Pairing: Benoit Blanc x reader (FTM), a hint of Phillip Blanc x reader, but really not more than a mention
Summary: Blanc finds himself visiting america briefly to take care of his niece. He does not anticipate getting enthralled by her Drama teacher. Neither does he anticipate how much Phillip seems to like him, too.
Warnings: Alcohol consumption (The Reader gets Intoxicated). Noncannon Blanc family drama for the story. Slight Sexual tension? Reader has his own hobbies and a hint of his own personality. Age gap? (It's never mentioned but implied). No Beta Reader
Word Count: 4.8k
Note: I realized that constantly checking the Benoit Blanc x reader tag was not going to magically make more appear, so I took matters into my own hands. Also, speaking of that, you’re telling me that Daniel Craig has never looked his finest and there’s basically ZERO (0) fics for him? Am I crazy? Get to work, y'all. I know half of you can write better than me/j
(Also, did anyone catch the Bond reference?)
You could tell about 10 minutes before 5 that the kids were getting restless, eagerly rehearsing their roles, voices getting louder, and not being able to stay in their seats.
It’s not as if this was an issue, and you were beyond used to it, having been in their situation yourself about 5 years ago. That’s one of the reasons you’re back, because you missed the excitement.
It was 4:50 on a Monday afternoon. The first Drama club meeting of the semester, and as the new theatre teacher and Drama director for Pine Hill High, it was the talk of the whole school.
The old Director, an older, stern woman called Ms. Cunningham, had just retired. She didn’t host Drama meetings at all and reserved any school productions for students only.
This wasn’t a major issue, but you can recall how much you hated her when you used to go to school here. How awful and demanding she was for a high school director. You were set to make it your sole purpose to go against her taxing ways of teaching. You promised yourself that you would be different and understanding.
Thankfully, most of the kids seemed to be accepting the change happily, especially the seniors and Juniors who had already had Ms. Cunningham for quite some time.
The freshmen starting the new year seemed to still be very full of hope, and you were glad they seemed very eager for you to be their instructor.
Especially one named Carrie. She always seemed to bring all of her passion towards every project in class, and it was no surprise to see her so excited to be there for the first drama meeting of the school year. She was elated after hearing what play would be put on by the end of the year.
“Little Shop of Horrors has always been one of my uncle's favorites!” She exclaimed as you passed out shortened excerpts of the script to the ones interested in auditioning. She followed you around as you handed each out, eagerly explaining her favorite characters and scenes.
“And I especially love the part with the dentist! The one where he gets trapped in his gas mask!”
You smiled, “He’s one of my favorite characters, too.”
“Yeah, I just hope I can sing as well as Tracy can. I really want to play Audrey.”
“You shouldn’t worry too hard about it, we aren’t expecting Oscar-level, and we can always train your voice if you feel it isn’t good enough,” you pat her back, “But I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself.”
She smiled warmly at you, “My uncle’s gonna be so excited,” She muttered, then, looking back down at her script.
“Is he a big fan of Musicals?” You asked.
“He’s the biggest fan ever. He donates a lot every year to the program.”
At that, you raised your brow and handed out the last of the stack. “He is?”
“Yeah, after my older sister used to be in the Drama program, he’s always been supportive, you should totally meet him as the new director.”
Her eyes beamed at the opportunity. Looking at you, expecting you to agree.
You paused for a moment. Was this her way of passively pressuring you into giving her the role? You’re sure she wouldn’t ever do something to you, as she’s been one of the nicest students you’ve ever had, but you still felt skeptical. Despite how much you weren’t keen on meeting someone who might demand something of you as the new director, you reluctantly agreed.
So soon after talking with Carrie, students were filing out of the theatre room. All chatting loudly about what they thought of the production choice and what role they’d audition for. Most comments you caught were positive, so you locked the door with highspirits and slowly followed the group outside, where the cars lined up for the freshmen.
The seniors and juniors of the club slowly continued towards the student parking lot. Carrie, of course, stayed behind.
Only a couple of parents offered your a warm exchange. Thanking your for taking over for Ms. Cunningham and for opening a Drama club in her stead. You appreciated their gratitude but made sure to thank them for being there for your students.
When one car with a particularly talkative parent drives away, it’s only then that you notice him.
A man, above average height and wearing the most impeccable suit, stands patiently to the side. His hair is longer, swept to the side, and cut around his ears. He’s very well groomed, but his stubble is visible and graying. A pair of expensive looking shades rest on his face.
He is both unassuming and dressed just a tad more formally than you would assume from any of your students’ caretakers to be. He almost confuses you, as you mistake him for a teacher you hadn’t met. That is, until Carrie exclaims happily and walks towards him, taking his arm and leading him to you.
You smile nervously, as you have zero judgment of his character, yet besides that he seems reserved with his presence and that he’s stylishly dressed.
“This is him! The teacher I was talking about,” Carrie says to him, very happily.
It’s only then that the man expresses anything. He raises a brow and smiles. It curls very attractively, and at the same time, he extends his hand.
“Why hello, my niece has spoken a lot about you,” He speaks with a heavy southern accent. It’s very charming.
You chuckle, “I hope mostly good things.” You reciprocate his handshake. His hands are calloused, which isn’t surprising, but they’re also strong, and you can tell he must be built under that suit.
“Only good things!” Carrie reassures quickly. As she says this, the man takes off his shades, revealing a haunting set of aquamarine eyes, and his eyelids droop slightly. A row of crow's feet is laid across his cheekbones.
It scares you how attractive you immediately find him. So much so that you completely blank when he opens his mouth for the second time, staring straight at you with a small smile.
You quickly try to recuperate yourself, “I-I’m sorry, you’re…”
His expression could only be described as amused by your awkwardness.
