[fuyante]

FUYANTE: An independent, 21+ roleplay blog for Noémie Anouilh & Meenakshi Bhandarkar. Penned by T (29, she/her). Since this is a side blog, I won’t be able to follow back, but I do lurk on my followers’ pages so I can pester them.

ADD'L LINKS: Headcanons, Potential Plots

LEDGER: Drafts: 3 (1 & 2) | Inbox: 0 | Starters: 0 | Queued: 0

TAGS OF NOTE: #worn letters: nsfw

[cotillardsource]

Marion Cotillard photographed by Saskia Lawaks for Vanity Fair France, 2024.

[midsommars-deactivated20201109]

Rosy (2018) Directed by Jess Bond

[prxfessors]

@fuyante

[thatwritingjuju]

continuation from here @fuyante

"Contrary to popular belief, they're not the same." But he could see why and how it could be mistaken as the same. This concept hadn't come to him as a personally learned lessor but one taught by his beloved sister. She demonstrated the difference - and still did to date.

"Putting it behind you means you're still able to look in the rearview - to glance at it, acknowledge it, talk to it - even. Putting it to rest is burying it and leaving it with the rest of them, thrown in the cemetery."

Tristan placed his now closed notebook onto the side table next to him, the small table lamp providing warm, comforting light. "I wouldn't say medication is the coward's way out. Instead, I'd argue it helps those who struggle to either be introspective, or feel emotion or, at least, to lighten the load of the weight of the world on their shoulders." The man gave a small shrug of his shoulder. "Sometimes just being able to breath better can put things in a different perspective."

He didn't want Neomie to retreat - she was finally opening up. So he chose a simplistic question as not to scare her off. "When do you feel the lightest? Can you think of a recent time?"

[fuyante]

"But it's common to visit cemeteries, yes? To stand with the past and speak to it even though its voice is gone?" A counter meant less to argue than to unspool a pesky tangle of thought. The idea of burying something held specific connotations for her, more physical than metaphorical. Still, she found little comfort in his view of medication, able to strike each possible use as 'not applicable' to herself. Somewhere, a far off, muted thought asked if it was a self punishment of sorts, but she quickly smothered it away in favor of his less taxing question.

"Light...." Her eyes narrowed a touch, flitting through recent memories. "A few weeks ago?" A short nod followed. "It was a bride's final fitting and she was so happy she cried." As she recalled it, a smile touched her lips though it fell short of her eyes. "To be part of that...even as just the seamstress...it's a nice feeling." Noémie gave a shrug. "Even if it only lasts a few moments and then you slowly fade from memory-" Her fingers came together, then burst apart, "pouf."

[prxfessors]

Noah stands frozen for a beat, her words hitting him like a slow-motion collapse. His chest tightens painfully, a sick, hollow feeling spreading through his stomach. He didn’t know it had gotten this bad. He knew things had been strained since the last trip to India, but strangers? The word hits him like a gut punch. He scoffs, a sharp, disbelieving sound that echoes in the quiet apartment. "Wh-where is this coming from?" His voice cracks with disbelief. He feels slightly hysterical, like the ground beneath him is crumbling and he’s watching it happen in real time. "I'm sorry I forgot our anniversary. I’m sorry the proposal came out all wrong! But strangers, Meena?!" He shakes his head, looking physically ill, his face paling as the full weight of her words sinks in. The woman he’s been sleeping next to, waking up beside, building a home with… thinks they’re strangers. It makes him want to be sick.

"I don’t believe you," he continues, voice rising with raw emotion. "How can you stand there and say we’ve given this a proper fighting chance, when you’ve been going out with other men every time you go home to India?" His nostrils flare, eyes glistening with barely-held tears and mounting anger. "Yes, I know about your suitors. Do you even tell them you're taken?" The question hangs heavy in the air. "What am I to you? A placeholder until you find someone more suitable? How would you feel if I was going on dates with other women every time I went overseas? Keeping my options open too?" He takes a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, but the hurt keeps pouring out. "And you know what? I wouldn’t have even cared that much if you had just told me... If we’re strangers, Meena, it’s because you’d rather discuss what goes on between us with your cousins and friends - people who have never liked me - instead of speaking to me like I’m actually your partner, and not just your roommate."

