Heart's Desire

Re: Heart's Desire

Postby scopedknife » Sun Jan 13, 2013 12:54 am

Oh Gloom, you self-hating baka <3

That was utterly beautiful. You paint such a vivid picture with your words, and your pacing is brilliant. The opening paragraphs are like the establishing shot of a movie. One with a brilliant director/cinematographer combo :P
You may well be the king of fanfic melodrama, and we all love you, regardless of how long it takes you to write. I can't wait for more :3
<alabaster> I don't like it that big.

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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Likhos » Sun Jan 13, 2013 8:45 pm

If you like what you write for katja's route, it'll be magnificent to read. Because what you are disappointed about is already wonderfull to us.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby jarek56 » Mon Jan 14, 2013 8:17 pm

Gloom wrote:Very nearly every day of those three months I'd sat down in front of my computer to write, and on very nearly every single day I had to face the pain of finally giving up and telling myself that I can't. That I'll work tomorrow - that I'll definitely write a lot by tomorrow. At the beginning of every week, I had to face the pain of telling myself that by the end of this week, this stupid chapter of less than 4000 words would be finished - and knowing that it's a lie. Knowing that inevitably, I will find an excuse. That I'll make one up, if need be, and that I'll hate myself for it, but not enough to make a change.

I'm very sorry that you've had to suffer through all of this. All of the waiting, and all of my bullshit, and all of my complaints right now, for so very little. I'm giving you people all I have. I hope that you will be understanding.

I'd tell you, Gloom, that this is all bullshit, your bashing of yourself. I'd come out with wise platitudes, and insightful comments. I'd try to cheer you up, to expertly point out every single piece of genius, brilliance, and savvy, that made this past chapter a magnificient piece of writing.

I'd tell you why you were incredible, and why you were magnificent, and why ever second you made us wait was worth it.

You would simply hurt yourself even more with those words, so I won't say them. There's nothing to prove. You'll realize, when you do, on your own time, the truth. I'm not clever enough to see how to tell you these things, and I am not the man to comment on why you're wrong, since I have had these exact same thoughts of mistakes and acts myself for 4 years of my life.

Regardless of all that, thanks for posting this, buddy. I really enjoyed it.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Gloom » Sat Apr 27, 2013 7:46 pm

Believe it or not, I'm not dead yet - and more importantly, neither is the story. As my work on Missing Stars grows closer to completion, and by necessity more demanding, the amount of time I can afford to writing this (and other) stories rapidly diminishes. But I'd promised to do to the best of my ability to make sure that in whatever way, this story sees completion, and I haven't yet grown desperate enough to go back on that promise.

During the last few months, nearly once every week (and twice almost as often) I'd seriously considered sitting down to finally post whatever I've managed to assemble of this chapter, and each time a thousand and one different excuses and deliberations have come to mind that I'd felt obliged to share with you where I now write these words. Explanations of various levels of credibility and inherent worth of whatever life or work events could justify the ever growing delay, or descriptions of the despair that bloomed in proportion as the realization that no amount of writing could make it truly account returned to my mind once again.

This chapter had been drafted long, long ago. As you can see (or soon will be able to), it was meant (however poor the execution might have ended up being) as an extra long "comic-relief" sort of chapter to precede a more serious one in tone, but as you can too, the day has come to post it (cut in the middle as it clearly is, as the scene hasn't even changed properly) or let the story perish and I've had to face the truth that I had not come close to fleshing it out as I should have. The rest of it exists in drafted form yet, but just as it took me nearly four months to convert half of it to a format even remotely presentable on this forum, so might it be with the other.

Don't take it as an acknowledgement of my laziness as a writer (though perhaps you should), nor as a promise that the second "half" of this chapter will be quicker to come. Above all, once again, try not to hold your breaths - unless you somehow came to possession of some method of physiological stasis (in which case, stop at once reading poorly written fanfiction and share your incredible medical technology with the rest of humanity, you selfish bastards).

It shames me that yet I seem to haven't been able to regain whatever magical spark had characterized in relation the earlier chapters of this story, but until you implore me to do otherwise, I'd rather keep struggling towards whatever comes than let things fall in a respectable manner.

................

As Above, So Below


I once read somewhere that in several ancient languages, the words for "sky" and "sea" were so similar as to be almost indistinguishable by themselves. Easy as it might be to bemusedly dismiss such a notion as yet another anecdote of the silliness of the practices of stranger, older people, one who'd give the matter the proper consideration would probably be quick to realize what should have been obvious from the get-go: that not only does our very own bible make reference to that etymology, but that it does so at its very beginning: "Let there be a vault between the waters to separate water from water."

If I'd looked up on that hour, stretching my neck and removing the hood of my coat that obscured my vision, if I'd squinted against the cold, I think that I would have seen something much alike. A ghostly afterimage of an abstract parting of the waters which were once one, inseparably swirling within a primordial abyss.

It wasn't a titanic, apocalyptic storm that rips ocean liners in half like so much paper and flattens entire cities in its wake. It barely even was what you'd call a proper Austrian winter rainfall – at least at the moment; it was quite clear that given time, it would grow into a rather more impressive one, but we didn't intend to stay and watch it do.

And yet, at least in my own mind's eye, though experience has taught me to rely upon it as little as possible, I could see it all: waters above, and waters below, achingly reaching towards each other with a million tiny fingers, desperate to once again relieve that unified eternity from before the concept had any meaning.

Beyond the sound of rainfall, I could faintly hear the deep churning of celestial waves and currents, the splashing howl of heavenly tides and rapids. Without looking, I could see the foam of the stars and the drizzle of light ageless, faraway light, imagine whatever little, insignificant bit I could of the greatest depth that the physical universe has to offer, the only one which might as well hide no bottom beneath its great darkness.

If I stretched my neck and looked up, the horizon would all but disappear, and I would've felt as if I was flying, hovering between those two imaginary oceans, falling towards neither in particular, like a satellite in orbit, forever plummeting towards a ground that keeps drifting away.

At the moment, though, I was just too busy to be able to answer my minds' eye's call.

Perhaps feeling sorry about having abandoned me so quickly to the torrent before as she raced towards the temporary shelter of that tree – or so I'd have liked to think, because the alternative was to consider that perhaps she simply came to acknowledge the fact that I was that much slower than herself – Emma slowed the pace of her running considerably once the decision was made to head towards her house, wherever that was. Even so, if I'd wanted to keep up with her to any reasonable degree – which I most definitely did – I had to focus on the run to the extent of pushing nearly everything else out of mind.

I wondered if perhaps it was a sign from upon-high that I should start training more or something of that sort. I knew I won't ever have legs like Emma's – running legs, that is, not those great curves – but at least I won't wear out so much whatever little I do have pretending to.

It was the kind of theoretical promise you make to yourself once every so often then conveniently forget about when you have the time to hit the gym.

Like a fall that might as well be flight, like a whole that might as well be parted, the difference between utter stillness of the body and rapid, senseless activity is meaningless to the mind. My legs were running their one way, limited in the way of physical things by such nuisances as space and time, and yet my thoughts were racing a thousand different ones at such speed that I could hardly give them chase.

It was a strange state between confusion and understanding, there in the back of my mind.

I tried to ignore it.

"Our definitions of 'actually pretty close' seem to differ somewhat", I groaned after what seemed like the better part of an hour of running through a brewing storm, trying to channel my worry another way.

"The Earth is actually pretty close to the Sun, isn't it?" replied Emma, attempting to keep an apologetic smile on her face. "All of eight light-minutes. We should be there any moment, though. My house, that is. Not the Sun."

"That's what you said back in Sillerstraße. I thought you didn't like getting wet?"

"I should've brought an umbrella over, I'm sorry, alright? Just try to run more and talk less, it'll do you good!"

I would've responded to that, and very wittily, I assure you, but for the time being decided to heed Emma's advice. I had better uses for the pitiful amount of fresh air that still remained in my lungs.
Like preventing my organs from failing on me, as they felt like they were about to do.

The scenery slowly changed, as tall, blocky apartment buildings made room for wider villas and their small estates. The roads, paved at times and flat at others, became noticeably wider towards the end of our run, and more richly decorated as the roads of European capitals tend to be; well-tended flower beds, artfully trimmed trees, the occasional small fountain nobody in their right mind would drink out of.

Now, before I go on, let me please make a fact perfectly clear: that Emma was, as the proles would say, "filthy rich" (and do realize, that the proles thus referred to as in this case were largely students of a Viennese specialty private school catering at least in part to kids whose parents' combined annual income would effectively invalidate national per capita reports by being included in them) I'd known since long before ever really talking to her – I'd said as much a while back. It fit her image, in a sense.

But while on a certain, subconscious level I might have expected something of that sort, or perhaps something even more extravagant – such is the way of our subconscious to paint over everything sensible a thick layer of the archetypical and the blindingly obvious – I think it'd be fair to say that I was not quite mentally ready for what I actually saw when we got closer.

Even as the rain fell in great sheets of smoky crystal, obscuring our vision and forcing our eyes shut with its thousands of tiny watery needles, Emma's house was plainly visible from a way over long before we could reach it – or at least, an indistinct shade of it was.

The rest, you see, lay behind a grim looking, solid stone wall, and it was only when I realized my mouth was beginning to fill with rainwater that I remembered to finally close it as we slowed our approach towards the large metal gate set in it.

"…are you expecting a siege anytime soon? By Sultan Mehmed, maybe?"

Emma laughed nervously as she reached for her purse and began fishing for her keys in it. "Blame my dad. He's… well, you could say he's 'security minded'. Comes with the job, I'd imagine. We took down the cameras and got rid of the dogs a few years ago. You know how in cartoons guard dogs would go after the mailman and so on? Turns out they do that in real-life, too. Except in cartoons they're not allowed to show all the blood."