“I’m Benoit Blanc. You may have heard of me.”
You hum, “Uh, well Carrie has certainly mentioned you quite a few times, and I hear now that you used to be one of the program's biggest supporters.”
He chuckles, “Guilty as charged. I’m always very happy to give to anything to do with performing arts. And I’m very glad you’ve taken over. I haven’t heard very many good things about the former director.”
“Oh, I am too, and I’m very thankful to have such eager students this year. Carrie especially.”
Mr. Blanc smiles warmly at Carrie, which beams at the attention.
You find yourself so lost in Blanc’s expression of love towards the girl that you space out again.
“Now- we should really be going…” He says.
“Right! Right, sorry,” You fumble, laughing, “You two have a good day.”
“You too,” Mr. Blanc reciprocates, turning to walk towards the parking lot with Carrie at his side.
You stare only for a moment, slightly curious which car is his in the parking lot, before one of your students yells a goodbye. You grin back and wave as their sports car glides across the spaces towards the exit. A couple of kids carpooling in the back laugh along.
You take their leave and the absence of anyone else on the sidewalk as your cue to go. Adjust your work bag on your shoulder and step across the road to reach your car. Once you do and open your door, someone else calls out to you.
“Bye!”
You whip your head up just in time to catch Carrie waving out the window of a beige 1980s-looking Mercedes-Benz. There’s a faint tune from inside that almost sounds like Hamilton, but you can’t catch enough to say for sure. You softly wave back and squint your eyes. In the driver's seat is Mr. Blanc, pulling out towards the exit.
You smile to yourself as you climb into your own vehicle. This was going to be an interesting first year.
…
Carrie grins at Blanc as they reach the first stoplight after exiting the school.
“How’d you like him?”
Blanc, who was humming along to Satisfied (from the Hamilton soundtrack), stopped and cleared his throat at the question.
“Whadd’ya mean?”
“I mean, I’m curious what you think of him,” Carrie asks, “You know, I don’t think he knows who you are,” She then adds perceptively.
Blanc nods, waiting and then turning left as the light changes to green, “I don’t think so either.”
“Do you prefer it when people don’t recognize you?”
“Yes, actually. It helps me get a more accurate read on who they are. When they know who I am, they always assume I’m studyin’ them.”
“I see, and what did you read on my new director?”
Blanc spares her a look, trying to gauge just what she was getting at by asking him for his opinion, but from what he saw, she was genuinely and innocently curious.
“Well, uh, he’s… young. Capable. Determined.”
Carrie nods along, “And very nice.”
“Yes, he was very polite.”
“Do you think he might turn strict like Ms. Cunningham?”
“No, I sincerely think not. I could tell by the way he spoke to me that he disagreed with the way she ran the theatre department.”
“That’s a relief,” Carrie sighs, “Anything else?”
Blanc wrestled his memory for anything more to say about the man. From what he could remember, he seemed a decent, modest fellow. Nothing caught his eye. Well, besides the way he was clearly either incredibly intimidated by him or was smitten. Blanc couldn’t help but smile at the memory of him fumbling for his words when he took off his glasses.
“Did you remember something?” Carrie asks about Blanc’s smug expression.
“I’m just recallin’ his nervousness… It’s cute.”
Carrie gasps, fighting a smile, “Scandalous! I’ll tell Phillip!”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You’re right, I’ll keep it a secret,” She laughs.
“We’re almost home. Whaddya’ want for supper?”
…
It’s been 4 days since the last drama meeting. Auditions were in a week, so it made sense that there wouldn’t be one until next Monday.
It was currently 5:46 pm on a Friday. You sat, running through pages of the sheet music for tonight. Beside you sat Emma, the pianist at the club. She was nursing a vodka soda, always drinking to soothe her nerves. You’ve told her on multiple occasions that she had no reason to be nervous. It’s not as if she’s a beginner pianist or that she’s never played here before. Every time, she just shoots you down. Complaining that “not everyone is a jazz virtuoso like you or Kasen.”
A couple of years ago, you and your college friends decided to form a sort of jazz quartet. Emma on piano, Rodney on drums, Kasen on sax, and you on string bass. You used to play in the high school orchestra, and the rest (besides Rodney) were music majors, so it just sort of clicked together one day.
Ever since you had your first show here at “Gatsby’s” (very original), it more or less formed into a habit that you just can’t break. It’s sort of become your relaxation time. You could freely spend hours after work on Fridays here, and go home at any time, since there was nearly never any work on Saturdays thanks to your school schedule.
“Okay, party people! Showtime’s in 10!” Kasen yelled as he sprinted through the backstage hallway. There really wasn’t much of a backstage more than there was an employee hallway and an unused storage room where the four of you kept your instruments and did before-show tuning.
“Speak for yourself, Kasen! You haven’t even touched your sax since last Friday!” Emma yelled from the storage room.
Kasen popped his head in the room at Emma’s comment.
“And watch, I’ll still play better than you.”
“You wanna bet?” Emma challenged playfully, “Maybe this time you won’t knock over Rodney’s symbols this time.”
“Oh, you know that was an accident!” Kasen said with a exagerated flare.
“Did someone call me?” A voice down the hallway said, then shortly afterwards, Rodney stepped into view.
Once you and Rodney met eyes, his grin widened, “Hey man, how ya’ been?”
He moves past Kasen to dap hands and pat you on the back. You smile along with him, “I’ve been fine, genuinely. Just getting used to the new school schedule.”
“Oh dude, that’s sick, you did say you were switching it up this year, didn’t you?”
“Yep, no teacher assistant anymore. Now it’s just… teacher.”
He laughs, “Must be a crazy switchup huh?”
“Actually, it’s been better than I expected. The kids are nice.”
“Guys, we have like 2 minutes,” Emma interrupts as she glances at her phone.