[fuyante]

Meena's lips parted, eyes widening at the mention of the others, a flicker of panic devastating bright- a reflection not of deception, but because she never imagined he knew. Never believed he might hold the very things she pretended wasn't worth a discussion. "I-" The sound hardly formed before it was drowned in the flow of his own. Each accusation, each confession, each glimpse of wounds she'd never properly witnessed rained down one after another, leaving her unable to do anything save stand there until he offered a break in the storm. And by then it was less a reprieve than a verdict.

"I…" Her voice faltered under the weight of it, dark eyes darting away in search of of safety and finding none. The distance between them suddenly felt impossible to cross. "You were the man I wanted to marry." The confession came out barely above a whisper, tears beginning to gather in earnest. "You were never a placeholder." A weak breath left her. "Never." The hurt in her chest deepened as she watched him, watched anger struggling against grief. "I couldn't refuse the meetings." Her gaze dropped briefly, not out of shame but habit. The same habit which had guided so many of her decisions.

"My parents arranged them, and..." She swallowed. "We weren't engaged. We weren't married. In their eyes, time was passing. Every year became another conversation about children, about marriage, about whether I was being realistic. I met with them because saying no...wasn't really an option." The admission felt ugly, weak, yet honest. "And I never spoke to them afterward unless we happened to be at a wedding or social event." Her eyes lifted to his again. "I didn't say anything because I kept thinking eventually we'd be engaged and all of it would be done away with." Her fingers curled tighter against the wood of the windowsill. "I thought I was handling it." The first stray tears fell, a hand quickly rising to wipe them away. "I genuinely thought I was."

Tension coiled along her spine with each uttered phrase, her throat feeling impossibly tight. "If things became too much, I talked to my family because..." her voice softened, "they're my family." There was no defensiveness, only sincerity. "They've known me my entire life. They have my best interests at heart. I trust they'll tell me if I'm being unreasonable. And..." She hesitated. "And I didn't want to burden you with little things." Her fingers were trembling, just enough to betray how overwhelmed she felt. "If something was small, or embarrassing, or likely to pass in a few days, I thought it was better to sort it out myself instead of bringing it to you." Then came the part that hurt most. "I kept things from you, but I wasn't the only one." The words emerged carefully. "You never said how much my family weighed on you." A pause. "You never said you felt inadequate." Another. "You never said you were carrying those things." Tears in her eyes made it difficult to hold his gaze, but she forced herself to. For once. A small shake entered her voice. "If we're strangers..." she whispered, "then I don't know how all of it belongs only to me."

[prxfessors]

Noah watched as Meena slipped off her coat and draped it over the back of her chair. The rust-coloured dress underneath caught the soft light beautifully, and he drew in a quiet breath, suddenly feeling a little out of his depth. Even so, Noah couldn’t stop smiling. It was subtle but persistent, the kind of smile that reached his eyes and made the corners crinkle. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, utterly captivated by the calm, melodic way she spoke. It was the same soothing voice he remembered drifting through the anaesthesia fog; warm, steady, and far too easy to listen to for hours. "And what peek are you getting from my favourite restaurant?" he asked, blue eyes bright with amusement and curiosity.

"Adventure, mostly. I’m an archaeologist by trade. Fancied myself a little like Indiana Jones, minus the whip and the hat, sadly." He gave a lopsided grin, a touch of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "I wanted a completely new setting. Different energy. Different stories buried under the concrete." Noah paused, gaze softening as he studied her face in the gentle blue glow from the fish tank. "And you?… forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but I love your accent. It’s beautiful. How long have you been in New York? Or are you a native to the city?" He tilted his head slightly, clearly content to let her talk all evening if she wanted. A few moments later, their waiter appeared, politely placing menus in front of them both with a knowing little smile, clearly in on Mr. Wei's special treatment. "Good evening. Can I get you both something to drink to start?" the young man asked.

[fuyante]

"Hm…" Meena drew a soft breath, her gaze drifting along their small piece of solace, the warm glow of the tea light reflecting in her dark eyes. "I think this place tells me you aren't impressed with flashy things" She decided at last. "You prefer substance. Nothing here is trying too hard. It's welcoming rather than spectacle." A small smile touched her lips. "I think you prefer warmth over formality." She tilted her head, considering for another moment. "And… that's all I have so far." The admission came with a soft laugh.

As Noah explained his interest in archaeology, her brows furrowed, a bit puzzled when he mentioned someone names Indian Jones. "That's interesting." Her fingers curled loosely around her water glass. "I always assumed England was the best fit for archaeology since they have the most...extensive museums." The words slipped before she fully thought them through and she made a bit of a face, realizing she might be delving into less than polite conversation. Thankfully, his question provided a respite from herself. His compliment on her accent was met with a light flush on her cheeks.