"Suddenly I'm not so sure I want in…"

"Relax", she replied, her face lighting up momentarily as she seemed to have finally found her key and moved on from struggling with her bag to struggling with the heavy, imposing lock. "You'll be fine as long as you don't make any sudden movements at the armed guards."

"Not funny!"

"Our opinions seem to differ on that."

Thunder roared in the distance, so weak and far away that we didn't even get to see a decent flash of lightning. Emma, looking flushed with something between embarrassment and frustration, was now pulling on the lock with both hands to get it to turn.

"There's an intercom station right there. Why not see if anybody's home?"

"Odds are slim. Dad's on another business trip and mom's away for some charity event or another."

"Looking through the gate, you'd think the maids would be inside waiting", I muttered, still somewhat awed.

"Oh, certainly. Three of them, all seventeen years old, one wearing glasses and one with cat's ears… There, all done. Sorry about the delay – come on in!"

Emma motioned me to follow her as we made our way through the gate and hopefully out of range of any wall-mounted camera and started heading towards the building proper. The drizzle made vision beyond several meters all but impossible, as if a thick bubble of dirty glass surrounded us, but judging by the little that could be seen aside the little cobble-stoned path upon which we'd walked, we must have been going through what would have called a front yard in any normal house, if it didn't feel as if not calling it a "garden" would be doing it an injustice. This kind of houses, or so I'd always imagined, tended to have those around them, and yet this particular one appeared striking to me both in scale and intricacy.

"What does your father do, again?"

"Business."

We've already reached the front door by the time I was about to mention that omitting the details only made it sound more suspicious, so I never quite got to doing so and had to make do with the hope that I was not intruding upon the private hideout of an international terrorist leader in the steps of his beautiful daughter. I'm not exactly what you'd think of as James Bond material, in case someone had their doubts.

Considering the look of the garden and the wall, the house itself looked surprisingly utilitarian – just massive. From the outside, at least, it looked like it was built to withstand prolonged artillery bombardment far more so than to impress the neighbors. Then again, from what I'd just heard from Emma, her family – or at least her dad, didn't sound so keen on having any sort of interaction with the neighbors anyway beyond occasionally sending them to the emergency room with Doberman related injuries.

Assuming that she really was just kidding about the armed guards thing.

A gust of warm, dry air hit my face as soon as Emma opened the door; whoever left the house last must have left the heating on. A regrettable waste of electricity and money, surely, in the mind of us folks who don't have their own castles. I followed her inside meekly, taking in my surroundings like a pet being brought into a new home as she stopped by a wall panel to turn off the alarm, or possibly order the snipers to back down.

The silence that surrounded us when the door finally closed was almost palpable. The myriad noises of the storm, which faded unnoticeably into the background like TV static, was were suddenly very far away, and very noticeably missing.

Having very little in the sense of a proper foyer, the door seemed to lead directly to a large, mostly empty living room. It was sparsely furnished and decorated, in a very modern sort of way implying not a misuse of the space, but rather a conscious appreciation of it – a slick, shiny entertainment center, a few leather sofas and a coffee table of black wood and glass.

A selection of small potted plants, metal statues and abstract paintings lined the walls in uneven spaces – perhaps some not entirely successful attempt to make the place look less like one of those presentation rooms they have in furniture stores.

It looked like it could easily host a couple dozen people without anyone feeling pushed aside, and the sparkly clean wet-bar and drinks cabinet built into the other wall further seemed to hint at it perhaps having been used for social gatherings or parties at some point – or intended to. Something between a wall and a counter separated the main space from one of those new-age kitchen-dining room combinations that weren't quite rooms by themselves, but not really a part of the living room either.

More than anything, it looked lonely. Emma seemed awfully casual about her parents not being at home, which to me made it sound as if she was all but used to it – and the place was, at least in my opinion, if not objectively – almost tragically big for someone to live in by themselves for long periods of time. Like being at school at night, with nothing but long, winding corridors empty deserted classroom for company.

"Welcome to my humble abode", said Emma with a mixture of relief and the weary sarcasm of a person all too used to struggling to politely get around having to admit that something that can be called an "abode" is by definition not very humble as she removed her hood with shaky, water-slicked fingers.

Sighing loudly and absent-mindedly gathering her dripping hair behind her neck, she eventually turned my way, a worried look in her eyes.

"You're soaking wet", she murmured, ignoring the obvious fact that she might have been just as. "You'll get sick like that. You need a hot shower and some new clothes."

"I don't really – "

" – I'll go upstairs and see if I have anything we can dress you in ."

"There's really no need to –", I desperately protested, but to no avail. Emma was, at that point, mostly talking to herself.

She bit her lip in thought.

"…You probably wouldn't want to wear anything of mine – that would just look silly, and anything my father wears would look like a sack on you. I'll see if I have anything your size left over, okay? I bring boys here pretty often and sometimes they leave clothes behind, so I keep them just in case, and I'm pretty certain something there could…"

I didn't even bother trying to object, as much as the thought of wearing something that used to belong to one of Emma's… lovers, if you could call them that, disgusted me. Far more than it reasonably should have, probably. I just smiled and nodded, and Emma, looking satisfied with herself and very nervous, told me to make myself comfortable and sped up the nearby staircase like a gazelle.
It took me a few moments of standing there all alone to notice how cold and wet I really was. It's not that I forgot, or that I didn't know before – but just like the sound of the rain disappearing and leaving behind it a roaring silence, it took for Emma's comforting yet paradoxically troubling presence to go away for me to really realize it.

A shiver ran down my spine and didn't let go. My teeth clenched involuntarily. Leaving the heating on might have been a good idea in the long run, but for now, all I could feel was the water in my soaked coat vaporizing, leaving biting chill in their stead.

I breathed in deeply and tried, with what little success I could, not to shake too much. The carpet I was leaving puddles on looked like, well, much everything else in the room. That is to say, worth more than I'll ever make in my life, and staining it felt nearly criminal. I was beginning to understand why Emma seemed so embarrassed about the whole deal back then, trying to not sound like she was bragging or being superior while casually dismissing everything around us as if there was nothing remarkable to it – Rich men's problems, literally.

Was that something she always did when she brought people over, or did she feel like I had to be given some kind of special treatment? Afraid that I of all people might not understand, or wishing of me to understand something she doesn't of others?

The same frightening thoughts that have troubled me for the last hour sneaked unseen back into my consciousness, nagging.

That I've succeeded. That I've failed. That at long last, I got what I really wanted – and realized how terrible a thing it was to want.

I decided to try and take my mind off things by looking around a bit more closely – a task rendered far more difficult than it might seem due to my aforementioned desire to not create any bigger a wet mess than I already had. I passed my gaze from one work of art to the next, wondering how many of them really mean anything, and whether that's even a real question, when a picture hanging over a wall right by the entrance captured my attention.

It's no wonder I'd missed it before – compared to the other works around, it was positively tiny, and the frame was neither particularly ornate nor seems to be made of any precious material.
It was a family photo.

A pretty, slender woman in a yellow sundress and a matching hat, her red lips curled in an oddly familiar smile, was sitting elegantly atop a thin blanket, itself covering a field of green grass. It was probably a picnic of some sort, although there wasn't any food I could see. Next to her, more kneeling than really sitting, was a man in a t-shirt that inadvertently or not showed off biceps of the kind that makes nearby girders whimper, with a build like the bastard son of Dwayne Johnson and Goliath. He had a surprisingly smooth face and a gentle smile beneath his neat crew-cut.

My heart raced as my eyes were drawn down, anxious to confront the picture in its whole. It was the same sense of doomed hesitation one is filled with one slowly reading through the teacher's angry, disappointed notes on a test they haven't studied for, knowing full well that a big, red "F" is waiting for them at the bottom of the page, and trying to fool themselves into believing that maybe they can prevent it from really coming into existence simply by not looking it's way, like some kind of Schrödinger's test score.

I'd felt as if I'd invaded without intention upon something private of Emma's, defiled a treasure that I should never have even known of – and yet, couldn't help but want it. I was ashamed, and all the more of that despite all, I couldn't stop myself.

Standing proud in all of her one meter glory between the two, comically jovial in the way only children can be, was a girl in a frilly, light yellow shirt that was all too obviously chosen by her mother.
She was at once as much like herself as one would imagine, and not. Her hair was the same rich, confusing color, a shade of not quite of red or gold or brown that called back images of autumn leaves – and yet was cut short in a crude fashion that seemed alien to me. Her eyes were those same deep, green eyes – but open wide and bright in a way utterly unlike anything of them I'd seen before.
The smile on her lips was different. Happier, I'd have loved to be able to think.

"You know, funny as it sounds, I actually took after my dad more than my mom when it comes to body shape. I mean, if you burned away all the fat, I'd probably look like a football player", whispered Emma thoughtfully.

The tingle of her warm breath on the back of my neck, and the fresh, maddeningly sweet smell of her skin that's overwhelmed my sense told me that if I were to turn back at the moment, I'd have done so into a face-full of Emma.

Perhaps that was her intention. My cheeks were flushed as if on fire. I tried to speak, but could barely let out a broken, shaking rasp.

"…Maybe I should watch more football, than", I finally answered, too fearful to look behind me.

"Maybe you should play more. You look like you're about to faint", she giggled, the summer breeze of her rolling breath teasing my exposed skin like a perverted torturer.

"I brought you some clothes", she added a second later, changing the subject without so much as a blink of an imaginary eye. "I hope they're your size."

"Thanks", I mumbled, wondering what she'd have done if they'd turned out not to be.

