Author's note: Look, something new! I realized the other night while I couldn't sleep that I write, role play, etc, etc. for the same fandoms over and over – despite the fact that I have hundreds of books and movies and anime in my heart. It just wasn't fair. So I made a whole list of ideas, and hopefully they shall all soon come to pass. I'll also work on the multi-chapts I have going, but maybe this will give me my willpower and inspiration back, because they've become more of a chore than a game to me – and writing should always be a game, like a puzzle or something.


He had the most beautiful eyes, Meggie remembered. She still saw them sometimes, when she closed her eyes or when she was dreaming: big, brown eyes with long and dark lashes curling away from them, making his eyes look doe-like and feminine. But there was a cautious hardness there too, a cold and calculating suspicion that had never gone away; even when he had looked at her with his most tender expression, they were still a little cold, like coffee that had been sitting out for too long.

His hugs were beautiful, too. They were powerful, the most beautiful exhibition of his control and his strength. They made her feel safe, suspended in time by the walls of his arms supporting her back, his fingers entwined in her hair so she could never pull away. When their eyes locked – blue and brown, the faraway sky and the strong and sturdy, ever-present earth – his lips would twist into an alluring smile and he would step towards her, and she wouldn't move as his fingers pressed against her ribs, or as his palms slid around her sides, or when he finally pulled her into his chest, where she would inhale the smell of musk and soil.

Everything about Farid had this sleek, impressive, gentle strength to it. Meggie had admired the grace in his movements as their mismatched group had clung to one another and stumbled up the hillside; he had been the only one whose footsteps she couldn't hear, who could climb a tree as easily as a raccoon and jump down to land on his feet as easily as a cat. There was a measured precision in everything he did: the weight of his step, the strength of his touch, the amount of his love that he poured into you. His control... It was beautiful, too.

When she closed her eyes, she could still feel that control over her heart and her mind. She could feel her knees growing week, her hands shaking. She could feel her throat closing up, his fingers pressed against the jugular, her throat moving as she gulped for air like she did the night she swallowed tears, the night she said good bye. But then the dream changed, and his metaphorical hands around her throat pulled away. And all she could see were sorrowful, beautiful eyes.