“Right. Right, let’s get a move on.”
The four of you, dressed all in black for the night, finally take your stand on stage. A small number of people pay attention, clap, and the rest finally look over and give a light clap aswell.
As a Jazz quartet with no singer, there aren’t many words expected to be said tonight from the lot of you, but Kasen likes to make the quartet’s presence known by saying a few words every Friday that the lot of you play.
After his nice words, you have a short moment for tuning. You mostly play the same songs for the first set every Friday, but you have 3 sets total, so there’s always room for improvisation.
For the next hour, the four of you put your heart and soul into your instruments. There’s nothing more fulfilling to you than to play along. The beat, the sax, the light notes leading. It’s…enchanting. It’s your favorite part of the week.
By the end of the first set, your right pointer finger is already feeling the effect of the constant plucking. You stretch your left hand and very carefully lay the heavy bass down as Kasen says a few brief parting words before the next set. After the claps have ended, and he is finished, he turns to the rest of you and smiles, “Amazing, as per usual.” He softly high-fives Emma as they step off the stage.
You follow suit, thirsty for anything as you head to the bar. Behind the counter are Jeremy and Melissa. Two of the best and only bartenders who work at the Gatsby. Jeremy, also Emma’s boyfriend and friend of yours.
“Hey guys,” You greet, as you take a nearby stool. Jeremy grins and leans on the counter beside you, “How’s life?”
“Nothing crazy.”
“That’s the best answer,” Says Melissa, the older, wiser of the two behind the counter, and she turns to your side, out of your vision, “And what can I get you, darlin’?”
You turn to look and nearly fall dead in shock.
A stool to your right sits Mr. Blanc himself. He bashfully glances down from your gaze as you stare at him before answering Melissa.
“Just a Vesper, please… and whatever he’s havin’.”
Melissa smiles warmly, then turns to you and your slowly falling, shocked expression.
“The usual?” She surmises.
“I- uhm- actually I’ll take a Long Island.”
“Oh? But I thought you only drank vodka soda.”
You laugh nervously, then clear your throat, “Trying something different.”
“Need somethin’ stronger?”
You smile, shifting between too wide to embarrassed, “Hah, yeah.”
By now, Melissa has left to make those drinks, and Jeremy is tending to a different person at the bar.
“Am I too intimidatin’?” Blanc asks bluntly.
“Uhm. Just a little,” You reply honestly.
This causes Blanc to grin wolfishly. You almost feel like prey under his gaze. He takes you in, your suit, your styled hair, your nervous smile.
“How did you… How did you know…?” You begin to ask.
“If you’re askin’ how I knew you played here, rest assured, I didn’t. I had no idea until I stepped in 20 minutes ago.”
You nod once, “Right. Right.”
“And I’m glad I did. You’ve got real talent.”
You can feel your face heat up at his compliment. You can only hope it’s not noticeable under the dim light in the venue.
“Thank you, thank you.”
It takes an absurdly short amount of time for Melissa to come back with both of your drinks. You take the Long Island with thanks and take a sip. It burns, but you need it to do its magic as soon as possible.
Benoit Blanc is looking absolutely stunning under that warm glow. It’s almost infuriating how much you like him like this. Casual, alone, and with his attention solely on you.
“You’re lookin’ quite dashin’,” He comments.
You grin into your glass, “Speak for yourself. Are you always this stylish?”
“Perhaps. I do enjoy dressin’ myself up from time to time.”
You chuckle. Then- after a comfortable beat as passed- “You don’t seem like you’re from around here…”
“No, I’m not. I actually grew up in Louisiana.”
“Ah- I should’ve guessed with that wonderful accent.”
He huffs, barely suppressing a smile, “But now I live in London. I’m visitin’ for ma’ niece.”
“Carrie, right.” You take another sip, “And what is it you do for work?”
He seemed genuinely amused at your question, “I’m a private detective.”
“Oh, that’s so cool,” You perk up and lean your elbow on the counter and rest your head on your hand. “I bet you’re amazing at Clue.”
He sighs, “No, no, I’m not good at the dumb stuff.”
You laugh, “Well, I’m not good at it either.”
You happen to glance to the side at the foot of the stage to see Kasen staring straight at you. You furrow your brow at him before he exaggeratedly points at the watch and ushers you over with his hand.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave for the second set,” You sigh. “ How long will you stay?”
“Until you’re done,” Blanc grins, tilting his head almost seductively as he says so.
You feel your heart swell at the sight, “You’re too kind.”
The rest of the night goes by almost too fast for your taste. You wanted to savor the feeling of the music. The feeling of Mr. Blanc’s watchful stare. It was exhilarating. Unfairly soon, the third set had ended. It was nearing 9 pm. You were very tipsy by this point. Refusing to be labelled drunk, you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of him.
The quartet had joined you at the bar, not helping you act unaffected. They even joked regularly with Blanc, shaking hands and including him in some conversations.
When it neared 11, they were clearing out and heading to carpool with Jeremy. You exited slowly after them, trying not to act a fool while walking, and wrapped up in an insightful discussion about the Great British Bake Off with Blanc as he followed you to the door.
“Aw shit,” Jeremy exclaimed as he neared his car.
“What’s the matter, Baby?” Emma asks, rounding the other side of his Honda.
“I forgot I was moving my brother’s stuff.”
When you look in the back, you spot a collection of boxes filling at least half of the backseat.
“The trunk’s fucking full too.”
“So you can only sit two other people?” Kason asks, studying the heap inside.
“Yeah… well, maybe three if y'all squeeze.”
“It’s all good, guys, I can call an Uber,” you reassure.
“I can stay behind with you if you’d like,” Rodney offers.
“No, no, no, no, it’s okay, really. You guys go home.”