"Sorry for taking so long," she added, sounding, to my intrigue, almost as unsure of herself as I'd felt. "I decided to take a quick shower myself while I was at it."

"You would've had to either way," I answered dryly, willfully ignoring the obvious out of mortal fear for my blood-pressure. "No harm done."

Taking a breath as if before a long and fateful dive, I turned around.

Whatever vision of her I might have imagined in those few terrible moments faded into quantic non-existence I opened my eyes. Emma looked much better than she did a scant few minutes ago – the agitated, restless look on her face was replaced with one of simple, honest amusement. The fearful glint in her eyes made way for a reflection of the same tired regret that'd colored them before.

She wore a thin, pink shirt that appeared to be several sizes too big for her, the hole of its collar wide enough to lazily slip off a smooth, pale, yet deceptively muscular shoulder, and the white strap of her bra. There was a name written on it, maybe of some band or another I wasn't cool enough to know, but you wouldn't be able to tell due to… various issues of geometry.

"Look, it's either that or having my nipples stick out", she finally explained, dumping into my arms the bundle of hurriedly folded clothes she was carrying. "It doesn't make me look too fat, does it?"
I shook my head silently, having apparently been finally struck aphasic by a tragic yet wholly predictable brain hemorrhage.

"Come on, don't look so shocked. You didn't think I wear that coat everywhere, did you? Besides, I just had a hot shower, and the heating's on."

"That's… noticeable."

She raised an eyebrow. "Just go upstairs, turn left and take the third door. You really look like you could use a shower."

And I agreed.

A really, really cold one.

.............................................

God willing, the next part will take a bit less than four months. One can only hope.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Tom Lyon » Sat Apr 27, 2013 8:39 pm

Good to see this is continuing. I like it.

Gloom wrote:Blame my dad. He's… well, you could say he's 'security minded'.

Is her dad Kenji?
Some other people had signatures, so I figured it was the cool thing to do.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby scopedknife » Tue Apr 30, 2013 2:58 am

As always, amazing.

Gloom wrote:Schrödinger's test score

That gets its own round of applause xD
<alabaster> I don't like it that big.

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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Gloom » Tue Jul 16, 2013 7:47 pm

I guess I should just stop making promises regarding the pace of me updating this story, shouldn't I? I might feel less guilty about it that way. As I said before, I've been growing ever busier over the last few months and much as it pains me to say that, in all likelihood I'm only likely to grow even busier yet over the upcoming. Writing-wise, there's quite a bit on my mind (foremost, of course, my work on Missing Stars' Katja route, but not solely. In fact, believe it or not, but one of those secret projects of mine actually involves, albeit in a someone roundabout fashion, a character appearing in the following very chapter...), and there's only so much time I can dedicate to writing with my job trying to capitalize on those precious hours. With that said, I've decided to buy myself a few months' more worth of relative peace of mind and (in a sense, I guess) sin somewhat against my creation in hurrying up and condensing its production to allow me to post it today. The chapter below, as you perhaps recall, was originally intended as the second half of the one above it, barring minor modifications - but only the first part. The others are actually bits and pieces of other chapters, intended to follow its suit, that I've deemed proper to try and fuse into its own in order to accelerate the pace of work. Parts of them, to my great sorrow, I've had to get rid of altogether - and I can only hope that those spaces would not seem to glaring to you readers. Given the circumstances, I think I could say that I've done my "expected best", so to speak. Think of it this way: you may be getting a few, far between, low quality chapters of Heart's Desire, but you'll be getting a lot more of Katja in a couple months!

A Gift of Hospitality

Thankfully, Emma's house really was quite small, as far as giant fortress-mansions go these days, so it only took me an embarrassingly long while to find the shower, rather than, well, forever, as it would surely have if I'd attempted to do so most anywhere else, especially considering my state of mind at the moment. Maybe I really was coming down with something after all this running in the rain, because I felt nothing short of delirious, making my way up the wide marble staircase with my arms full of surprisingly clean-smelling clothes and desperately trying not to imagine Emma staring at my back.

"Just turn left when you get to the second story, then take the third door on the left again, okay?" she called after me bemusedly, repeating her instructions as if correctly assuming that I'll forget them all within the following nanoseconds. "Call for help if you think you've gotten lost, I'll send a team after you."

"Good to know at least one of us is having fun", I muttered under my breath as I considered the frighteningly likely possibility that I really might, against all logic, become lost.
I guess the worst that could've happened was accidentally stumbling into the wrong room, but even that would probably have been too great a shame to bear in my state. Not to mention possibly dangerous. At the point, I don't think I'd have been much surprised to find out the Klingemanns keep an arsenal somewhere around the estate. And of course, if I'd happened upon somebody's bedroom or somesuch, there's always the chance that I might drop dead on the spot, which would then force Emma to haul my body all the way to whatever hidden location her father no doubt keeps all the other ones in.

The bathroom, like the rest of the building, was an odd amalgamation of modern, minimalistic architecture and a sort of faux-archaic Gothicism – a cold stone floor tiled in shades of grey and a massive stepped tub right alongside a slick, enclosed standing shower with enough buttons on the inside to land a fighter jet.

The air was still heavy with steam following Emma's shower, warm moisture hanging almost visibly around me, sticking to my skin and clothes as surely as the freezing drizzle did a few minutes before, bloated with the fruity and flowery scents of lotions and shampoo, and the smell of her body, so faint as to be barely real. The smell of the skin of her lips when she brought them so close to mine back in the classroom weeks ago. The smell that lingered on the scarf she loaned me when we both sat in the garden. The smell of her hair and her chest through that heavy coat, and her neck as she… hugged me, as simply as that, under the tree, desperately, frightfully. Gathering in the back of my mind, as dubiously real as all the emotions that accompanied it, a salty, vital, perverse odor hiding behind the artificial sweetness of perfumes.

I felt like gagging. My heart once again beat as if it was trying to make its bloody way out my throat. I tried closing my eyes forcefully, but nothing I could have done would've made the images that'd flooded my mind any less clear.

The vast majority of humans rely most heavily upon their sense of sight in understanding their environment – but curiously, it's the sense of smell that most stimulates our memories and flares our imaginations, a throwback memory of some ancient iteration of our species, perhaps.

I decided to take a quick shower, determined to escape that dangerous place as soon as possible.

But even as my muscles tensed painfully in response to the temperature difference as the hot water burned my skin insensate, all I could think of was the fact that not five minutes ago, Emma's bare body lay under this very same stream. That the soles of her feet, larger than mine, yet smoother, were planted right where mine did then. That within the same elongated box of milky, tinted glass, not five minutes ago, the subject matter of my dreams and nightmares was made manifest.

Did the white foam of the soap stick to her wet skin as it did to mine, powdery and fragrant? Did her fingers slide upon it with practiced surety as she rubbed the cold and filth of the world outside from her flesh? Her neck, ears, thighs, armpits, nethers? Dancing lightly upon her hard, flexible athlete's muscles as they did her rich, feminine curves? Did her breaths slow down, deep and quiet and shuddered with longing as mine did then?

Did she feel as lost as I, moving as if possessed by some base and feverish impulse, struggling against a body that seemed to have a will distinct from yet deceptively, darkly similar to her own?

Surrounded by the image and feeling of her body almost as much as I was within her embrace, sharing the tiny cell with the mischievous phantom of her figure, I'd felt a want for her more painful than I've ever had in my waking hours.

All poetry aside, and in a far more vulgar manner of speaking, I felt hard enough to hammer down nails. Straight through the wall.

I couldn't keep deluding myself anymore, if that's really what I've been doing until then. It didn't take a genius to make an educated guess as for why Emma took such a long time before, and at the moment, she had my fullest sympathies.

The thought of it only made it harder to stop thinking, to stop aching, to stop forgetting myself in the heat and wetness and confusion of the moment, deafened by my beating heart.

I wanted another hug from her – far more than that. I wanted things from her I dared give neither form nor verbal expression even in my mind. I wanted to destroy her. To destroy us both. To sacrifice everything, all the so little I've achieved so far between us in the name of those images, those ethereal, electrical sensations.

I finished my shower with frightened urgency, feeling as if spending another minute there I might do or become something I may regret later, and put on the clothes Emma picked up for me. The shirt appeared to be a bit on the big side, although not nearly as much as her own, and whatever fabric the brown trousers were made on felt like trying to wear a solid sheet of sand, but I tried not to think about it too hard.

"I'm d –", I started wearily as I made my way back down the staircase, hand gliding along the marble rail, before being cut off by Emma.

She was standing inside the kitchen area of the massive central space, crouched slightly next to the silvery-black refrigerator and seeming intently focused on the contents inside.

"I'm going to make dinner. This isn't a suggestion, so don't bother arguing this time. Do you like yellow peppers? I'm thinking some salad."

"Yellow peppers are great," I managed to mutter before turning away my head and putting my mind to the rather dangerous task of going downstairs without looking in front of me. Without the uniform or the coat to hold them firmly in place, well, her br – I mean, Emma's upper body just moved in all kinds of curious, eyecatching ways when she leaned down like that.

"Do you usually cook dinner for yourself?" I asked as entered the kitchen space, checking out the patterns in the marble countertops in a way I hoped looked natural.

Emma smiled with some pride as she closed the refrigerator door, a fresh batch of vegetables in hand. "Dinner, breakfast. Lunch on the weekends, too. Mom's not around very often, and I don't eat most things you can order. Too much chemicals, too little food."

I stood by against the table to make myself comfortable. "And when your parents are here?"

