely within her grasp.

Parental instincts ablaze since the moment he’d stepped foot on the island, Benoit immediately tightened his grip on her hand and yanked her back when she made to move forward. “Hold your horses,” he said, waiting for her eyes to meet his before wildly gesturing around them. “There’s glass everywhere, Fleur, and you’re wearing flip-flops. Why would you bring flip-flops to this island and nothing else?”

“We’re on vacation!”

“You knew darn well this wasn’t a vacation!”

Fleur spluttered for a moment before pointing accusingly at his own choice of footwear. “Like you and your boat shoes can do any better.”

Benoit gasped. Audibly. “These have hard, glass-proof soles, I’ll thank you to notice.”

He wasn’t quite sure what it was that spurred him to his next decision. Perhaps it was the urgency of the situation. Or the very distant, but ever-closer, sound of sirens. Or, maybe, it was the pure eagerness of his daughter; eagerness of which had always softened his heart, no matter the circumstances.

Whichever it was, he tried not to think about the guilt that would remain on his conscience for the rest of his life as he turned and bent over slightly, motioning with his hands.

“Get on my back,” he said hurriedly. When Fleur stalled, shock settling quickly on her face, he motioned again. “Come, child, we haven’t got long.”

And, with that, Fleur hopped on her father’s back with as much excitement as a child. Benoit gripped her legs, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her chin on his shoulder, the biggest of grins adorning her lips.

“Look at you, Dad,” she said as he began walking, stepping carefully over large shards of glass.

“We are not to tell your father,” was his only response to her obvious insinuation that he was becoming rebellious in his old age.

“Might be a little difficult when we come home with the Mona Lisa. Ooh! Why don’t we take the Porsche home too? Just the steering wheel?”

Benoit uttered a silent apology to da Vinci.

“Do you see these grey hairs?” he said. “You are the cause.”

Needless to say, through no innate conformism, Fleur’s inner connoisseur had won over her desire to keep a piece of the Mona Lisa in her cardholder. The moment the police had finished detailing the basics of the weekend’s mess with her father and struck up the sensitive question of the possibility of either of them having seen the Mona Lisa’s remainders at all during the night—Benoit believed it was their imploring “the Louvre are simply desperate to get it back” that had swayed her—Fleur had produced the scraps she’d been able to save from her pocket. Handing them over with only the tiniest hint of reluctance, she’d smiled at the gratefulness from the police and watched them go with the bit of longing she could allow herself.

Chuckling softly, Benoit wrapped an arm around her and drew her into his side, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Well, darlin’,” he said, “I’m very proud of you, if it counts for something.”

Fleur breathed a deep sigh and pressed her lips in a thin smile. “It does. At least I cay say I’ve touched her, right, Dad?”

“Oh, absolutely. That’s more than most people can say, after all.”

The police were wrapping up now, gently guiding the exhausted party members onto a boat—one in particular in aptly placed handcuffs. The island itself would take mountains of work to be habitable again, he’d heard a firefighter voice in passing, and for a moment he wondered if Derol had made it onto the boat. After brief consideration, he decided Derol was probably better off here than America.

Benoit pushed his sunglasses down and steered himself and his daughter in the direction of the shore. He didn’t quite enjoy the idea of sharing a boat ride with previously-dubbed megalomaniac, Janus-faced…people, but alas, after today he would no longer experience the displeasure of seeing them again. Though, he would be glad for Helen to attend a few of his dinner parties when the pandemic allowed.

Fleur reached up to grasp her father’s hand at her shoulder as they walked slowly, stepping carefully around anything glinting in the sand. Then, quietly, “Where’re you gonna put your steering wheel?”

Ah. Benoit instinctively glanced down at the duffel bag in his free hand. True, it was heavier than it had been when he’d first arrived on the island, but he had told his daughter that he’d be much appreciated if she didn’t remind him of his rebelliousness at every given moment. Which she had.

“I’m going to lock it away in a safe, so it’s never found, and I’m never arrested for thieving,” he said, finality embedded in his tone. If anyone ever asked: no, he had not stolen the steering wheel of the Porsche 918 Spyder’s wreckage. No, he did not have it in his duffel bag, blanketed by his clothes and second pair of boat shoes. And, no, once it entered the safe he would never look at it again. Except on birthdays. And maybe Christmasses.