Everyone’s gazes seem unsure, yet thankful at your response.
“I can drive you,” Blanc says simply.
You look at Blanc with wide eyes. You had forgotten he was here, honestly.
“Wait really?”
Blanc even seems slightly surprised at himself for offering, but he doubles down, “Well, of course.”
Kason slaps the top of the Honda, “Problem solved. We ride with Jeremy while you ride with this generous gentleman whose name I can’t remember.”
“Mr. Blanc,” you remind him, announcing his name a bit more than necessary, “God, get it through your thick skull, Kason.”
“Wait, wait. I think- I think I’ve heard your name–”
But by the time Emma can complete her comment, Blanc has taken your arm and is almost forcefully leading you away from the spot where Jeremy parked his car. You stumble along with him, nearly tripping over yourself multiple times.
“Woah woah,” you exclaim as you almost fall. Almost, because as soon as you trip, his hand is already there to support your hip. You don’t hesitate to lean into him the rest of the way. He seems unfazed by your weight. Which proves your assumption that he’s secretly built underneath all those clothes.
The thought makes you shudder, and you drunkenly lean into him. By the time you’ve already neared his car, the same one he picked up Carrie in after drama.
He helps you to the passenger side, and you grin up at him. “You smell really good.”
He smirks, “Really?”
“Really.”
“Time to go home, Champ.”
You stumble into the passenger seat. He stands, ready to close the door, but you reach out for the handle. He assists you anyway.
He gracefully climbs into the driver's seat. He glances over at you. You sat, smiling dumbly straight ahead. He chuckles, “Happy?”
“Oh, I’m very happy,” You admit, glancing back at him, “The minute I saw you driving in this car, I imagined being driven around by you in it. And now it’s so.”
Blanc is almost taken aback by yourconfession. “Well, your wishes have been granted. What’s your address?”
You mumble your address, already feeling very relaxed in the passenger seat.
You’re asleep for most of the ride. The Gatsby isn’t far from your house, and you’re always thankful for that, especially during times like this.
When you reach your flat, you groan in annoyance.
“Do you need help getting out?”
“Oh! Please help me, I can barely move.” You speak exaggeratedly, not wanting to leave him just yet. You can hear him chuckle before he exits his side of the car.
When he reaches the passenger, he opens it softly and leans down to grasp your hands. He easily hoists you to your feet, but you stumble a little. To your surprise, you stare at his face, and then your eyelids fall back down to droopy. You can’t stop yourself from looking at his pretty lips. He grunts as he wraps an arm over your back and under yours to guide you to your front door.
You fumble with your keys before finally finding the right ones. You miss once, twice, three times before Blanc gently wraps his hand around yours to line up your house key. You experience a full-body shiver at the touch, and you finally twist and unlock your front door.
You step inside, almost missing the light switch to turn on the closest light, which was in the kitchen.
You turn back towards Blanc, who seems strangely conflicted on what to do next.
“I guess this is goodnight,” he says finally, with a smile.
“Thank you for driving me,” You say, leaning against the door frame with a dopey smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” He answers, then pauses as if there was anything more to say.
He almost steps away, but stops when you call out to him.
“Can you- would you want to come inside?” You offer.
Blanc’s nervous expression turns pained, “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Stubbornly, you lay your head against the door frame, giving him your best pleading look, “Please?”
“No, Darlin’... I think we both know what could happen if I do.”
His tone drops with the last bit of his response. Your heart flutters at his words, yet sinks all the same.
“Why not?” you press.
He almost chuckles, “I’m married, Sugar.”
Your mouth drops. “O-Oh.”
“I’m sorry if I- If I lead you on… I’m gonna go now,” He sputters out.
You watch as he walks back to his car, opens his driver's side door, looks back at you, “Get your rest, okay?”
“I will…” You speak unsuredly.
He either doesn’t notice or ignores the tone of your voice as he climbs back into the car. You can only watch as it slowly pulls away, out of your driveway and down the road.
You guess it was worth a try.
…
“Welcome home!”
Blanc stands astonished when he enters his sister’s lake house to find Phillip already in the foyer waiting for him. They immediately hug each other before Phillip pulls away with a large grin.
“Surprised?”
“Very,” Blanc smiles, but it fades slightly. He’s still feeling strangely guilty, despite not having done anything outright. His thoughts, however, were a different story.
“I was able to leave early, so I got home this evening.” Phillip exclaims, kissing Blanc’s cheek.
“You should’ve told me, I woulda’ picked you up from the airport.”
“Oh, I didn’t bother me. I know you’re usually busy around that time anyway.”
“But I didn’t have work today,” Blanc added, but then quickly regretted saying so.
“Oh? Then why were you out so late?”
Before Blanc could say anything, someone interrupted.
“Blanc!” Carrie shouted from further down the hall. She then came out running, in socks. Blanc braced for impact as she slid into him. She started laughing, and he soon joined in, “Quite the greetin’.”
…
It isn’t until Blanc is undressing himself for bed an hour later that the topic is brought back up.
Phillip is reading, resting against the headboard with some pillows behind his back for support. A pair of reading glasses sits on his face as he takes in each page. The nightstand lamp was casting a warm glow on him and his novel. Blanc carefully taking off each part of his suit in the walk-in closet.
Once he’s in his sleepwear, he finally returns toward bed. He climbs in, sighs deeply, and almost dramatically plops his head against the silk pillow.
“You seem troubled,” Phillip observes, eyes not once leaving the book.
Blanc chuckles, “I can never hide anythin’ from you.”
Phillip gives him a threatening glance, “You better not be,” Then flips a page, “Now what is it? Do you need to leave for work again?”
“No… it’s not work-related.”
This piques Phillips' interest. He places a bookmark in his book and closes it.