Emma shrugged. "Every occasion's different", she said simply, pulling a cutting board off a nearby shelf that surprisingly enough didn't look like I'd need a stepladder to get to. "Don't make any stupid comments about it, but we did actually use to have someone cooking for us. There still is when we visit our old place in Frankfurt. But there's usually no need for it here."
"What about when you bring boys over?"

Emma stopped for a bit, sighing. "It just depends. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I let them. Sometimes they bring things over."

"Don't you ever get lonely?"

"No."

There was a short silence before she got back to her work.

"I like to cook."

"Somehow, it didn't really seem like you", I mused out loud.

"I'm a grown up girl from a good family living by herself, why won't I like to cook?"

"I don't know. Guess it's… Too feminine, maybe?"

"And I'm not?"

"No, you are, that's just a thing. It's like… too much, you know? It's not realistic. You'd usually expect a pretty, rich, smart, sporty kind of girl to have some sort of humbling weakness or something."

"I apologize for being pretty, rich, smart, sporty, and knowing how to cook. I'll move right back into the commercial I crawled out off as soon as I'm done with those tomatoes."

The warmth and, for lack of a better word, hominess of it all compared to an hour ago made the both of us infinitely more easygoing. Despite the inherent awkwardness of the situation, once that final outside layer melted away, Emma and I found ourselves talking foolishness and laughing the while away as she worked on our meal and I set aside, occasionally peeking at a nearby newspaper. I offered to help, but Emma turned me off almost angrily, saying that as her guest I shouldn't have to.

"You really do look very into it."

Emma crouched again to check on a sizable chunk of meat that was currently roasting tantalizingly in the oven, forcing me to turn my gaze once again for fear of glimpsing upon something wondrous. "Thanks, I guess. It's nice to have something to focus on. Take my mind off things for a bit."

I felt bad having brought up the subject. I didn't want to ruin the magic of the moment. I didn't want to go back just yet to talking about our problems. I wanted to sit there by the table and exchange jokes with Emma, in that pink shirt of hers, surrounded by the smells of cooking food and all the myriad softly simmering, clanking sounds of a working kitchen.

It almost made it easy to forget about having to not look at her, for fear of seeing something I want to not want to. About how her body must looks and feel beneath those clothes, and the smell of her memory from back in the shower.

"I guess it is good."

I was just about to move on to the finances section when the ting of Emma gently laying a pitcher full of juice down on the table woke me up.

I'll give to Emma: the meal looked great, and smelled even better. Hungry as I was, all I had to worry about was choking off on something or drooling myself to dehydration.

"Do you always go all out like that?" I asked as I set aside the paper and grabbed a plate handed my way.

"I don't like cooking that much", she laughed as she sat down, taking care to place her napkin in its place. "But… this is a special occasion, isn't it, Friedrich?"
A puzzled look, perhaps made up, crawled across her face when she saw me blushing. "You don't think so?"

"It is", I nodded in agreement, trying to hold the veins in my cheeks from bursting.

The delighted smile returned to its rightful place. "You know…" she said, looking a bit uncomfortable herself all of a sudden.

"What is it?" I asked, looking expectedly up from my plate, but she never finished that sentence. Just giggled softly and finally added "tell me if the salad's to your liking. There's salt over there if you want some, but I'd personally suggest moderation. It's bad for your liver."

"Thanks", I muttered.

I kept sneaking hurried looks her way as we ate in relative quiet. It was amazing – and more than a little sad, I guess, to see just how quickly that troubled, slightly unhinged expression returned to her face as soon as she no longer had anything to busy her mind with.

She had this way of fidgeting in her chair that I remembered all too well from school. Wherever she was, even at home, it seemed, she could never find any respite from herself, except in those precious moments of distraction – cooking, talking with a friend, looking for clothes.

"S – so… where did you get you get the shirt? Is it also some kind of tailored brand name piece?"

Emma put her napkin to her mouth as she laughed, struggling not to accidentally spill bits of food out.

"It's from a little bargain place in Leopoldstadt that sells clothing for pregnant women. I told you, it was either that or having everybody stare whenever I take a breath. It's not easy, having a build like mine. You got to make some sacrifices."

"Never thought I'd hear a girl complaining about having this kind of body."

"Well, you obviously never had to go shopping for underwear before. You have no idea how strong they have to be for me to be able to play volleyball without breaking my spine, and they don't usually make them for this size. I'm talking ballistic protection grades strong here. Someone ever tries to shoot me in the chest, there's going to be a ricochet."
I put down my glass back on the table. I never thought the conversation would go that way. "So it's… they're heavy?"

"Let's just say that it's a good thing that I have those wide football player shoulders. And don't get me started on all the idiots out there", she added with an awkward half smile. "There was this… well, I won't drop any names, but there was this junior girl once I've been with who actually asked whether milk would come out if… I mean, I'm sure you can imagine," she finished with a whisper, the little smile slowly fading from her face as something darker replaced what must have seemed from a far a funny, stupid memory.

"Terrible, terrible subject for a dinner conversation", she admitted with a sigh. "Now I can't stop thinking…"

"Let's focus on something else for the moment."

"Y – you're probably right."

I've never been of a conversationalist. I don't think you could even attribute it to some symptom of one thing or another. It's just a personality thing, as much as that kind of idea can ever be separated from the first one. Emma seemed to have developed a liking to me that I honestly couldn't explain, but the truth of the matter was that in most cases I never knew what to say when to make things better, or get people to talk, or change the subject – I got another proof of that not a minute earlier.

But I missed Emma's laugher, so I tried my best nevertheless. I thought about asking her about her last game again, but I didn't want to run the risk of reminding her of her teammates or something. And I didn't want to sour the mood by bringing up her parents again, whatever was the deal with them. Call it silly, but the thoughts – plans, if you'd like to call them that, running through my head at the moment went there. I tried to take those sorts of things into account, just in case. Because it was important to me.

So I tried talking about whatever it was that I've read on the newspaper. About some Adam Sandler movie happened to watch on TV the day before when there was nothing else. About the food, even though I knew I probably wouldn't be able to make anything of whatever she said in response.

I'd like to think that I did at least some good like that – that I managed to make her time with me at least a little more pleasant, despite my lack of social skills. She kept her answers short, at first, almost annoyed – but as the minutes passed and the dim storm-light coming in through the windows darkened even more, I think something about her relaxed, just a bit. A measure of that sweet, magical carelessness I saw in her before that I so wanted to see again – it seemed so much purer a wish than anything else that kept creeping into my mind, that I kept trying to push out. I'd be lying if I said that the words kept spilling out of our mouths in a seemingly endless torrent of witticisms and profound personal revelations, but I think it'd be fair to say that at least it kept our spirits above sea-level until Emma's finally declared the meal officially over.

"Mind if I give you a hand with the dishes?"

"Whatever it takes to get you to stop offering to help", she murmured as she got up from her seat. "Just pick them up and them over to me, alright? I'll do the rest".

"Thank you."

"Why thank me? You're the one offering to help."

That was my turn to laugh nervously. "Guess I'd feel better knowing I did something to repay for all this hospitality. I do enough of being a parasite at home."

The sharp, monotonous sound of tapwater rushing over the glass in Emma's hand, melting naturally into the faint singing of the raindrops behind the windows, masked whatever she'd tried to say in response – or what she did, but didn't want me to hear in the first place.

"You do help, you know. In your own way."

"I do whatever I can," I answered. "I like seeing you happy like that."

"Now you really sound like Gretchen", she chuckled. "Always so very noble. You make it look manlier, of course."

"I guess it does sound a bit like her", I mused. "Or like something she'd say, at least."

Emma closed the tap and reached for a nearby towel to dry her hands, her face frozen in thought. "What you said before, about her sister…"

"I'm sorry, I don't really know her that…"

"She talks about it a lot, doesn't she?" she asked, her eyes, big and tired and sad and hungry, focused on mine, unerring.

"Sometimes", I nodded.

Something moved about Emma's face. A twitch or a shudder – shadows shifting across her lips. "Is that so?"

I didn't answer that, and Emma didn't question any further. There wasn't any need for her to, really. I could guess well enough the reasoning for her question, and if I did correctly, than my silent answer would have been more than what it should've taken to hurt her right. To shock, to repulse. To wound. To convince her to inflict all of the above unto herself, because she felt, deep inside, that it was right and just. That she deserved at least as much.

A part of me pitied her. Another couldn't help but agree.

And yet another just felt all the worse, because I wasn't so sure anymore whether I was any better, and I think Emma could sense that. There was something in her eyes when she looked at me – a sort of sorrowful empathy that said "You're alike me. You're pitiful. You deserve to suffer."

We stood in silence by the counter, staring at each other, for what seemed like far longer a time than it must have, each of us lost in their own gloomy thoughts, lulled into melancholia by the gentle rain – and perhaps we would have for longer still, if we were not interrupted by a fateful, fortuitous phone call.

I almost leapt out of my own skin.

"You should probably pick it up", she said while I was busy making sure my heart is still beating. "It might be important."

I could already here shouting on the other side of the line as I brought the little piece of plastic closer to my head with shaky fingers.

My mother's worried, borderline hysteric voice hit my eardrum like an ecosystem killing asteroid through the cell's tiny speaker.

How I managed to so completely, utterly forget about the time, given that I was observing the light outside fading away the whole evening with some interest, was completely lost on me – at least on the part that was too busy panicking about it to consider the fact that Emma Klingemann was standing a meter and half away from me trying not to laugh. The fact remained, though: I didn't make it home after school, I didn't call, and my mom didn't have any reason to suspect anything else than that I've managed to get myself ran over, or eaten by wild dogs, or whatever it is weird little boys do when left to their own devices.

