LAST GENTLEMAN SLEUTH.

and yet, be it cruel or comforting, this machine unerringly arrives at the truth.

[archivedsleuth]

                                                                   𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂                                     𝙸𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑. 

an independent, heavily canon-divergent blog for  𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂 a character from the 2019 movie  𝐾𝑁𝐼𝑉𝐸𝑆 𝑂𝑈𝑇.  much like the source material, this blog will be campy and murderous.  affiliated with  @damecrime​​ . 

                                     SLIDES    •    WIKI PAGE   •   SIDEBLOG

​​

[archivedsleuth]

this account has been archived!

find me over at @gentsleuth​

[archivedsleuth]

this account has been archived!

find me over at @gentsleuth​

[archivedsleuth]

this account has been archived!

find me over at @gentsleuth​

[archivedsleuth]

this account has been archived!

find me over at @gentsleuth​

[archivedsleuth]

this account has been archived!

find me over at @gentsleuth​

[archivedsleuth]

this account has been archived!

find me over at @gentsleuth​

[archivedsleuth]

this account has been archived!

find me over at  @gentsleuth

[archivedsleuth]

this account has been archived!

find me over at @gentsleuth​

[gentsleuth-arch]

#GENTSLEUTH. 𝙸𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙰 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝚄𝚃 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝚃 𝙰𝙻𝙻, 𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙰 𝚂𝙼𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝚁 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝚄𝚃 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙸𝚃𝚂 𝙾𝚆𝙽 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴, 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝚄𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚆𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝚃 𝙰𝙻𝙻! the brand new home of immortal, campy detective 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜. 

[archivedsleuth]

blog moving!

hello, my good people. i will be archiving this blog and moving him to a new one today. unplotted threads will be dropped as well as ask memes. i will be reblogging the new promo soon! 

[crimeloyalty-arch]

@gentsleuth / 📸 ⸻ harley’s diary.

[archivedsleuth]

have an itch to move blogs and do an aesthetic rehaul 🤔

[damecrime-deactivated20230614]

#𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄   ───  checkmate. an independent crime oc.

[archivedsleuth]

damecrime​,    ma reine.

brielle  considers  his  first  move  a  gambit,    a  sacrifice  of  his  stance  so  that  his  lips  could  grace  the  soft  and  refined  expanse  of  her  cheek    -    unwrinkled  from  age  and  pristine  from  the  lack  of  emotions  that  might  see  a  smile  line  create  a  crevice,    she  stills  against  the  brief  contact  and  struggles  with  her  rebuttal.    she  oftens  considers  that  defeating  benoit  blanc  but  would  like  swallowing  the  sun,    extinguishing  whatever  light  graced  her  skies  just  so  that  she  could  feel  it  burn  down  her  throat  for  one  brilliant  moment    -    she  would  be  cast  into  darkness  but  perhaps  the  warmth  would  linger.    

although  he  turns  his  attention  to  the  folder,  exactly  in  the  same  way  she  just  finished  urging,  brielle  sees  it  as  a  slight  after  his  attack  and  reaches  out  to  clasp  his  chin  between  her  thumb  and  forefinger.    the  hold  is  both  soft  and  harsh,    affectionate  and  abusive,    a  perfect  contrast  of  nonsensical  states  of  being  that  collides  at  exactly  the  same  point  that  they  do.    it  has  taken  her  many  decades  to  settle  on  the  most  basic  fact  about  the  man    :    she  doesn’t  wish  for  him  to  die  simply  so  that  she  can  carry  on  without  knowing  what  her  tears  might  taste  of.

❝    when  people  started  to  credit  me  for  his  work.    ❞    response  is  measured  as  she  continues  to  study  him  with  a  gaze  that  takes  in  the  expression  behind  his  eyes,    follows  the  pronounced  slope  of  his  nose  before  settling  upon  the  riddled  question  mark  of  his  lips.    for  all  the  previous  strike  may  have  done  to  introduce  the  promise  of  pain  it  does  not  come  to  fruition  and  instead,    perhaps  to  match  his  gambit,    brielle  releases  benoit  from  her  grasp  and  tenderly  wraps  one  of  his  fringed  curls  around  her  forefinger.    ❝    so  far  that  part  appears  to  be  nothing  more  than  irony.    ❞    removing  herself  from  him,    but  nearly  settling  against  his  shoulder,    the  wine  returns  to  its  pressed  position  against  her  chin.    ❝    arthur  insulting  me  from  the  grave,  no  doubt.  there  is  no  point  finding  the  man  directly  so  i’ve  compiled  a  list  of  individuals  who  would  benefit  from  an  attack  like  this.    page  two.    ❞