“It’s not work-related?”
“No, it’s not…” Blanc admits, slightly ashamed of himself.
“Well, what’s the matter? Is it your sister? Is she asking for more money?”
Blanc shakes his head only slightly as he is lying face up, “No. Thank God, no.”
“Then what could it be?”
Blanc hesitates, trying to find the best way to approach the discussion. He finally decides how he’s going to say it, so he leans forward, resting his weight on his elbow as he looks up and meets Phillip in the eye.
“Do you remember… 2 years ago when you asked if I could ever be interested in… a third?”
Phillip’s eyes widen, “Now that you mention it, yeah…,” Then his brows furrow, then go back to raised, “Don’t tell me… You actually met someone–”
“I- I turned him down, and I just feel guilty for possibly leadin’ him on–”
“You turned him down!?” Phillips exclaims, distraught.
Blanc gives Phillip an incredulous look, “Yes?”
“You didn’t even let me meet him! What if I liked him too?”
Blanc is fully sat up now, at a loss for words.
Phillip continues, “I was not joking 2 years ago when I said I could be interested in a third, but you didn’t seem pleased, so I didn’t push it further. But now I find out that you actually found someone that you could possibly be interested in, and you already turned him down!?”
“I- I didn’t realize how passionate you felt-”
“I’m not passionate about it- the only thing I’m passionate about is you, and your wants and needs. I just hate that you found out that you like someone and you sabotaged yourself for my sake.”
Blanc laughs, the situation so absurd he couldn’t help it, “Well, would you want to meet him still?”
“Of course!” Phillip almost shouts, “I swear to God if he’s handsome and thinks that you don’t want him anymore, I’m going to lose my shit.”
“What if you think he’s ugly?” Blanc teases, grinning.
“Well… then you can turn him back down.”
Blanc laughs heartily, “I love you.” He leans forward to kiss Phillip and Phillip quickly reciprocates.
“I love you too…” Phillip returns, then opens back up his book, “Is there anything else you need to confess?”
“Nope. That’s it,” Blanc answers, turning to lie on his side, his back towards the lamp.
Imagine coming home after a long day of work and your adopted uncle Benoit Blanc sets down a plate of your comfort food, asks about your day, doesn't pressure you to say anything but you're eventually venting your frustrations to him while he sits back in his chair, eyes focused intently on you in between bites of his own meal.
When you're done, he squeezes your hand before winking at you. "Be right back in a jiffy, darlin."
He returns with his partner Phillip, who has brought in a tray full of fresh baked desserts, a variety of your favorite ones. You know he must have spent the entire day laboring over them, and the gesture is so touching you hardly register the tears that fall down your cheek.
"Hey kid, Benny here said you were having a rough go. This was the best I could do," Phillip smiles, setting down the tray on the table. He comes over to you, wiping away your stray tears, and when he's done, you pull yourself out of your chair, tackling him in a hug.
"Thank you, Phil. I can't believe you did this for me. Those chocolate chip cookies look divine."
Phillip smiles. "Anything for my favorite people. Now, what do you say we load up on desserts and binge that TV show you've been wanting us to watch together?"
"That depends. Benny may figure out the murderer before us."
"It's happened only three or four times!" Benoit throws up his hands in mock defeat before grabbing a plate of cookies and settling down on the couch. You and Phillip join him shortly after, you in the middle, cocooned in their warmth and love. You couldn’t have asked for a more loving, welcoming family like those of your two favorite adopted uncles.
Hi! Sorry for disappearing everyone and for taking so long to answer this question.
I do have an ao3 account! It’s Mrs_Kenobi_19, my old account name on here! I’m still in the process of putting fics from here there but everything I plan to write in the future will be posted on both.
Speaking of, I will be slowly starting to post more fics as well as my own original story! I will be posting the prologue soon as I’m very excited to share it!
Thank you all for the continued support of my writing even with my disappearance. It warms my heart to see people still enjoying them❤️
Being Benoit Blanc's assistant on a big case headcanons
A/N: Aka being the Watson to Benoit's Sherlock. I'm gonna keep writing headcanons until I have the motivation to write a one-shot. Also x male reader bc Benoit is gay as hell (& I love it)
When you entered Benoit's office for the interview he had to hold back from immediately saying "You're hired." He found himself spacing out a bit, thinking about how adorable you looked when you would ramble about your work history or even just the ride here.
Your first day ended up being the start of a huge case. You thought Benoit was babying you, maybe he was. But he didn't intend to make you feel lesser he got worried with how violent the murder was, so much so that he was afraid you'd get hurt.
When he interviewed each of the family members he had you sit behind him & take notes, making sure to put distance between any possible suspects & you.
The moment the last family member leaves the interview room Benoit turns to you with an excited grin on his face, ready to share theories.
"What do you think about this bunch, Y/N?"
"Hmm, good theory. I didn't think about that one. It's a good thing I have you here, Y/N."
Small note: He loves to say your name, it makes him so happy. Any chance he gets he will use it.
When a fight erupts between the family members he stands in front of you & instinctively grabs your arm/hand.
He ends up ranting to you about being unable to find the "key piece that's missing" & when you lay everything out for him he gets the silly little aha moment.
"Y/N, you did it! Lord, you are so intelligent! How I get so lucky as to work with you?" He yells as he pulls you into a hug, "I'm sorry, I got excited."
"Don't apologize," you pull him right back into a hug & hold him tightly.
You have to point out the dumb clues to him because he is terrible with dumb stuff. It has you absolutely awestruck when he finds some clues though, like solving a puzzle to open a door to a secret room. I swear these things only happen in movies but Benoit manages to find them.
When he pulls a cigar out to smoke, you take it from his mouth & take a breath of smoke. You might not be a smoker but at this rate, you've caught on to him having feelings for you & would kill to see this detective flustered.