I knew my mom meant well. She always did, and I'm not saying that just because I'm her son and because so much of that well-meaning was directed towards me. She is the sort of woman who genuinely cares about people – that sort of grandma archetype she's thirty years too young to really fit into that always keeps candy in her pocket in case she happens upon a crying kid. Or, more realistically, the sort that expects you to call back every two hours lest it be assumed that the worst has transpired since your last mandatory report.

"Seems there's a bright side to living by yourself after all", I could hear Emma giggling quietly from her corner.

I wanted to answer somehow, but alas, was at the moment stranded upon the dusty battlefield with another barrage of good old mom incoming and no means of escape in sight.

"You're not helping", I hissed tiredly between my teeth.

Her arms crossed in front of her, Emma let out a huff and turned away in something between polite acknowledgment and theatrical boredom.

As I might have mentioned before, I'm not really what you'd call "Silver Tongued", and I'm pretty sure it showed in my frantic, unsuccessful attempt to talk some sense, as it might have been, into my mom on the other side in-between one salvo and the other.

"Mom, I'm fine, I really – yes, I'm – I'm not hurt, okay, I – listen, all I'm –"

"You know, I think it's actually the first time I've seen you so worked up", lilted Emma quietly as she shifted her stance once again against the counter. "A bit jittery, perhaps, but you can usually put together a sentence."

My mom's rant stopped for a frightening second.

"Is there someone standing there by you, sweetie?" she asked with a twinge of suspicion, no doubt getting herself mentally prepared to call the police.

"I'm… actually I'm over at a friend's place."

The line silenced. For a few moments, all I could hear if I strained my ears was my mother's faint breathing, and the maddening hum of background static, like the growling of some virtual beast.

Of course, I would've been just as quiet in her place. It's not a happy thought to have, but I guess it did sound pretty unusual for me to say something like that, especially given the circumstances. It's not that I didn't have many friends or anything so much as… well, I got nothing. I just didn't have many friends, and they didn't usually invite me over.

"That's wonderful", she finally said dryly, cracking the tension somewhat. "But it's getting a bit late, isn't it? Don't you think it's time for you to say goodbye and go home already? You could meet again tomorrow."

She did have a point. It was getting awfully late, and giving it some thought, I was probably being rude by just assuming as I did that I could stay at Emma's place for as long as I'd wanted, regardless of

how things may or may not have happened. My mom would've been the first person to cheer on me for making a friend like that, but she was right about me pushing the limits of politeness somewhat.

"Well…"

"Do you want me to come pick you up?"

My line of thought was interrupted by Emma, who was now quite obviously listening in on our conversation, no thanks to my mother's volume control issues, I imagine. "Look out the window," she said.

"It's a small torrent."

"It didn't seem that way when we came here."

"Hey, I'm not a meteorologist", she replied defensively.

"Look, I wasn't blaming you –"

"Blaming who?" interjected my mother, not one to be ignored in favor of any friend of mine.

"It's nothing, I'm just –", I begun to try and wiggle myself out of the admittedly increasingly annoying three way conversation when Emma decided to, for the first time in a while, step in decisively.

"You can stay over, if you want," she said with a loud, clear voice – clear enough to be heard on the other side of the phone line.

"What?"

"Stay over. There's an extra bedroom for guests, and you already ate dinner. You brought over your bag from school, so there shouldn't be much a problem, should there? The rain would be long past by
morning. We could go to school, and then just –"

My mother may not have heard that last part, but the sentiment was plenty clear. Resolving the resultant argument, however petty, too a while longer – but barometric pressure, it seems, eventually tipped the balance in Emma's favor. As for myself, I was quickly sinking into a state of mental shock and couldn't really offer anything useful beyond reassuring my mother that I was not, in fact, dead.

"This is turning out to be some sort of recurring motif", I sighed weakly as I put my cellphone back in its place, now hot enough to make me a prime target for passing missiles.

Once again, the two of us stood in silence.

"I'd say I'm sorry", she eventually said, "but that'd just make it worse, wouldn't it?"

That look on her face, from before, returned in all its terrible glory. Not really happy. Not really sad. Somewhat apologetic. From an angle, furious – disappointed – at herself, or at the world, or at me. Frightened. Hopeful.

I still felt too confused to give a coherent answer. In an instant, so much to talk about, so much to consider, grew and bloated into so much more. Like turning by a hill only to find a mountain behind it.

My throat felt hoarse. My voice was cracked, sour.

"What was it about?"

Her fingers tightened around the counter's edge. The smile on her face widened painfully. The dim spark in her eye, an ember of bewitching, toxic green, flared in the artificial light.

Her arms, for all their strength, shook like twigs as she struggled to hold herself against the table.

She looked ill.

"Maybe I lied before," she muttered. "Maybe I do feel lonely sometimes."

"Emma, I…"

Her legs gave way silently.

Her knees hit the floor with a thud.

Her forehead followed a moment later.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby jarek56 » Wed Jul 17, 2013 5:25 pm

This is always worth waiting for, Gloom. Always. :D

I'm almost afraid to play Katja's route. But I absolutely refuse to not do so. I follow Lena's path out of respect towards Kosher, but Katja under your care is a most...haunting idea. I refuse to miss such literary skill.

Well done sir.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Likhos » Sat Jul 20, 2013 9:27 pm

Liked the mother part, technically that's what would happen to me in the same situation.

the tension is quite building. I like it.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby sky » Wed Jul 24, 2013 1:18 am

[03:02:15] <sky> holy shit
[03:02:20] <sky> gloom is god
[03:02:43] <TJeffy> Oh?
[03:03:07] <sky> Heart's Desire
[03:03:13] <sky> I just discovered it
[03:03:22] <sky> read some random lines of his last post
[03:03:28] <sky> goosebumps

I am so reading this.
"I'm twice the man Erik is." - Lena Forst
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Gloom » Wed Jul 24, 2013 11:56 am

sky wrote:I am so reading this.


If you'd be so kind, I'd love to hear your thoughts about this story in a slightly more detailed fashion once you're done. Your feedback helps me refine my writing techniques.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby ProNice » Wed Jul 24, 2013 10:52 pm

Well done! Needless to say that I sincerely enjoyed it. Again you managed to not only meet but surpass my expectations. ;)
There is really not much I could possibly say to further reinforce my statements of commonly known admiration for your artistic output.
I am patiently awaiting the next chapter. Please take your time.

Gloom wrote:[...] shades of grey [...]
I wondered if this was a hidden obeisance by any chance :)
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby sky » Thu Jul 25, 2013 6:30 pm

Gloom wrote:
sky wrote:I am so reading this.


If you'd be so kind, I'd love to hear your thoughts about this story in a slightly more detailed fashion once you're done. Your feedback helps me refine my writing techniques.


I am still trying to come up with something meaningful to write, and that bottle of Liquor I had for lunch isn't helping at all.

So for now I'll say this - it kept me up all the way to 4:32 AM. I could not bring myself to stop reading. It was fantastic.

Fear not, I will try to come up with something actually useful for you (I hope) when I'm... More able to. Don't expect too much, though. I'm not a bright fellow. :oops:

One fun thing I can leave you with for now is a short song that for some reason kept popping up in my head while I was reading the first chapter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kmc1XN3iVVc
"I'm twice the man Erik is." - Lena Forst
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Gloom » Wed Oct 16, 2013 9:43 pm

Well.

First and foremost, I suppose that I owe you an apology. After sticking for very nearly two years to my own self-imposed "at least one chapter per three months limit", today I seem to have finally broken it. I guess you could look at it as a sort of final straw, if you want - it would be somewhat fitting, symbolically. I know that I've promised time and a time again to finish this story, and I'd like to believe that at least one day, I will - but for the foreseeable future, I'm afraid that I simply cannot guarantee any longer that you'll receive more chapters of this story in time. There's too much work to be done, and frankly, as much as I enjoyed writing this story, most of it is a tad bit more important. I didn't want to leave things "hanging", dramatically speaking, so I pulled through and ran a few final edits (for a certain measure of the words) on whatever good I could grab from my drafts for the next chapter so that, at least this particularity story "arc", if you'd like to call it that, would receive a sort of resolution (however unsatisfying) before the whole things fades away into one of those infinite hiatuses "fan"-works sometimes do that by now are so infamous it's almost meta to talk meta about them.

I'll be perfectly honest with you, the ending of this scene has been a terror to write. I guess that I should've realized way back when I decided that I was going to write a story about a nymphomaniac that the whole sex-scene subject would have to come up eventually, but seeing as how it literally took me over three months of writing and deleting and rewriting to get it into the awful mess that it is right now I guess I simply haven't. The first few versions of the "scene" have been some of the most extreme I've written so far, for this story or any other. Moreso, even, than a few of the ones I wrote for Gretchen, back in the day. I'm not even actually sure that posting sex-scenes is forbidden on this forum, but even so, after eying through my first "result" (and do keep in mind, when I say "result", I mean "a result deemed fitting enough, the last in a long line of drafts, preliminary versions, and rewrites") way back in September (I guess I could've posted this chapter as early back as then, if I decided to go through with this) I simply couldn't help but feel that I'd be doing something horrible if I did at this point in time. It just felt inappropriate - or maybe that's what I told myself, because I couldn't help feeling that it simply wasn't very good. Not that this "result" is any, mind you. Think what you may, and I know that some of you believe that I'm simply fishing for compliments constantly saying that or that I have too poor an appreciation of my own skills - but trying to be objective in reading through this, I think the "pesudo sex-scene" in the end is bad. Maybe it's a kind of subconscious compensation thing - I felt bad about not delivering an actual, juicy sex scene, so in order to make up for it I traded all the coherent juiciness for this pile of purple-prose ridden mumblings. It almost reads like a parody of my own writing style. Grossly overlong and incomprehensible, marked by the inappropriate use of words of an inappropriate linguistic level, an utter lack of emotion when it's clearly needed most and melodramatic dialogue structured so poorly that it seems shoehorned into a scene that was built entirely around it. And I'm not even going to go into how forced the whole thing feels like in the first place, because if I start there wouldn't be an end to this and from the way my sentences have been growing increasingly incoherent over the last twenty minutes I'm clearly too tired to do so.