she holds him between her fingers,  and he knows while looking into her eyes that all the  power  lies between her thumb and forefinger.   as always,  she could make or  break  him.  his precipice.  he never fails to stand on the ledge,  knowing that a single gust of wind could send him over   –   forever lost until  she  would choose to find him.   he doesn’t move,  eyes locked on hers.  there is no attempt at reading her expression,  no need  for it.   this was familiar.  all he needed to do was  be.   power was  hers  to wield,  and she pulls him  away  from that fateful ledge.  not lost yet.

he scoffs,  mirth emanating from him as if the  intensity  of the past moment had never happened.   ❝  how does this crediting occur,  pray tell?  whatsapp group?   tea at the club?  evil twitter?   ❞   no protest comes against the affectionate manner she takes his curls,  it even causes a smile to grow on his lips,  unabashedly pleased.   he does not move,  merely allowing the alleged  predator  to feel safe enough to  come near.  ❝   don’t be silly,  dear.  ❞    taking a generous sip from his wine,  benoit turns the page.   ❝  arthur would never spend so much time thinking about a woman.  ❞    profiles stare back at him,  and benoit cants his head while reading through them.  his finger travels through each picture  –    ❝  i know him,  not his style.  this one hasn’t got enough  brains even for that,  and this one  …    ❞   finger lifts.    ❝  archibald rose.  ❞   former military.  british.  proud,  a stranger to subtleties.   ❝  i’d start with him.  ❞

[archivedsleuth]

damecrime​,    ma reine.

❝    i’m  the  only  thing  swifter  than  death.    ❞    the  way  brielle  speaks  it  seems  like  an  adage,    like  her  name  clings  to  the  moniker  of  a  harbinger  when  it  is  truly  not  her  that  brings  on  the  decision  of  the  scythe.    the  dame  is  never  the  one  holding  the  smoking  gun  even  if  it  had  been  her  to  supply  the  bullets.    her  assessment  is  delivered  with  what  must  appear  to  be  boredom,    perhaps  a  pedantic  assumption  to  anyone  else  that  might  take  her  lounging  stance  and  flat  expression  as  weariness  of  company  but  this  couldn’t  be  further  from  the  truth.    these  stalemates  never  reach  an  end  with  any  official  nature,    teamwork  ebbing  like  the  tides,    and  even  when  benoit  sits  next  to  her  like  an  ally  it  is  only  in  the  moment.

brielle  lacks  the  awkwardness  most  might  cling  to  when  silence  falls,    where  hurried  comments  with  meaningless  weight  are  forced  into  the  ether  to  keep  conversation  lulling  along    -    she  basks  in  it  as  she  observes  the  sweater  he  wears.    perfectly  common  in  appearance  and  well-worn,    take  a  snapshot  of  the  moment  and  it  seems  as  if  she  should  start  asking  him  about  his  day  and  then  suggest  something  woefully  domestic  to  fill  the  rest  of  the  evening    ;    it  is  nothing  more  than  a  thought  that  she  washes  down  the  bitter  taste  with  brunello.

❝    they  might  be.    ❞    never  with  a  forward  answer  and  always  several  moves  ahead,    brielle  leans  forward  with  a  deliberately  slow  approach  so  that  she  nearly  drapes  herself  over  his  lap  to  gather  up  the  file.    ❝    i  seem  to  only  need  them  when  i’m  appeasing  you.    ❞    with  this  assessment  the  folder  is  placed  in  his  lap,    clinging  to  a  modicum  of  purpose  before  she  nestles  her  wine  glass  against  her  chin.    ❝    lets  pretend  we’re  here  for  more  than  just  the  company.    it’ll  be  bad  for  our  business.    ❞    there  is  a  joke  there,    a  tease  in  a  form  only  she  can  supply    -    meaning  that  it  is  delivered  dryly  with  only  a  sly  glance  to  serve  as  salvation.

mind begs to argue against the statement,  but never wins dominance over his tongue.   to him,  she was  anything  but swift.   the woman had slowly snuck her way into his life,  prolonged her stay over the course of centuries and,  even when she saw it fit to  hurt him,   it was not with a swift blow.  it was the kind of pain that lingered,  that took away a part of him that only ever returned in her presence.  joy  may be swift,  though.   only ever granted in small pockets,  with her comings and goings.   well,  seems he was right not to argue.  she  could  have been right,  in part.