He couldn’t say he regretted it.

But he did regret not regretting it.

“And may I just reiterate,” he said, leaning closer towards her, “your father does not need to know a thing.”

Knives Out Masterpost

[aniron48]

smoke gets in your eyes: chapter 3

oh, friends, it has been a while.

Life has been at an 11, lately, in so many ways, not least because practicing international law in a time when the world is as it is feels a lot like that gif from Community where Donald Glover walks into a room with a bunch of pizzas, only to find that the room is actively on fire. I have missed you all, and I've missed writing, and I'm hoping dearly to have more time for both in the coming days, if I can manage it.

In the meantime, here's a little something for you, with lots of love: chapter 3 of "smoke gets in your eyes" is now up on ao3.

Please imagine that when you sit down to read it, I am giving you a giant hug. I hope you enjoy 💜

[cerealboxlore]

Whiz Kid Billy Batson and Lois Lane + the others

How come I haven't seen anything about Billy Batson interacting with the other journalists and reporters in the DC universe when it's the perfect opportunity to have the truth seekers in one room combining their skills/forces together?? I mean seriously, let the Whiz Kid Billy Batson HC meet with the others during some big journalist/reporter convention being held in Fawcett City, he has his own little radio show, let the boy speak his mind! Billy and Lois would have a blast together solving a cold case, interviewing superheroes together, and investigating the mystery behind who invited all these famous journalists and reporters to Fawcett city.

Make it be like a Knives Out scenario where someone extremely important and big suddenly bites the dust during the convention, and not only are the famous reporters and journalists there meant to solve the case, but they are also the suspects! The superheroes are away and can't help in this event, it's up to the non super powered allies to get to the bottom of this and save themselves!

Billy obviously can't transform into Captain Marvel due to the circumstances, but he's more than ready for a challenge to prove that Billy Batson is just as much a hero as his alter ego is.

Billy Batson, Lois Lane, Iris West, Jimmy Olsen, Viki Vale, Cat Grant (I'm going off the DC wiki for journalists and reporters). Put all these people in a room and all of your secrets will be in extreme danger.

Bonus points if Benoit Blanc is canon to the DC universe and was invited as a plus one to a guest of honor/VIP at the convention. I like this fruity southern detective man a lot. Him existing in the DC universe would just be hilarious and actually fit. Man solved a lot of famous cases, who's to say he's never solved a supervillain crime case or answered a few Riddles by the Riddle before (even though he thinks they're stupid). Let this man meet batman for crying out loud! (And let him play Among us with the other journalists/reporters-)

I got the idea based on the snippets of the fic being made by @wolfsbanesparks that involves Billy going through a mentorship program under Lois Lane.

[wrathofthestag]

Phillip's

Benoit Blanc believed there was no godly reason to have five coffee shops within walking distance of one another. So when a new shop called Phillip’s opened just down the street, Benoit couldn’t help but petulantly roll his eyes. At least the name wasn’t idiotic. Also on AO3...

To be honest, Benoit Blanc thought there were too many coffee shops in the world.

Jesus wept; there was no godly reason to have five coffee shops within walking distance of one another. Macco-choco caramel this, that, and the other—a waste of real estate. And the pastries they served? Travesty. Utter travesty. So when a new shop called Phillip’s opened just down the street, Benoit couldn’t help but petulantly roll his eyes. At least the name wasn’t idiotic.

He walked past Phillip’s—it was on his way home, after all—and ignored the smells coming from within, or at least tried to. Benoit’s neighbor, Mrs. Reynolds with the very sweet basset hound named Droopy, had said Phillip’s baked goods were “quite tasty.” Quite tasty, however, wasn’t enough to tempt him to enter the establishment. That was until Phillip’s had the utter audacity to put a sign in the window declaring they had delicious fresh beignets.

Beignets? Outside of New Orleans? Benoit couldn’t help but huff. He had to investigate that surely outlandish claim.

When he pushed his way through the coffee shop door, he instantly noticed how tastefully decorated the shop was. Fresh flowers sat at each table, everything was painted a lovely pale yellow, and Ella Fitzgerald rang from the speakers. Hmm. The shop was fairly empty, with just a few patrons at one table. Benoit couldn’t tell if that was a portend or if he just came in between a rush.