Short story, it works.
Long story, he mutters out some southern curses under his breath. He looks up to you as you hand him the cigar back, pink dusting his cheeks & you do your best to repress a smile.
From then on he has a little more pep in his step, constantly telling himself you like him too.
Bonus:
If you do not have a suit Benoit will lend you one of his, you have to look dapper on the job to match your boss.
Bonus points if it's slightly oversized, Benoit would lose his mind.
At that, he's already losing his mind seeing you in his clothes. He has to fight to keep his eyes off you. Whenever your taking notes behind him he finds any opportunity to turn around, look you up & down, & say, "Did you get that, Y/N?" To which, after multiple times you can't help but laugh out of either annoyance or infatuation & breathe out, "Yes, Benoit, I did get that."
If one of the family members or especially suspects takes a jab at you (verbally) he will most definitely go off on them.
A/N: I'm totally going to make a one-shot where the reader gets hurt on the job & Benoit loses his shit!
IMPORTANT! This fic was written with ONLY Knives Out as it’s source material, I haven’t yet seen Glass Onion. I have since been made aware 1000+ words into this fic that Benoit is gay as of the second film. I didn’t want what I had to go to waste. This is the only time I will write for him in a m x f relationship.
Summary: You introduce Private Investigator Benoit to Cluedo
Word Count: 3.1K
CW: FEMALE READER. Please see explanation above. sassy Benoit. Vague references to a mild age gap relationship, easter egg references to Knives Out film 🤭 Nylon Kink. A bit of knife play. Oral, f receiving.
Tease: “On the contrary,” he answers you with a playful lilt to his drawl, slowly sinking to his knees before you, “I intend to stay right here.”
“You’ve never played Cluedo?!”
Shock permeates each syllable of your parroted sentence, your jaw slack as you stare at your partner with complete incredulity. Benoit, in turn, peers vacantly at you like you’ve said something ridiculously dense.
“Ain’t that what I just said?” He asks you, his monotonous voice lacking any true irritation as he taps the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray on the coffee table between you.
“Nah, we’ve gotta fix that,” you insist, slapping your palms on your knees before raising from your armchair. Benoit peers over the rim of his tortoiseshell glasses, and his icy-blue eyes follow your body across the room.
“Now— Dear, you’ve worked a long shift; you can’t be runnin’ around playin’ detective with me,” he tries to reason with you, attempts to talk you down from the inevitable shitshow that was no doubt about to unfold in the shape of solution cards and miniature murder weapon props. It’s all fruitless, though, because you’re sweeping aside Benoit’s beloved ashtray and ignoring his protestations as you drop the board game’s box onto the coffee table.
Yes, you’d slogged a nine-hour shift and hadn’t had time to change into less formal attire. Your pencil skirt bunches up your thighs, and the button-down blouse collar lies taut against your throat. Hell, your nude tights are beginning to itch too, but you’re far too invested in this ridiculous adventure and refuse to turn back at the sound of Benoit’s listless objections.
“Here we go,” you mumble to yourself, sliding the lid off the cardboard box and electing to ignore the heavy sigh that Benoit hopelessly attempts to conceal. He leans forward to put out his cigar in the ashtray you had unceremoniously discarded on the wooden floor, eyeing you as you set out the board game items and distribute each piece evenly.
“Who would you like to play as?” You ask, offering out the coloured tokens in your outstretched palm.
Benoit peers at each of the six shades of plastic pawn figurines, his expression betraying his evident discontent. “You know I do this for a livin’, don’t you, Dear?”
Your scowl in retaliation to his query has Benoit snatching up the green token from your hand and setting it on his end of the table. Again you smile as though he’d never spoken and choose red for yourself. Reverend Green and Miss Scarlett.
Carefully, you shuffle the weapon, suspect, and room card decks. Then, as discreetly as possible, take the top card from each pile and put them into the murder envelope without peeking at the details on the other side.
Finally, ignoring the obnoxious sighs rattling in Benoit’s chest, you hand out the Clue cards. Five cards each for you and Benoit, four apiece for the pair of ghost hands; purple and blue. You pinch the dice between your forefinger and thumb, holding it in front of your lover's face. “Odd for purple, even for blue. Got it?”
“Got it,” he responds, clearly finding the process tedious already but suffering through for you. Your eyes are alight with excitement, a grin permanently fixed on your lips. How was he to say no? In fact, he found himself amused by your enthusiasm to understand his line of work— even if it was through juvenile means.
“Alright!” You giggle, rolling the dice to move your scarlet pawn token forward. “Let’s begin!”
-✩-
Chimes sound from the mahogany grandfather clock situated in the corner of Benoit’s living room. They’re almost deafening in the silence that has befallen the coffee table. Although it feels like moments, you realise the minute hand has completed a revolution of the face of the timepiece — You’ve been playing for an hour. You’re no closer to identifying the killer than you were sixty minutes ago.
Benoit appears bored to tears, chain-smoking cigars and even leaves his seat at one point to obtain a glass of whiskey. To the amusement of both of you, you hadn’t noticed his absence, too wrapped up in the game to realise he’d gone AWOL.
“Now, Darlin’,” he begins, cutting both the stillness of the room and your acute concentration with his southern drawl. “Don’t you think it’s time we called it a night? It’s gettin’ awfully late—“
“Benoit,” you whine petulantly, noting the wince it earns you from the older man. He certainly looks like he’d acquired a few more silver hairs since you began this wretched game. “I want to finish it.”
“Mhmm…” Benoit pushes his spectacles up his nose, glancing over the board with mirth, “I knew a man who wouldn’t admit defeat in a board game. Know what happened?”
You glance up at him, eyebrow raised in question.