"Oh." Her eyes dropped momentarily to her glass. "No, you're very right." A soft smile followed. "I moved from India when I was nineteen for a nursing program and never left." There was affection in how she said it, the kind reserved for a city that had slowly become familiar. "I still visit when I can, though. My family and friends would never forgive me otherwise." Her smile widened into something genuinely fond. "Do you go home often?"

The arrival of the waiter stole Meena's attention, a polite smile offered. "Can I have a mojito?" Any version is fine." After the orders were taken and the waiter disappeared, she found herself watching him go. Then watching Noah. Then the waiter again. "They really like you here." The observation came lightly, but there was unmistakable fondness beneath it. "It's very sweet." She rested her forearms on the edge of the table, relaxing further. "I think I'd be nervous to come by myself now." The joke was delivered playfully, but her smile lingered afterward, soft and genuine as she looked across the table at him. "So what would you recommend I order?"

[prxfessors]

@fuyante

Even as evening began, the dusty streets of Cairo hummed under the relentless Egyptian sun. Noah Fischer wiped the sweat from his brow and pushed through the heavy wooden door of the dimly lit bar. The place was a classic Cairo watering hole with low ceilings, flickering oil lamps, and the sharp scent of hookah smoke. It wasn't his first time in this chaotic city, but he still stuck out like a sore thumb. Tall, fair-haired, dressed in a slightly rumpled cream linen suit with a loosely knotted tie, like a proper Englishman who’d taken a wrong turn on the way to the British Embassy. Back in London, he'd been a mediocre archaeologist at best... more treasure hunter than scholar, if he was honest. He'd only gotten into the field for the money. But nothing important had ever turned up. His late mentor, Dr. Harrington, had been the real expert on ancient Egypt. Noah had just tagged along for the funding and the occasional big score that never came.

Then British Intelligence came knocking. They'd pieced together whispers that the Americans were sniffing around for some legendary artifact, and worse, the Germans were in the mix too. The target? The Book of Amun-Ra, said to be hidden in the lost city of Hamunaptra. Most dismissed it as myth, a fairy tale. But the Queen wanted whatever ancient power might be buried out there in the sand - better in British hands than anyone else's. Intelligence had better things to do than chase ghosts, so they recruited Noah. Your mentor's notes are our best lead. And so here he was. No grand expedition, just a solo mission with a local guide, a man named Anouihl. Instructions had been clear: meet at this bar, wait, make contact quietly.

Noah had been nursing the same warm drink for over an hour now, boredom setting in hard. He'd asked around for Anouihl earlier, discreetly at first, then with growing impatience, but the responses were the same. Narrowed eyes, muttered curses, and a few locals who spat on the floor near his boots. Either Anouihl was bad news, or the locals were simply fed up with foreigners digging up their history like it was their own backyard. Sighing, Noah reached into the bowl of dates on the bar, a small mercy for his rumbling stomach. He leaned back against the worn wooden counter, scanning the room with that roguish half-smile of his, and his eyes landed on a striking woman at the end of the bar. Noah straightened up a bit, running a hand through his messy dark hair. "Well now," he said, his British accent smooth and playful as he slid a little closer, flashing a grin. "Name's Noah. Waiting on a rather unreliable fellow, but suddenly the wait doesn't seem so bad. Care for a date?" He offered one from the bowl with a wink, his tone light but undeniably flirtatious, the weight of his secret mission momentarily forgotten.

[fuyante]

Though seemingly hidden, Anouilh was not only present but had view of him, light hues trailing as he teetered between asking for them and taking up residence as gargoyle at the car. Poor thing had made the error of using Anouilh instead of Noémie- as most locals knew her. Oh, and there was rather trivial matter of assuming Anouilh was a man. Thus, she remained in place, tucked behind a table of merchants. Perhaps he simply hadn't been given the details- a poor reflection on the the Mighty British Empire. Or perhaps he had failed to remember them- a poor reflection on himself.

"Is that him?"

A gruff voice to Noémie's left pulled her gaze from the Englishman, a faint smirk forming as she nodded. "Oui." When she glanced back, it came as a surprise to witness him approaching a woman this time...then she caught his wink and her expression fell dull. The desire to watch his poor display was strong and for a beat she considered it, until she realized who he was talking to. "Mon dieu." A curse beneath her breath as she rose, boots striking tile in purposeful steps as her attention flicked between the woman who was all smiles and fluttering lashes, and the rather large man observing from the shadows. Of all the women in Cairo, of course he picks her. Typical.