He looked at the chalkboard menu above the counter and studied it for a moment until someone cleared their throat and broke into his space.

“Welcome to Phillip’s,” a voice said.

“Yes, hello, thank you. Can I--”

Benoit looked at the source of the voice, and…

Oh, shitballs.

Well, he was just Benoit’s type, now, wasn’t he? Dark hair, blue eyes, a quizzical brow, and a crooked smile that made him want to trip over himself. He wore a tie-dyed apron and a nametag that read Phillip.

“We have some cheddar bacon scones just out of the oven.”

“Uh…”

“Unless you’re a vegan or something, then scratch that,” the man, the Phillip said.

Benoit took his wits about him as he tried to ignore Phillip’s smile and floppy hair.

“Beignets?” he finally croaked out.

“Ah, a connoisseur of the beignet are you?” Phillip asked as he leaned on his elbows against the counter.

“Yes, you could say that. Absolutely.”

Phillip’s eyes widened slightly, and then he shook his head and laughed.

“Yeah, judging by that accent, you could definitely say that,” he said. “Bugger.”

Benoit smiled and shrugged.

“Beignets outside of New Orleans shows quite the braggadocio.”

This time it was Phillip who grinned and shrugged.

“I hope they’re up to snuff.”

He looked over his shoulder and shouted.

“Lou! Hey, Lou! How long on the beignets?”

“Five minutes!” a voice from out back replied.

“Well, there you go. You can let me know what you think in five minutes. Anything else?”

The two looked at each other for a beat, the ghost of a smile still lingering.

“Coffee?”

“Room for cream?”

“No, thank you.”

“Takeaway?”

“Yes, please.”

“Name.”

“Blanc. Benoit Blanc.”

Benoit wasn’t quite sure exactly why he gave his whole name like that, but he did. Phillip snorted.

“Blanc? Benoit Blanc? What are you? James Bond?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Okay, fine,” Phillip said and exhaled loudly.

“Fine?”

“Some people like to give made-up names, and at this point, I’ve stopped reacting—or at least trying to react. Especially with one as silly as this.”

“Silly?” Benoit sputtered. “Listen--”

“Is that Blanc with a ‘c’ or a ‘q-u-e’?” Phillip asked with an eyebrow raised.

“A ‘c.’”

“I see,” Phillips said as he wrote on the cup and filled it with coffee. “Here you go, Blanc-with-a-C. The beignet will be right up.”

Benoit paid, and as their fingers grazed, he couldn’t help the tiny flip his insides did.

Phillip cleared his throat again and said, “Very well then. It should only be a few minutes on the beignets.”

“Thank you.”

Benoit sat at one of the cushy corner armchairs in a very supple dark grey suede and sipped his coffee.

“Is it always this quiet in here?” he asked toward the counter.

The patrons at the one table turned to look at Benoit.

“Quiet? Hardly,” Phillip called back. “You came during a quiet pocket. It’ll pick up again in an hour.”

Benoit sat and watched as Phillip wiped down the table, his forearms strong while they worked in a circular motion. Phillip paused and looked up right at Benoit, who startled and quickly looked down at his coffee cup.

Phillip shook his head and grinned as he wiped some more.

Lou, apparently, walked out from the back with a tray full of beignets.

“Order up for Blanc,” Phillip said.

Benoit walked up to the counter and breathed an internal sigh of relief as he looked at the beignets. They were a beautiful shade of light brown and covered in powdered sugar.

“I stand ready for your judgment,” Phillip said as he shook some more powdered sugar onto one and gently put it on a plate.

Benoit pick it up and took a bite. It was yeasty and sweet, but not overpowering. It was as fragant and airy as a summer’s night in Savannah.

“Oh, my word.” He took another bite. “Oh my goodness.”

Phillip smiled.

“Good, right?”

“It's… well, yes,” Benoit said with delight.

“I know.”

Benoit put down the beignet and quickly placed a ten in the tip jar and smiled, upper lip covered in powdered sugar.

“Well! What a compliment!” Phillip said as he picked up the jar and looked at it, puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” Benoit asked and gingerly wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Come on! Just an hour ago, this jar was almost full! My tip jar’s been nicked again.”

Phillip sighed, walked over to the register, took out some money, and placed it in the tip jar.

“If it were just me working here, I wouldn't care so much, but Lou and the kids all divvy up the tips. This is the second time it’s happened. I thought the first time was a fluke but I supposed it wasn’t.”