“He died.”
“Benoit!”
Exasperated, Benoit turns his black cards over, revealing his weapon, room and character. He raises his hands in defeat, settling back in his seat and officially ruling himself out of the game. “There, you only gotta look at two suspects… You're not much of a detective, are you?”
“You‘ve solved it already, haven’t you?!” You gasp, looking up at him with wide doe-eyes and dismay. He answers with a firm nod of his head. Perhaps it was foolish of you, but you really thought you’d established egalitarianism with a board game. “Well, go on, how did you know?”
Benoit inhales, opening his mouth to speak and finally put an end to this ridiculousness. “Well, now, I—“
“Wait!” you shout out, holding a hand up as though it would physically restrain the syllables of his deduction from leaving his lips. “I’ll figure it out myself!”
Sullenly, Benoit sinks back into his armchair, admitting defeat and allowing you to play out your inspector fantasy. He pouts for a few moments, watching you furiously exert your mind with the evidence before dragging his gaze over your uniform.
A quiet man, reticent in nature, Benoit rarely discussed his appreciation for your work apparel. Yes, the pencil skirt was lovely and hugged your body well, and the blouse accentuated your bodily aesthetics, but it was the tights that really captured his imagination.
In truth, Benoit was fascinated with your nylon wardrobe and could go so far as to say it was somewhat of a sexual preference. A kink. He enjoyed the sleek look they gave your legs, their shine underneath lights. Once, the feel of your stockings in his hand as he held your foot up to aid in fastening one of your heels had set him alight.
Gazing at your legs, folded over one another as you attempted to piece each clue together resentfully, Benoit felt heat rise under his collar. The nude tights you were wearing are perfect, sheen delicate beneath the faux-candelabra light fixtures. There’s not a tear, ladder or hole in sight.
He planned to amend that.
Benoit lifts himself from his seat, skirting the coffee table easily and approaching you with long strides. You momentarily glance up from the clue card in your hand, scowling to yourself as he advances. “So embarrassed with my detective work that you’re retreating to bed, Mr Blanc?”
“On the contrary,” he answers you with a playful lilt to his drawl, slowly sinking to his knees before you, “I intend to stay right here.”
Momentarily, your mind works like an old television with a crooked aerial antenna. Static fizzles between your synapses, and you cannot come up with a retort to Benoit’s cheeky inference.
“Best keep your mind on the case, detective,” he murmurs, palms settling on your ankles and tracing up the sides of your calves, “We wouldn’t want the killer gettin’ away now, would we?”
You swallow thickly, holding the cards with shaking hands as you feel Benoit place a lingering kiss on the inside of your knee. He skirts the tip of his nose up the inside of your thigh, humming softly as he squeezes the meat of your calves in his hands.
Focus. Focus. It couldn’t have been Benoit; he’s rescinded his cards. So, it was one of the Ghost Hands. Blue was suspicious, and you’d already discovered she was carrying a wrench. However, she had a decent alibi… Meanwhile, you had barely anything on Purple.
You roll the dice again, the face showing a two rather than the hand glass you had been hoping for. Gritting your teeth, you attempt to rake over the evidence, only to be interrupted by your vision swimming suddenly.
Benoit’s nose notches against your clit through your tights, his head practically buried beneath the fabric of your skirt. He groans softly, inhaling the scent of your sex. You whimper, the edges of his glasses pressing against the junction of your thigh as he presses a delicate kiss to your slit through your panties.
“Do me a favour, Dear,” he breathes against your thigh, pressing kisses to the nylon fabric. He doesn’t have to state what he wants from you explicitly. Fumbling with clumsy hands, you set the cards down quickly on the armrest and pull the hem of your skirt over your hips to give Benoit better access.
“Much obliged,” he whispers to you, and you can hear the gratuitous smirk playing on his lips. Attempting to ignore him and focus on the cards, you endeavour to read the clue, which is written in plain English. You haven’t yet fully deciphered it, thanks to Benoit’s tinkering.
He has other plans, though, nipping at your skin through the fabric of your tights. You jolt slightly with each bite he gives you, and you can hear him chuckle beneath you.
“Anythin’?” Benoit teases you with a combination of kisses and nibbles trailing up your thigh. It takes a moment for your answer to form on your tongue, toes curling in your heels.
“Mhm- N-Not yet,” you stumble over your words despite your attempt to conceal your evident appreciation for his affections.
“Hmm,” he hums, the rumble in his chest setting your hair on end as he, once again, presses lingering kisses over your panties. “I feel a noose tightenin’.”
Everything inside you freezes, and you’re quick to glance at the miniature weapon icons. The rope lays dead centre of the pile, and you’re forced to reconsider everything. Was Benoit giving you a hint?
Admittedly, you don’t have time to contemplate. As you open your mouth to question him, Benoit sucks on your clit through your panties. Your line of questioning dies in your throat, instead coming out as a strangled ‘Ahhh~’.
As quickly as he offers you the blissful sensation, he’s stealing it away. He pulls back, sitting on his haunches, and you’re blinking back your arousal to see him clearly. “W-Why did you…?”
Benoit hushes you gently with a wicked smile. “I think you should focus on the case.”
Smug bastard.
Filled with the desire for retribution, you cast your eyes back to the clue cards in your hand. They’re slightly creased now due to the tight grip you’re holding them with. You manage to make out the words ‘Name One…’ before a clicking sound pulls your attention away yet again.
The glint of light reflecting off the blade in his hand had your heart seizing. Not in fear, no, but exhilaration. See, Benoit carried the flip knife on his person always. It was less of a weapon for self-defence than a family heirloom, and Benoit never took it out without good reason. Simply asking to see it would not gain you access to the elusive dagger.
Your breath hitches, adrenaline buzzing down your spine.