So all of this accounts for one reason this took so long. Or at least, this is one excuse you'll get for it.

The other one is that, as I've mentioned before, I'm just busy right now. It's not like I got a job or a girlfriend or something, God forbid - that's for emotionally balanced people (the kind that doesn't think that admitting to their own presentable faults in a forum post would somehow make them feel less bad about them). I'm referring to the fact that as of late, my work on Missing Stars and other related project has been picking up pace (which I'd say is a good thing, overall), and, well (I really should start moderating my use of that word - my drama teacher would always warn me about its likes. They add nothing substantial to a monologue and make it needlessly long while breaking the flow of things), in that light Heart's Desire has simply been sort of a bother. I kept feeling bad about not writing for it much anymore, which is why I did that, but I mean, my other projects take precedence right now, don't they? Hopefully, I'll be able to get back into Heart's Desire, eventually. I have an obligation for this particular story - if not for it, I probably would've never gotten my Somnova job.

And one other thing: I'm sorry about the quality of those chapters decreasing each time - and whatever you say, I know that it is. With each chapter, the writing becomes less creative, less witty, less flowing and, sometimes it feels like, at least, less interesting. This isn't excusable by me saying that I have more important work to do, because if I already choose to write for Heart's Desire, having something else of my mind really shouldn't impact the amount of effort or "mental energy" I should put into it. Frankly, I can't really explain it. I don't know if it's because I'm "running out of ideas" for this story, or if I'm running out of ideas in general (I sure hope that isn't the case, because there's still a fair bit of Katja route left for me to write), or if there's just a sort of fatigue that gathers when any story stretches far enough and I'm just not a good enough writer to deal with it. As always, I can't do much except hope things get better.

Enjoy, and thank you for your time. If there ever is a next chapter, it would finally be done with this act (seriously, did you notice that like the five last chapters or so have all taken place during a single afternoon?)

Sickness and Health

The next few minutes buzzed by hazily as if in a dream – somebody else' dream, perhaps, judging by how clearly I don't remember a single tangible thing of them. All I do remember, or at least would like to think that I do, is the fear – purer and more intimate and more overwhelming than any I've ever felt before – and the tears of relief and fury and mind-numbing horror that welled up in my eyes, on the painful edge of flowing out, when Emma's own finally opened, slowly and wearily.

I also recall, rather clearly, her surprised whimper upon waking up to find my face hovering just a couple dozen centimeters above her own, probably looking about as good as I felt – which is to say, not even a single bit. Thinking back to it just a few minutes later, when the raging tempest of my scattered mind has finally calmed down enough for me to be able to, I really should've probably given her a bit more space.

Back in the moment, though, drunk on panic and high on raw, base happiness, I couldn't care less about it. I was just trying to hold myself back bawling my face out.
'This can't be happening', I kept telling myself, and the thought, dark and singular and temptingly raw, pushed aside all others, spreading explosively within my skull like a flesh eating virus, bursting each sickened cell with its own virulent spawn as it went.

This can't be happening. It shouldn't be happening. Those sorts of things don't happen. Not to me. Not here, not like this.

I knew that Emma wasn't well. Sometimes, it'd seemed, better than she did – or perhaps I was simply more willing to acknowledge it. People don't suffer from constant bouts of migraines and crippling nausea and loss of consciousness just because it's the season.

But there's a difference between acknowledging that something might happen, and accepting it. It is vital that there should be, for the human mind to be able to function. We acknowledge that we might get run over the next time we cross the street. That we might slip while walking down the stairs and break our necks against the floor and die idiotically for no reason, leaving behind a corpse with its blank, shocked face turned in a ridiculous angle. We acknowledge that we might be struck by lightning.

But we don't accept that. We won't be able to function if we did.

However much we might try and tell ourselves that statistically speaking, it's not an all implausible that some awful fate might befall us at any moment – a stronger, deeper voice inside us does its very best to keep us calm.

'Could' doesn't mean 'Would', it argues, measured and comforting. 'And what are the odds, really?'

And yet, after all that, fate just went and did.

I wanted to shout at someone, at something. There was something in my throat and in my chest that had to be let out, lest it rip and claw its own way like an erotic nightmare. I wanted help, but there wasn't any. Nobody was there to help. Nobody was there to see.

It wasn't my fault, of course. It couldn't have been anybody's, realistically speaking. But that fact, however much I tried to cling to it, didn't make the pain any better.

Emma remained lying there on the kitchen floor, nearly motionless, for a few more minutes, and I was just about to start panicking again and reach for my phone to call a damn ambulance already when she finally started speaking, her voice something between an unintelligible mumble and a pained moan.

"I feel like I just banged my head against the wall", she groaned, sounding as if the fact was really more of an annoyance than anything to worry about.

I tried to keep my own voice steady, despite the bothersome sense that if I were to so much as open my mouth, the only sound that would escape would be a barely human, anguished howl. I tried focusing on my breath. I tried clearing my mind.

"Actually, it was the counter. You banged your head against the edge of the counter, and then against the floor when you fell down. Do you feel alright? Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Would you like me to call an ambulance? H – how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three, and you don't need to call an ambulance."

"Are you sure? Because I –"

"There. Is. No. Need. To call. A damn – d – hhr –"

Perhaps if I had been the athletic one between the two of us, I'd have been better able to dodge the oncoming spray. Unfortunately, I was not, and was thus punished for my poor reflexes with a messy stain of crimson on my shirt collar when Emma's sentence was cut by a long, wrecking fit of wet coughs.

I started backing away, trying to keep as neutral an expression as possible, but from the way Emma's eyes widened like a pair of saucers and the manner her mouth hang open in horror and revulsion it was plenty clear that she saw more than enough.

She raised a trembling finger to her lips, then examined the red, watery blot on it from up close before coming at the inevitable conclusion, sounding surprisingly calm, all things considered.
"My mouth is full of blood."

I nodded faintly, feeling somewhat ill myself. "You must have bitten your tongue or something – I think that's not unusual in those kinds of situations. Although, if that's any comfort to you, technically I think most of it is on my shirt by now."

I tried smiling at that idiotic joke, perhaps in some misguided attempt to comfort her, but I don't think even I would've bought whatever expression that turned out to be as a smile.
At least it wasn't my shirt.

"D – does it hurt?", I whispered slowly, trying to keep the bile from climbing back up my throat.

She smacked her lips twice, licking off the blood and saliva that have been running down the side during the last few seconds. "I'm… not entirely sure. Not any more so than anything else, I guess."
"You're taking this all awfully well, you know?"

"Well, it wouldn't help if I panicked now, would it?" she said, her voice sounding even shakier than before. The same sort of hysterical smile that must have adorned my face a few minutes earlier was now started to come into view on her own. Even so, I couldn't help but feel at least some admiration – not to mention worry – at just how fine she looked, overall, for someone clearly trying to fight panic off. I don't think anyone in their right minds could've blamed her right now if she started hyperventilating a little – I know I would've if I ever were to wake up on my kitchen floor with a splitting headache, choking on a small pool of my own blood with some boy staring right at my face looking like he just saw a ghost.

Heck, I'd have shrieked my lungs out if that ever happened to me. Assuming I was able to. What with the blood and all.

Emma took a long, heaving breath, and with visible strain on her face pushed herself up into a nearly sitting position, her shoulders barely supported by the elbows and the wrists. She looked even sicker than she did before, which was no small achievement.

"Perhaps you shouldn't…" I started, weakly, but she didn't even seem to mind it. Slowly, step by awkward step, she dragged her way back until her head rested uncomfortably against the base of the kitchen counter, then closed her eyes in thought.

It took her so long to open her mouth, or really, do anything else again, that I was almost starting to wonder if she just got another seizure and I was sitting there staring at her like a retard instead of doing something about it.

She took another deep breath, and we she did speak, her voice was, if not completely calm, then at least a lot less shaky.

"Did I… did I – did I do anything weird?", she asked, as if that, of all things, mattered something at the moment. "I don't know. Convulsions? Foam at the mouth? Throw up on you? Did I… Ohmygodpleasedon't –"

Realizing not a moment too soon what she was getting at, I only had God to thank for having been able turn my head aside just in time to not have to see her reaching down for her underwear.

"You didn't piss yourself, if that's what you were thinking. You're just really sweaty. Could use a shower, maybe."

She let out something between a relieved sigh and a giggle. "Jeez, at least there's that."

"Right. Because you just banged your head against the floor hard enough to make a hole in it, but it sure is good to know you didn't wet yourself doing it."

She frowned angrily. "Well… It would've been really embarrassing that way."

"And we wouldn't want that", I replied dryly. Something about the way she was reacting to all that, however much it should have made me feel happy and relaxed, infuriated me instead.

Maybe I was just feeling bad about myself. About how scared I was just looking at her from the side while she herself didn't even seem to care that much. Or maybe there was more to it.

I honestly don't know. And frankly, I was beginning to get tired of never knowing.

"S – so… Would you like me to help you somewhere else, maybe? The couch in the living room, or your bed, or, you know, we could just stay here on the floor with all the blood and drool if that's cool with you."

"I think the couch will do", she answered, smiling for the first time since waking up. "Help me stand up, will you? No offense, but I can't see you carrying my leg over to the living room, much less my entire body."