“So sorry that's happening.”

“What kind of a cretin steals tips? I need a detective to solve this nonsense!”

A detective? Benoit couldn't help but laugh.

“What? What's so funny?”

“No, it's just that--”

“What?”

“Well,” Benoit said. “I'm a detective.”

Phillip put his hands on his hips. “You are not.”

“Certified and bonafied.”

Phillip laughed. “Oh god! You’re not one of those overbearing sorts that smokes a bloody pipe, fancying themselves Sherlock fucking Holmes, who thinks they’re too smart for their own good?”

“No, I think I’m just the right amount of smart… and I smoke cigars,” Benoit said with a smile.

The two studied each other for a beat, their smiles growing wider by the second.

“You just think you're so charming, don't you?”

“I have my moments.”

Benoit felt someone watching, turned, and noticed the people sitting at the table looking at them amusedly. The woman at the table mouthed Go on to him.

“Well, all right then, Blanc. Would you like to have dinner sometime?” Phillip said. “You know, to go over the case.”

“Are you hiring me?”

Phillip moved his hand in a so-so motion.

“Not sure yet. I'll let you know after dinner.”

Benoit took another bite of the beignet and sighed.

"Flying colors.”

Phillips smiled smugly.

“Well, Blanc. Let me introduce myself properly. I'm Phillip. Phillip White.”

“Phillip White? You’re pullin’ my leg!”

“No,” Phillip laughed softly. “I promise you, I am not. My hands are nowhere near your legs.”

“Phillip,” Benoit said and stretched out his hand, “it's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Lovely to meet you, Blanc.”

The two smiled at one another, surrounded by pastries, music, and flowers. And if their handshake lasted a bit longer than it should have, well, there was no mystery as to why.

[starryevermore]

sweet memories ✧ benoit blanc

angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)

request: Either 3 separate ideas or all together into one: (for Knives out/Glass onion. Any character but probs best for detective Blanc)

● Getting drunk/tipsy and reminiscing their time in their training 

● Blanc (?) and reader on a case and one of them gets severely hurt and it’s a choice of whether they continue to chase suspect or help the other 

● one of them trying to re-enact what theoretically could have happened on a case, person b paying no attention to this, and suddenly person A is in front of them trying different death methods. Someone walking in and being horrified. Person B saying sorry, person A saying it’s normal. - anon

pairing: benoit blanc x male!reader

summary: you and benoit reminisce on your relationship. 

word count: 1,613

warnings?: minor spoilers for glass onion, maybe slightly out of character benoit, established relationship, fluff, gunshot wound, mention of murder, not proofread

Benoit Blanc had not changed much since you had last seen him, you mused. Still had his beautiful, piercing blue eyes. Still had a brain that run a million miles a minute. Still managed to impress you with every single thing he does. It was almost unfair, how perfect the man sitting across from you was. At least he had one fault that you knew of. At least you could still pull out the fact that you’ve beat him at every single game of Clue you played against him. He always hated when you did that, arguing that he wasn’t good at dumb games so it wasn’t fair to keep holding that over his head. But with that sparkling twinkle in his eyes, you knew he didn’t really mean it. Benoit was a teasing man—around you, at least. To the rest of the world, he was the world’s greatest detective. But to you, he was ole Benny, an awkward fella who was a far shout from the greatest at anything. 

“Ain’t seen you in a while,” he said, looking at you over the rim of his glass as he took a long sip of his drink. He set the glass down, smacking his lips. “You solve any good mysteries lately?”

“Nothing as great as you,” you said. “I mean, showing the world that Miles Brown is a complete nitwit? You’re really taking that whole eat-the-rich thing to heart.”

Benoit waved you off, shaking his head. “It was dumber than a game of Clue. Man didn’t even have the ability to come up with an original murder. Stole all his ideas from everyone.”

“Well, look on the bright side. At least you finally won a game of Clue,” you teased, leaning forward, resting your elbows on the table. “Never thought I’d see the day. Someone should put that in the history books, you know. Benoit Blanc: World’s Greatest Detective, Bested by Clue Except for that One Time.”

“That’s a terrible title for a book. Nobody’d pick it up.”

“I would.”

“Probably ‘cause you’d be the one writin’ it.”