By the time she reached the pair, a bright smile found its place, masking irritation. "Ah, bonjour." She slipped neatly between them, forcing the doomed lovebirds apart without so much as brushing a shoulder. Her hand landed lightly on Noah's arm. "I've been looking for you everywhere. We have a tour to catch, oui?" Her brows perked, a hint of ice in her eyes. "With Anouilh?"

[fuyante]

🚆, 💓, and one of your choice! for Meenakshi and Noémie.

🚆 TRAIN - what is their answer to the trolley problem?

Meena & Noémie

💓 BEATING HEART - what gets their heart racing?

Meena & Noémie

❇️ SPARKLE - what is their most prized possession? what do they value?

Meena & Noémie

[fuyante]

ROMANTIC PREFERENCES: Noémie Hélène Anouilh

💓 BEATING HEART - what gets their heart racing?

a hand on the small of her back

a playful challenge tinged with flirtation

being pulled gently by the waist

hearing "come here"

hearing "you make me nervous" from someone confident

hearing them defend or praise her when they think she isn't listening

locking eyes across a crowded space

noticing she's cold & giving her their jacket

pulling her closer during a slow dance

the pause right before a confession

watching them get jealous

[fuyante]

ROMANTIC PREFERENCES: Meenakshi Bhandarkar

💓 BEATING HEART - what gets their heart racing?

anticipation before a first kiss

being pulled gently by the waist

being held in their arms while she's half asleep/sleeping

catching them already looking at her

hearing "come here"

hearing her name said softly

their hand brushing hers 'accidentally' & lingering a beat too long

their hand on the back of her neck

their thumb stroking the back of her hand

their voice dropping to something quiet & intimate just for her to hear

tucking a strand of hair behind her ear

[fuyante]

PRIZED POSESSION: Noémie Hélène Anouilh

❇️ SPARKLE - what is their most prized possession? what do they value?

A painting gifted by a past lover who believed she bore a likeness to the subject. It is both her most prized possession and a great source of distress due to the memories it stirs.

As far as possessions, she isn't typically attached to things, aside from one off things such as the painting or things left to her by her parents.

[fuyante]

PRIZED POSESSION: Meenakshi Bhandarkar

❇️ SPARKLE - what is their most prized possession? what do they value?

A gold ring with Rama in raised Devanāgarī script. The inside is engraved with Major General Lord FitzRoy Somerset KCB. Her father gifted it to her after winning it at auction.

As far as possessions, Meena values heirloom and antique items. She believes there is both extrinsic and intrinsic wealth in properly caring for them so the history- whether personal or vast, is passed along in some fashion.

[prxfessors]

Her words hit him like a shockwave. Noah couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. Sweet, proper Meena - the same woman who blushed at PDA - was whispering filthy, desperate things to him while her parents slept under the same roof. Begging him to finish inside her every time. Saying she wanted him tired and spent. It short-circuited his brain completely. A deep, broken moan tore out of him as his hand sped up, stroking himself hard and fast. "Yes…" he groaned, voice wrecked. "Fuck, Meena…" He could barely string his thoughts together. The contrast between her proper daytime demeanor and this needy, possessive version of her had him reeling. "I’ll come inside you every time. I can never hold back with you," he panted, words rough and simple, unable to form clever sentences. All he could do was stroke himself and try to answer her. "You feel too good… always so tight and wet for me. I can’t… I can't stop myself." He swallowed hard, hips jerking up into his fist as he pictured her touching herself just a few doors away, legs spread, fingers buried deep while she thought of him.

"In the garden… in that beautiful marigold saree… I wanted you so badly. I wanted to lift your saree up around your waist, tug your panties down your thighs and take you right there against one of those palm trees." His breathing was ragged, and that familiar low groan started building in the back of his throat, the one Meena knew meant he was right on the edge. "I want to give you everything… I’ll fill you again and again, until you're dripping with me. I want to make you the happiest woman on earth, Meena." His voice cracked slightly, thighs tensing, teetering right on the edge, waiting for her to either push him over or tell him to hold back.