"W – well. You have long legs."

"I'm afraid they come with the deal."

I crouched next to Emma's shoulder, and leaning down slowly, helped her get her arm wrapped around mine while helping her up with my other one.

"Don't push yourself – " I began speaking as calmly as I could bring myself to, but Emma seemed all too eager to simply launch herself upwards and into a standing position, her blood pressure be damned, muttering groggily all the while about when and how she's going to have to clean the floor.

"I'll help you with it later. For now, let's just get you to the couch. You need some rest."

"But the kitchen looks like a murder scene…"

"We'll hide the body and they'll never know", I sighed out in response, once again failing to conserve my air with the weight of Emma's barely supported torso and arm resting over my back.

Presumably built in order to accommodate a large crowd of standing people, the first floor of the house was designed with the kitchen and the living room making up different parts of the same larger, open space. Of course, all that didn't count for much when you still had to make a good thirty meters going from the kitchen table to the nearest seat – which isn't any easier to do while hauling a girl like Emma over.

"You weren't kidding when you said you were lucky to have broad shoulders", I gasped as we made it down the half stair to the living room area.

"I'm sure you're enjoying this".

She snorted out a tiny giggle, then wiped the bit of drool off her chin with her free hand, presumably aware but deigning not to comment upon my own obvious discomfort with the situation. I laid Emma down on the couch as carefully as I could manage, sitting down by her side on the armrest after finally making sure her head was positioned properly against the pillows.

"Such a big deal about such a little fall. Would you want to grab me a blanket while you're at it? Read me a story?"

"Would you like me to?"

A mischievous smile crept across her face as her eyes closed. "And there I was about to get to asking for a goodnight kiss."

"Are you feeling sleepy?"

"A little bit", she admitted, her voice sounding a lot calmer than before. Her breaths, while slow, were now even and measured. "I could use a blanket, though. I feel like I just came back from the rain all over again. There should be a few in the closet by the entrance."

Lying still on her back with her eyes closed, chest rising and falling rhythmically under the thin, patterned blanket that covered her up to her neck, Emma looked for all intents and purposes like a person truly on the verge of falling asleep – at least from my awkward vantage point.

I'd almost thought that she really did when she finally spoke, her voice quiet and unsure. "How was it like, there?"

"What do you mean?"

She pondered the question for a while, perhaps regretting ever having brought the subject up. "When I opened my eyes, you had such a worried look on your face I'd thought something absolutely awful must have happened. Was it… really that bad?"

Did she like a truthful answer, I wondered, or a reassuring one?

"You were lying there on the floor for a couple minutes, shaking and blinking your eyes and clenching your fists. First you just looked like you were in pain, then blood started pouring out of your mouth. I turned your head a bit so you wouldn't choke on it. "

"Thanks."

A weak laugher rumbled out of my stomach. "I was terrified that I might cause you some damage just touching you. I should be apologizing for taking so long."

"It's alright; you're not a medic or anything. Besides, I spat blood all over your face. I'd say that we're even on the blood part."

"I still need a new shirt."

"I'd get up to grab you one, but it's far too cozy down here."

"It can wait", I blurted, somewhat concerned that I might have actually made her a little uncomfortable with the fact. "Just try to rest, and tell me if you need anything."

"Geez, I'm not actually sick."

"That's what you said earlier today, and look where you're now."

"Touché."

"I told you that you should've spoken to someone", I sighed. "You don't have a history of seizures, do you?"

"Well, not a very long one, if that's what you mean."

"It's not funny. What if you'd have been really hurt? What if you hit something too hard or broke a bone or –"

"You were there. You'd have done something, wouldn't you?"

I could feel the blood rushing too my cheeks, a slightly numbing tingle as the cold skin warmed up from the inside. "M – maybe."

"I know you'd have", she concluded with a whisper.

Our conversation over the following hour or so has been, to say the least, a somewhat lacking one. Time and again, a short meaningless exchanged of words was followed by such a long period of silence that just as I begun to think that this time, Emma might have really drifted off to sleep, I was startled by her soft, pleading voice starting another one.

Her pronunciation became blurrier with every such passing conversation, her choice of words less clear. She was obviously tired – exhausted, even – but for whatever reason, she just wouldn't give up on speaking.

Maybe she was afraid of that silence – or maybe she was just afraid of falling asleep again. Afraid that she might wake up once again, confused and hurt, into a frightening, cold reality that seemed straight out of a film.

"Did you ever fall asleep in class", she asked, "And then had the teacher wake you up all of a sudden? That's how it felt, back then."

I don't quite recall what I told her in return, to be honest. I might have lied to make her feel better, though – because nothing as such has ever happened to me, and yet I can remember with perfect clarity the content, thin smile on her face after I answered.

Another hour passed, then another, my only company being the monotonous, purring sound of the rain beating against the large kitchen window on the other side of the room, and the occasional low moan of Emma's breaths.

By midnight, it's been over forty minutes since she's uttered any sound that I couldn't dismiss as the fragmented, dumb blabbering of a dreamer.

Slowly and gently, I got off my seat on the side of the couch and tip-toed over to the light switch on the far wall, turning it down until it was just bright enough for me not to trip over the coffee table on my way back.

My first impression of the place has been right. It really was far too big to be in on your own, especially in the dark.

How many nights did she have to spend like this? All by herself? Coming over and doing her homework and taking a shower and cooking whatever it was she felt like on that day, in whatever loose-fitting shirt she felt like throwing on, all by herself? And what more?

The thought has suddenly occurred to me that, at least in this regard, my presence over the evening must have been nothing short of torturous for her. Like having a cigarette stuck between your lips, and the only lighter around safe behind a glass pane.

My mind raced back all the way to my first conversation with her, and then forward and on to the then present time. The way her breaths slowed down and the side of her nose blushed and her fingers aimlessly wandered about and her thighs shuddered whenever she was just that close to having a fill of her vice.

I struggled to those thoughts out of my mind. If there ever was a time in which such have been clearly inappropriate, that was it.

I was already half on my way up the stairs to the second floor when my head turned one final time to see her, to make sure that everything was fine before I left.

The room was far too big and dark for me to see anything, though. Or that, at least, is what I told myself at the moment to justify my decision. Perhaps deep inside, a part of me has already realized what was about to occur.

Reverently, step by step, as if climbing towards the metaphorical opposite of an alter, I went back down and over to the sleeping girl on the couch.

Just to have one final, single look. To burn the image of her serene, sleeping face into my mind.

Kneeling down aside the couch, my face in level with Emma's for the first time in a while, albeit perpendicular to it, I couldn't help but feel a little bit as if I was acting a part in a picture from a storybook. Snow-White, or Sleeping Beauty, or Goldilocks, perhaps – folklore didn't lack for slumbering young women, nor did it for awestruck men unsure of their worth sitting by them.

She seemed so wonderfully, uncharacteristically serene in her sleep – childlike, maybe, if you don't mind the cliché. A rarely seen contentedness reflected in the curve of her lip as her cheek pressed against the leather, and in the tiny wrinkle that formed right above her eyelid. An indescribably subtle sensation, ambiguously real, that yet I could swear for the life of me was really there.

Was it really a respite for her from the hardships of her waking hours, or did it merely seem that way from where I was looking? Was the numbness of sleep a perfect mask for her person, or a window to it?

Her forehead, white and slick, gleamed slightly in the dim light. A bead of sweat glittered in the bronze curl hanging over her brow.

Was she feverish, I wondered, or merely hot? Understandably, the thought worried me – all the more so for my understanding that I've set it aside for so long to gawk at the shape of her face.
I moved my face even closer – close enough to feel the wet warmth of her breath against my own whenever she exhaled, close enough to be repulsed and aroused by the sour-salty smell of sweat and blood and a little bit of saliva that lingered around her mouth. Hesitantly, I laid a trembling palm to her forehead.

Her skin was sticky, but not sickeningly so. Just enough to lend a traction to the otherwise smooth, milky surface. The side of my thumb tingled against the cut of her hair.

Surprisingly thick, the strands curling around each other just enough to form soft, natural waves and tresses without turning in on themselves and becoming a tangle. Hot in the sense that a book left in the sun is hot, a rich mass that brushed soundlessly as my hand ran gently through it. More wool than silk, a color recalling autumn and apples and queenly robes, not quite gold or brown or red, rusting in the darkness. The sweet smell of her shampoo from the shower she took earlier barely overwhelmed and melted into the primal, powerful scent that surrounded the rest of her body. Flowing between my fingers, covering and engulfing them, stinging at times.

From her forehead and along her long locks, down to her cheeks and her neck, caressing the skin ever so slightly.

My mind was blank, absorbed by the dark and the quiet and the warmth around me. I moved like an automaton, or a possessed man, consumed by a horrid excitement. My fear was meaningless, distant.

"I'm so sorry", I whispered to her, inaudibly, my own voice feeling like the alien echo of somebody else', heavily crawling its way out of my throat.

"Don't be", she whispered in return, a tiny smiling growing upon her lips like a cancer. Her eyes didn't even open.

"It feels nice."

"Emma –" my cry of disbelief has been cut short by her own deep, buzzing whistle.

"Hush", she hummed, looking all the more please as she pulled her hand from beneath the blanket's folds and reached for my own, grabbing the wrist gently but firmly with fingers as soft as they were powerful.

Not that she needed to apply any force, of course. It's a wonder I had enough left in me to keep from falling into a heap. My entire body felt numb with shock.
The smile never once disappearing from her face, she dragged down my palm, letting the fingertips pass gently over her nose and her lip before bringing it to her mouth, and planting a short, burning kiss upon it.