her thoughts eluded him from time to time.  in the silences,  he tries to read them but falls short.   watching her back as she watches him,  benoit can somewhat imagine what she could be thinking as she looks at his sweater.  what it represented to her.  maybe she,  much like himself,  travels far to a place where  this  could be routine.  if that was true,  he can see the exact moment she abandons, washing it away with a merciless flood of crimson.

he is not so willing to leave,  hoping to will it to bleed into reality.   ❝  it ought to be a good change of pace for you,  ma reine.  you never appease  anybody.  ❞  not so secretly,  benoit enjoyed the preference.  once she returns to his side,  he chooses not to speak again,  instead leaning forward until his lips meet her cheek and gift a yearning kiss against her skin.   i missed you so,  his silence says.  only a few more seconds are stolen in her orbit before he turns his attention to the file and opens it again,  only skimming the first page.   ❝  when did you become aware of this person?  ❞   a single eyebrow rises.  ❝  do they know  you  exist?  ❞  

[archivedsleuth]

damecrime​,   ma reine.

the  self-assured  knock  on  the  door  of  her  hotel  suite  does  not  prompt  brielle  towards  movement,    not  only  for  the  sake  of  providing  a  minor  irritation  to  the  detective  on  the  other  side  but  to  allow  time  for  her  to  reluctantly  look  over  to  the  living  area  table  where  her  glasses  rest.    she  contemplates  the  gesture,    picking  apart  at  its  fibers  and  examining  the  path  where  each  might  lead    -    only  two  courses  of  action  are  provided  and  she  fails  to  see  past  her  own  choice.    

she  hates  the  man  that  knocks  on  the  door  again,    loathes  the  gnawing  intensity  of  feeling  that  stirs  beneath  her  chest,    all  because  she  can  not  seem  to  understand  him    ;    perhaps  because  she  can  not  begin  to  understand  herself.

poker  face  serves  chess  far  better  as  she  opens  the  door  with  the  glasses  perched  upon  the  sharp  slope  of  her  nose,    the  only  betrayal  of  mirth  being  the  slight  way  that  hallway  lights  dazzle  against  the  blue  in  her  eyes  before  she  walks  away  and  leaves  the  door  ajar.    ❝    bahrain  is  on  the  sitting  room  table.    brunello  is  on  the  counter.    ❞    standing  proud  against  kitchen  granite  is  an  open  bottle  of  wine  and  an  empty  glass,    identical  to  the  one  already  filled  that  brielle  returns  to  as  she  nestles  back  into  the  space  on  her  sofa.

@gentsleuth​  /  starter.

brielle was a powerful woman.   power she wielded expertly,  and that he often gave in to even despite his best efforts and  kindest  self-evaluations.  it would be too far to say that she was his very own   blind spot,   but the detective’s view certainly was impaired when it came to his eternal rival.  he could see enough to ruin her plans,  yet was blind to smaller attempts at his very heart    –     be they  literal  or  figurative.    

vision was rendered  null  as he stripped himself of his well-tailored armour for the cashmere substitute that spoke both to  comfort  and a willingness to give her a few inches of rope.   he knew she saw their game as chess :  a field she had mastered and knew each piece and move like the back of her hand.   he had always seen it as  tug-of-war.   two forces  alike in strength  pulling on the same piece for dominance,  a stalemate that only ever changed when one of them decided to give in for the joint benefit. as they both had agreed on a truce today, that white flag lay dead centre.

he wears a victor’s smile when she greets him sporting the specs that frame her fair face.  mirth becomes him much more easily than it did her,  it was not a card he held close to his chest.   and though she made more of an attempt to conceal hers,  he could still see it   –    there was a tinge affecting the blue of her eyes,  a note among a private ocean that only he had ever swam into.  it’s brief as she turns her back to him,  but enough to ignite a fire in his chest.

benoit follows inside,  directing his attention to the briefing first and foremost.  not because he was more  taken  with it,  but over a force of habit to maintain a measure of professionalism.   ❝  you’ve put this together quickly.  ❞   just as quickly do his eyes scan over the information ;  before leaving it on the couch and moving on to the brunello,  pouring himself a glass.   he returns to occupy the space between brie and the file,  sitting closer to her than the object.  his attention is soon focused solely on her,  providing the return of his winning smile as he admires the view.   ❝  those suit you well.  are they new?  ❞