[fuyante]

Heat swept through her so intensely it almost felt unbearable. To think he'd been imagining taking her there, beneath heavy blossoms of her mother's garden... Such a pervert. And yet, she craved it. Loved the gravel roughening his voice, the way his breaths deepened with each sound she made for him, every crack in composure nudging her closer to the edge until her thighs began to tense. "You can't finish yet." Words barely held together between uneven breaths and soft sounds she could no longer suppress. "No." She repeated weakly, greedier this time. "You said you'd put it where it belongs. You can't waste it." Her face burned at the admission, yet the image only dragged her deeper- the thought of him pent up, saving everything until he could have her properly again. "I want all of it." She whispered, voice softening into something almost desperate. "I want to feel how you missed me."

By then, every sound from him pulled another needy motion from her hips. The thin fabric of her pajamas clinging to damp skin while she buried her face into the sheets. "Noah-" His name dissolved into a broken sound as pleasure crashed through her, warm and overwhelming enough to make her curl inward. Her body tensed hard against the mattress, hips stuttering through it while she tried and failed to stay quiet, the phone nearly slipping from her hand. Her body stayed tense for several long seconds after, small tremors moving through her legs as she slowly came down from her high. Her entire body felt warm. Heavy. Still aching with the lingering want of him.

[fuyante]

TROLLEY PROBLEM: Noémie Hélène Anouilh

🚆 TRAIN - what is their answer to the trolley problem?

Noémie would do nothing and allow the trolley to remain on its intended course. She would not sacrifice one life to save the others.

[fuyante]

TROLLEY PROBLEM: Meenakshi Bhandarkar

🚆 TRAIN - what is their answer to the trolley problem?

It would leave her with a profound guilt, but Meena would divert the trolley and sacrifice one life in order to save the others.

[prxfessors]

Noah’s mouth opens, ready to argue that a single vague text wasn’t nearly enough to stop him from worrying himself sick, but her quiet admission drains the fight out of him. He lets out a slow, heavy breath and shakes his head, hands settling on his hips, eyes dropping to the floor. For a long moment he just stares at the hardwood, processing.

"We’re a team, aren’t we?" he asks, finally looking back up at her. The words hurt even as he says them, because they haven’t felt like a team in a long time. "Our relationship isn’t something for you alone to ‘fix’, Meena. What about me? I can help. I want to help." His voice softens, almost pleading... however, when she suggests she should have just stayed quiet on their anniversary and left things as they were, he makes a face, brows pulling together in a mixture of confusion and something close to offense. "Why not? That doesn’t make any sense." He takes a small step forward then stops himself as the words come out sharper than he intended.

"If you’re unhappy with me, you need to tell me..." Her words poke at an old wound he’s carried for months; the way she so often keeps things to herself, the careful way she edits what she shares about her family visits to India, the way she withdraws and tries to handle things alone instead of telling him when she needs more from him. "...Because right now, it feels like I'm on life support and you’re deciding whether or not to pull the plug... Don't I deserve a fighting chance?" Of course you don't, Noah. The insecurity flares hot and familiar in his chest. That quiet, gnawing voice that always reminds him he’s the lucky one here. She’s the one with the money, the successful career, the family who could probably find her someone far more suitable. He’s just the academic who forgets anniversaries and plays in the dirt for a living.

[fuyante]

We're a team, aren't we?

His words, though well meaning, fell with a phantom weight of promises long expired. A glance in the reflections of their relationship revealed a trail of frayed edges slowly unraveling with each passing month. I'm not sure we know each other anymore. Except to say such a thing felt needlessly cruel, despite the seed of certainty in her chest. Because if they knew one another, then she would have seen the earnestness in his proposal...and he would have known better than to do it then. You will adjust. A phrase uttered by elders so many times in passing and yet Bharati's words were no less prominent: You still have time to decide if you want to adjust. Merely thinking it filled her with a sense of guilt as she witnessed the shift in his emotions, her fingers twitching along the windowsill.

His request sounded so simple, yet Meena was familiar with wounds borne from emotional honesty, of the scars left when someone dared to rise above maintaining peace. "We've given this a fighting chance." Her words teetered on hollow, a gentle resignation woven in threads of sadness. "We've met one another's parents, we live together, we intertwined our lives..." And here we are. Her throat tightened. There were sharper things she could have said: complaints, resentments, fears buried for months. Things would no doubt delve into an argument and that along filled her with a sense of anxiety. "I think we have different approaches to life and different ways of communicating. I think we love each other," she admitted sincerely because denying it would have been pointless, "but in some ways...we don't understand each other. In some ways we're strangers." The next sentence nearly caught in her throat. "And I fear we're holding on to something that's already faded."

[trainstationgoodbye]

It Happened One Night (1934) dir. Frank Capra

[prxfessors]

@fuyante