“Now, hold still,” Benoit insists, impossibly blue eyes gazing up at your face through the lenses of his glasses. You nod quickly, both showing him you are listening and urging him forward with his plan.
You watch as he leans forward, slipping the knife's point into the nylon at your crotch. Utterly motionless, you whimper as your lover pulls the handle upwards and slices through the fragile material with ease.
“Been wantin’ you to keep these fine stockin’s on …” Benoit whispers against your thigh, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh there as he closes the knife with a click and slips it back into his pocket.
“H-Huh?” You tremble beneath his affections, his lips travelling further up the inside of your legs, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
“Case, Detective,” he replies flatly, sliding the pad of his index finger against your slit through the cotton of your panties, “You’re deducin’ a murder weapon— it’s in plain sight.”
“Right,” you nod dumbly, swallowing back your arousal and glancing at the board. The box said the game was suitable for ages eight and up; surely it shouldn’t be this difficult. There had to be evidence you had overlooked. Your notes are settled on the coffee table, and you venture to decipher the evidence as you take up the booklet with trembling hands.
But then Benoit is hooking his finger inside the crotch of your panties, pulling the fabric to the side and exposing your sex. You almost drop the notepad on his head. “How ‘bout you take me through your notes, Dear Detective?”
You would, God, you absolutely would if you could. However, Benoit’s tongue drags against your slit, and your mind goes numb, buzzing as though it has a pins-and-needles sensation. He hums, amusement lilting his voice as he watches you struggle.
Overwhelmed, you completely forget about the game of Cluedo, tilting your head over the back of the chair and sliding your fingers through the greying man’s hair. The notebook falls from your hand, clattering against the wooden floor but you’re already too far gone to care.
Eager to please you further, Benoit is gripping your thighs, lifting them so they settle on his shoulders. The nylon tights rub against his neck this way, and you’re sure it spurs him on because he slides the flat of his tongue over your clit. It jolts your body forward, and that maddening chuckle sounds between your legs again.
“Now, Darlin’,” he croons, and you’re whining due to the lack of friction already, “You be careful. The killer’ll be gettin’ away.”
You choke on an apology, Benoit burying his face into your cunt and sucking at your clit keenly. He’s swirling your clit with the tip of his tongue, one, two, three times, and then dragging over the seam of your sex to lap up your slick.
Not only was the man eloquent, but he was also persuasive with his tongue. Trembling in your seat, you sob out as your muscles tense against it. Your legs twitch against the shoulders of his suit, and you arch your hips up to grind against his face.
“Detective,” he prompts you, and you suck in a breath like you’re coming up for air after being suspended in water. Your eyes roll back, and you try to focus hard on what it is he’s requesting of you.
“Hngg- B-Blue has a go-good alibi—” you let out an obscene whine, the wet noises of his tongue dragging against your soaked pussy diverting you from the task at hand.
“Mhmm?” He hums, and the vibration has you bucking against his face again, sobbing out his name in a broken whimper.
“A-And I’m not sure about Purple!” You squeak out. God, it’s so messy. You’re soaking his face, and you’re sure you can see your slick glossing up his nose and chin. If you stained the seat, you’re not even sure he’d mind; the blues of his eyes engulfed by the black of his pupils.
It’s a wave of pleasure building, teasing at your abdomen and throbbing through you with each pulse of your heart. You inhale deeply, feeling it tease at the edges of your skin. You’re devastated, overpowered by the ecstasy clawing at the base of your spine— you don’t even notice what it is you’re saying.
"I-I-It was the- ohhhh fuck, Benny~" you sob out, tears rolling down your cheeks, “It’s you— Hgnn fuck!-!”
"Hm? Use your words, dear. You're makin' an accusation, you know. Don't want to slip your words now." He’s entertained by your bewilderment, “Especially when the person you’re accusin’ has given you a damn good alibi.”
You’re so far gone that you’re not even embarrassed that you’d just implicated the one person you could be sure wasn’t the killer. Swallowing sobs, you watch as Benoit circles your clit repeatedly with his tongue, eyes staring straight up at you and watching you come apart.
It all happens so fast. Your toes are curling in your shoes as the cramping sensation of your oncoming orgasm takes hold. One of your shoes falls off and clatters to the floor, and Benoit places the flat of his palm against your pubic bone.
“Oh God-!” You choke out, whining as he continues with the devastating pattern he’s drawing. “I’m gonna— Shit, Benny, it’s—“
He’s nodding without removing his mouth from you as though he’s telling you ’I know’. It’s shoving you right off the edge, those beautiful blue eyes blinking slowly and taking in every inch of the image of ecstasy on your face.
It pulses right between your legs, throbbing against his tongue like a pulse. You scream out his name, all of the muscles in your body tensing so hard that you’re cramping. Your vision goes white, and you’re gripping Benoit’s hair so tightly that you’re surprised you don’t rip any out.
You’re suspended for a moment, and then everything melts away, every inch of your body melting against the plush of the seat. Distantly, you recognise the smile against his lips, pressed to your skin.
“… Who was it?” You slur like you’re drunk on the dopamine he’s just overdosed you on. He laughs heartily, and you can’t help but smile with him.
“Blue.”
“Fuck!” You gasp out, palms covering your face and digging your nails into your hairline. As if! “When on earth did you figure that out, Benny?”
He sits back on his knees, pulling the handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiping his chin and nose to remove the slick you had rubbed onto him. “Mhmm… Why, I figured it out the moment you laid out the cards.”
You scoff now, disjointedly sitting up in your chair. The muscles of your arms are like jelly, and you struggle to raise yourself. “Are you that good that you could tell at first glance?”
Again, a smug smile plays at the edge of Benoit’s lips, his eyes flicking up to your face.