"What –"

Her grip tightened. Once again, a kiss, longer this time.

"What are you doing?"

Almost like a wink, a single, tired eye opened in all its awesome, emerald glory, shining with a familiar madness.

"Wondering about all sorts of things."

"Emma, l – listen to yourself. You're half asleep, j – just go back to –"

Emma pushed herself up against the surface of the couch with her other arm and grabbed me with her other hand, her face once again looming lightly above my own – but not a centimeter further.

"I don't want to. You'd go away, would you not?"

A cold heap slip down my throat. "I'll stay if you wish."

"Then stay with me. I did enough sleeping on the floor already."

"Emma, this isn't funny at all, you're – "

"Do I look like I'm joking?" she answered, planting another short peck on my wrist, her lips hot and moist against the stale air.

"This isn't like you, Emma. You're not feeling well, you need to calm down."

Her face twisted with something almost akin to a sour anger. "You don't know what I'm like. I barely know what I'm like."

Her voice trembled. "I'm sick, Friedrich. You said so yourself, and you were right. I kept telling myself that I wasn't, but I am. I'm sick, and you're sick, and everything is so sickening, just thinking about it scares me."

I wanted to speak, but my tongue hung limply at the bottom of my mouth. My body shook violently with each might beat of my heart.

The more I came to know Emma, the more I came to think that I can hope to understand her, the less attracted to her I should've been. It went against all reason for me to be – even if at first I've been enchanted like so many others by her sheer beauty and that insane charm of hers, then surely something should've changed once I've had even a glimpse of what lay beneath her skin? That mad hunger which came to occupy the space in my dreams left empty by her former, idealized image.

With every additional layer painfully peeled, little more than greater and darker depths of wretchedness and anger were exposed in Emma. Such that even she herself may not have been aware of at first – such that must have disgusted her as much as they did me.

My adoration for her should've been exchanged for pity or fear or a simple disinterest, but never did. It only seemed to grow stronger, fuller, more overwhelming. And myself, blind to the irony of it for so long, still persisted in attempting to deny it the whole time.

It didn't matter that she was pitiful, or dangerous. It didn't matter that I promised to myself time and again that all I wanted was for her to be happy.
In the end, all I really wanted was her. I didn't care that it would destroy her, or me, or the both of us.

I was as obsessed with her as she was addicted to whatever it was that she constantly sought in others – comfort, security, pleasure – and just as clueless as she was as for the particularities of it.
"On the day we first spoke together", she whispered, not even appearing to mind that fact that for all who might have been around I must have looked as struck as she did a few hours earlier, "you stopped me from going any further."

Her next kiss had landed nearly on my elbow, bringing my body yet closer to her own, more passionate then before. "Why did you stop me?"

I never answered that question. If she'd even intended to wait for one, Emma's patience must have ran out long before I could think of it – and the very fact that I seemed to have had to would've been more telling than any I could've managed.

Her shoulders dropped. The spark in her eyes died out.

For the third time in my life, Emma has raised her arms to wrap them around my back and shoulders, awkwardly forcing me into her embrace.

Her voice shuddered, her throat and chest pressing against my own so that I could feel the vibrations travelling down my skeleton.

"You keep saying that, don't you? That this isn't what you want. That this isn't what we want. So please, please, say it again."

Her eyes were nearly adjacent to my own, fearful and empty.

"If you tell me that you don't want this", she said as she brought her lips closer to my own, "I'll stop."

Perhaps I should've spoken. Perhaps I even wanted to. Was about to.

But I didn't.

My muscles tensed in expectation for a pain which a part of me had almost felt deserving of – but rather, maybe far more cruelly, her kiss had been almost horrifically tender. There was a thirst expressed in the way her soft lips covered mine, sucking and suckling, which was far more savage than any bite would've been.

I felt like a man who's spent a year writing down a heartfelt suicide note, only to find out, to his detached astonishment, that as much as he tried he couldn't bring himself to tears while standing on that rooftop. In a single moment, the sum of my dreams and fears and expectations and all the wisdom I've missed upon has been realized – literally made reality, as if by magic – and I could feel nothing of it.
By then and since I've spent so many hours, so many days, so many moments that seemed to go on forever in my mind mulling over and pondering every facet and aspect of the fantasy which I've finally come to face. It would've been – should've, for all I could say – a moment of peace the likes of which I've never before felt.

But all I could seem to recognize when it come was the smell of her face, and the taste of her saliva, and the nigh-unfelt pulse of her blood running behind her lips.
"Tell me that you don't want this," she repeated once more as we parted. "Tell me to stop".

Was she truly begging for me to go away, or attempting to taunt me into coming closer?

I was breathing as if through a deep smoke. My chest moved and my lungs expanded and contracted, but no oxygen seemed to pass into my bloodstream. I've crossed over the final edge of panicking, and to a strange singularity state of fatalistic carelessness.

"Emma, s –", I started, but my throat felt too heavy to let out the rest of the word.

Her hands moved away from my neck, never breaking contact with skin, downwards by my shoulders and arms and back to my wrists, pulling me closer in – to her, guiding them like a young girl would those of a doll, downwards and down.

"Tell me to stop", she said, as she gently forced my fingers around the rim of her shirt, "just say it."

Her eyes closed in paradoxical resignation, as if it had really been my will to go through with it, that she was so desperately trying to resist. A moan too deep to be real in mind escaped her lips as her hands – as my hands, pulled up on it, as her own arms and shoulders flowed with the motion, as the receding fabric revealed centimeter after centimeter of her bare skin like a curtain lifting from over a priceless exhibit, far too perfect to appear truly real.

The top of her wide hips and the bottom of her abdomen making way with torturous leisure for her stomach, pale and plump and oddly muscled, and a small navel that seemed almost out of place against such a lewd image. Revealing her calves, and her armpits, and the supple fullness of her breasts, straining heavily the pearl-white and translucent flower patterns of her bra.
"Tell me that you want me to stop", she begged once again as she set her shirt aside in a rumpled heap and invited me to lean even closer to her, to have my fill, to partake of a bounty, to claim and possess. Encouraging me to grab and feel and knead, to pinch, to understand. Beckoning to lick, taste, consume.

"I want to s–", I tried once again, but once more her kiss stopped the words dead in their track.

Was it her fingers moving, or mine, when the clasp of her bra was released with a tiny, metallic ting?

Her or mine, when they passed experimentally over the fat flesh beneath, dancing lightly around the dark, bumpy patches of her areolas, rubbing against the sides of her nipples, stiff and warm? When they pressed them against my own still clothed chest with an eager grunt? Was it her voice that seemed to fade and blur away, degenerating into something bestial and unwholesome, or mine?
Her hip or mine that moved closer and deeper, wiggling achingly against that of the other? Her hardness, or mine? Her madness, or mine?

I felt like a swimmer reaching for the water's surface, for dear air. But I just couldn't make it.

"I want you to s…" I began, for the final time, but this time, couldn't even make it through myself.
Last edited by Gloom on Thu Oct 17, 2013 3:56 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Reason: More editing. I really shouldn't post those things at 12 AM should I
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby sky » Wed Oct 16, 2013 11:11 pm

It's here! IT'S HERE!

I see you chose to run away from the h-scene. Well, no harm done. You danced around it in a fairly acceptable manner.

And one other thing: I'm sorry about the quality of those chapters decreasing each time - and whatever you say, I know that it is.


Cut the crap. The last few parts are better written than the first few. And even if you feel like what you're writing isn't as good as the last one, just don't worry about it. You can't keep beating your own creations forever, man. They're not always going to be better than the last one, that's just how creating things works. You just need to make sure your audience likes it.

I liked it.
"I'm twice the man Erik is." - Lena Forst
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby scopedknife » Thu Oct 17, 2013 3:50 pm

sky wrote:
And one other thing: I'm sorry about the quality of those chapters decreasing each time - and whatever you say, I know that it is.


Cut the crap.


This.

As always, you attain an impressive level of excellence. There were a few syntactical stumbles, but the actual content was brilliant. And also genuinely somewhat visceral and sensual.

Yet again, good job my friend.
<alabaster> I don't like it that big.

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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby jarek56 » Sat Oct 19, 2013 11:46 pm

scopedknife wrote:
sky wrote:
And one other thing: I'm sorry about the quality of those chapters decreasing each time - and whatever you say, I know that it is.


Cut the crap.


This.

As always, you attain an impressive level of excellence. There were a few syntactical stumbles, but the actual content was brilliant. And also genuinely somewhat visceral and sensual.

Yet again, good job my friend.

What else is there to say? Seriously, Gloom. Stop mocking and bashing yourself.

This is something you don't care as much about about, or is less important. Rightfully so.

I'm almost scared to see your true skill.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Waytfm » Sun Oct 20, 2013 6:18 pm

jarek56 wrote:I'm almost scared to see your true skill.


Humbly requesting fanart of Gloom's final form.
Over the wintry
forest, winds howl in rage
with no leaves to blow.
-Soseki

My Fanfics:
Absolut Schöne Will be updated (fairly) regularly(Lies)
Broken Glass Currently on Hiatus.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Likhos » Sun Oct 20, 2013 9:56 pm

Waytfm wrote:
jarek56 wrote:I'm almost scared to see your true skill.


Humbly requesting fanart of Gloom's final form.

Little disclaimer: if it looks like Eden's final form you can keep it to yourself.

Edit: finally finished reading, took me long enough.
well that might turn their relationship into nothing.
But heh, I cannot confirm.
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Re: Heart's Desire

Postby Gloom » Mon Oct 21, 2013 3:41 am

well that might turn their relationship into nothing.


Do you mean that in a good way or a bad one?
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