You hummed, taking a sip of your drink. “Someone’s gotta expose you as the dork you truly are. Everyone acts like you’re some James Bond type o’ figure. They deserve to know you’re more of…I don’t know. Who’s the silliest character you can think of?”

Benoit hummed. “Clark Kent?”

“I said silliest character, not the character you’ve got the hots for!” you laughed. 

“Oh, come on! The whole glasses disguise? Seriously? No one ever thought, hey this guy looks kinda sorta similar to Superman? I refuse to believe that!”

“Not everyone is as brilliant as you, Benny boy,” you said. You took another sip of your drink. “God, I hate Superman. Remember that one time, when we were working a case together? The jewelry heist case?”

Benoit’s face turned red. He probably didn’t like thinking of that case very much. You couldn’t blame him, if you were being honest. You didn’t like to think of it, either. “You know I could never forget that case.”

“All I really remember of it is bein’ in the hospital. They had stupid Superman movie playing all the time. Man of Steel, or somethin’? I used to like it before, but god, a guy can only watch that shit so many times before it gets annoyin’. I swear, if I see Henry Cavill put on that super suit again, it’d be too soon.”

“I’d prefer to remember it as the day I realized I love you,” Benoit said. 

You let out a laugh. “What, it took me being on my death bed to realize you loved me?”

It had been a complete and utter disaster. It wasn’t often that you and Benoit worked together on a case. But this was a tough nut to crack, so Benoit invited you along, telling the client that if she wanted the case to be solved, it was imperative you be there, too. The client hadn’t really been willing, but recognized she had no real choice in the matter so she bit her tongue. After all, she wanted to make sure she was not the victim in the jewelry heist. 

Things had gone well enough, if you were being honest. After a few false starts and some misleading clues, you and Benoit were close to triumphant. But neither of you could have expected the suspect to have a gun, much less use it. 

He’d been aiming at Benoit. You panicked, your blood running cold. Before you could even think about what you were doing, you jumped and positioned yourself between Benoit and the bullet. It struck you, lodging itself in your side. You screamed as you fell, hitting the floor, hard. 

Pain practically blinded you as you reached up, touching your wound. When you pulled your hand away, it was sticky with blood. You lifted your head, seeing Benoit falling to his knees, his hand covering your wound, applying pressure. You twisted your head the best you could, watching as the suspect ran.

“Go,” you whispered. You couldn’t manage to make your voice any louder. Took too much energy. “You’re gonna lose him. We won’t get another chance like this.”

“I can’t lose you,” Benoit said. 

“I’ll be fine, go get him.”

“Don’t make me leave you,” Benoit whispered, leaning over you, his lips ghosting over your forehead. “I love you. I can’t lose you. I love you.”

“It was an emotional moment!” Benoit argued. “It ain’t strange for things to be revealed in times of high stress, you know.”

“I know,” you said. You reached over, grabbing his hand, giving it a squeeze. “I just hate that it took you so long. To think we might have gotten together a lot sooner if I told you I loved you when I realized.”

Benoit let out a laugh so loud it practically shook the walls of the kitchen. “Oh, come on. At least when I realized, it had a sort of morbid romantic edge. Yours was just me being an idiot!”

“Well, I love when you’re an idiot.”

It was the early days in your friendship. You and Benoit had often worked together back then, honing your detective skills, bouncing ideas off each other. It felt less like a job that way. It felt more like playing a game of Clue (despite Benny’s aversion to the game). In any case, it was more fun that way. Plus, it gave you and Benoit a chance to develop some more unconventional methods of solving cases. Which is exactly what you were doing. 

You and Benoit were working out how the victim may have died. You had narrowed down to a few different murder weapons that might have been it, but you and Benoit couldn’t quite figure out how it had happened. So, it was only natural that the two of you ran through some different scenarios in an effort to narrow some the possibilities. 

That was how you ended up straddling Benoit, who laid on his back on the floor, his hands above his head as if he were surrendering. Your breath caught in your throat at the position. You liked it—you like it a lot. But you forced yourself to ignore the thought about what it may be like if you were in this same position with a little less clothes. You had to remain professional. You had to. 

You raised your hand holding the prop knife, acting like you were going to drive it through Benoit’s chest. As you brought it down, the fake blade pushing itself into the handle, you frowned. This didn’t make sense. The victim had been fighting back, and this position didn’t give much opportunity to do it. “No, I don’t think it was like this. Here, trade places with me.”

You lifted yourself off of Benoit and laid on the floor. Benoit straddled you now. Your breath hitched as he reached down, his hands closing around your throat. 

“The victim had injuries on her hands, like someone’d been tryin’ to pry her hands off of ‘em,” Benoit said. 

“When the killer couldn’t do that, they kneed her in the stomach,” you continued, bring your leg up, pressing your knee into Benoit’s stomach. 

“And then—”

The door opened. There was a shout. Benoit lifted his head, his face tinted red as he looked at the person who walked inside. 

“Oh, god!” the person said. It was your client. Fuck. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean t-to see anything!”

“Oh, it’s not like that!” Benoit said. “We’re just tryin’ to act out the murder!”

You cleared your throat, trying to twist your head to look at her. “Totally normal. All the professionals do it.”

“I-I’ll leave you it then…”

She left as quick as she came, shutting the door behind you. As you and Benoit looked at each other again, you felt like your face was burning. 

“Um, so that seems like it was the way it happened…” you mumbled. 

“Right, right,” Benoit said, getting off of you. “Uh, with that done, we should start narrowing down the suspects, then.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just give me a moment and I’ll be ready.”

Because, holy fuck, how could you be in a position like this and just expect to continue on as normal? 

“If you love your idiot so much then, how ‘bout you join me in the bath, then?” Benoit asked. “Gets a bit lonely in there, you know.”

Your snorted. “Fine. But we’re not staying there for a week, alright?”

“I’m sure I could convince you otherwise.”

“We’ll see.”

Oh, how you loved your silly little detective. 

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

every time i think i write a fic people are going to like it winds up being astoundingly unpopular 🤣🤣🤣😭😭😭

[chanbig]

A cat appears in the Theerapanyakul compound. No one knows how it got there, or why it wants to follow (a highly-allergic) Kinn around. Chan is called in to help. OR Big gets turned into a cat, and Chan takes care of him.

[ebp-brain]

benoit blanc/philip: homecoming

spoilers for The Glass Onion ahead!

--

“So,” says Philip.

“So,” says Benoit Blanc.

“You solved a murder on a billionaire’s private island, then encouraged your new friend to blow up virtually the entire island, causing the destruction of one of the greatest works of art in the history of humanity and the downfall of said billionaire’s massive tech company. Not to mention the billionaire himself.”

Blanc nods, looking around at the open living room-slash-kitchen area of his and Philip’s flat, suitcases at his feet and the stale smell of airplane still clinging to his clothes.

“And you,” he says, “made about fifty loaves of sourdough bread in my absence.”

“Fifty-six,” says Philip. “I ate some.”

Blanc nods slowly, looking at his husband. His husband looks back.

“My god, I love you,” Blanc says.

“I love you too. I wish I could have seen the explosion.”

“It was quite something.” Blanc steps closer and takes Philip’s face in his hands. He kisses him hard on the mouth. Philip gives a startled inhale and then kisses back, grasping at Blanc’s upper arms, pulling him in.

“There you are,” he gasps out, looking into Blanc’s eyes. “There you are.”

Blanc’s face falls a bit. “I do apologize for my…rather insufferable behavior these last few months. And for monopolizing our bathtub. I know I cannot have been much of a joy to cohabitate with.”

“Oh, Blanc,” says Philip, “mostly it was just hard to watch you suffer. I miss your…” He gestures at Blanc’s sparkling eyes, his upright posture, his bright face alive with intelligence. “This. You.”

Blanc smiles a little and kisses Philip, more softly this time. “Have you perfected the recipe yet?”

Philip beams. “Try for yourself.”

Blanc looks around at the dozens of loaves stacked on their cabinets, tables, counters, and even the occasional bookshelf. “I certainly shall,” he replies. “I certainly shall.”

[eofaquitaine]

GUYS WE HAVE TO DO BETTER.

[daylightaftertherain]

okay I just had a hilarious thought because in an alternate rwrb universe where arthur lives and knives out+glass onion exist, he would be the one who plays a middle aged gay detective being completely done with rich people’s bullshit and sporting an accent alex probably taught him, while being married into the british royal family I-

[lecoindecachou]

Is that fucking Ricard