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From the darkness I see the light in you

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Sharon likes the dark. It comforts her and darkness usually means solitude and quietness. Sometimes she thinks that’s all she needs: silence, a world of black and white.

Then she meets Tarja.




Her new roommate was seldom in their dorm.

There were posters of rock bands that Sharon didn’t recognize already pasted on Tarja’s wall. Things that scattered around her niche was mostly in black. Black shelves, black notebooks, black socks, black leather jacket, black lipstick, black nail polish. Sharon was thrilled upon that sight at first—finally, someone who likes the same color like I do—but disheartened when the younger girl marched into their room, a cigarette dangling from her dark red lips. The odor eventually became a perpetual smell of their shared space.

Seeing Tarja for the first time left a bitter aftertaste in Sharon’s mouth. The girl was a goth. And that meant they probably could never, ever be friends. Although since two years ago when entering college, Sharon was officially a pagan and liability to her Christian-loyal family, some of her beliefs were still outdated.

If there’s one thing I know, is that girls can like girls just the way boys like girls.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Tarja questioned roughly, but her voice was softer than Sharon anticipated. The older girl flushed, shaking her head. Tarja was wearing a little too much mascara and eyeliner for her age, but Sharon decided she would be ok with it.

“I’m sorry, I guess I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is—”

“I know who you are.” Tarja cut her off. Sharon closed her mouth in a deeper shade of red. Throwing a casual glance at the older girl, Tarja sighed irritably and continued with a gentler tone, “Call me T. How do I call you? Just Sharon?”

“Yeah.” Sharon answered dumbly, heart beating fast. She didn’t know what to say, nor where to place her hands in front of strangers. “Yeah, you could call me that.”


Ending their conversation with a full-body shrug, Tarja started to shove and bang her own things around (Sharon guesses it is her way of organizing?). Sharon soon resumed her reading. Robert Frost was not her favorite poet, but she loved nothing gold can stay too much.

“Try Paulo Coelho.” Sharon jumped when Tarja suddenly spoke from behind, invading the older girl’s personal space. Tarja seemed unapologetic, “His poems are seriously underrated.”

Sharon was overwhelmed with a rush of warmth. Tarja’s breath scraped against her ear, and she smelled like those heady perfumes that you aren’t supposed to wear until you go to nightclubs. But Sharon liked it. It felt dangerous.

“Oh sure.” Sharon kept her voice even, not daring to turn around, “Will do.”

Tarja whirled away, boots scuffling against the hard floor, and Sharon frowned at the noises. Before she could ask Tarja where she was going or when she would be back, her new roommate was gone with a brutal “bang” of the door.

Inhaling the lingering perfume and cheap smoke, Sharon got up to open the windows. Her gaze trailed from the view of their window—trees, the dirty-gray exterior of the campus’ walls, more trees, anonymous passersby with headphones—back to their dorm’s plain wooden floor. Maybe they would want a rug.


And that went their first impressions of each other: Tarja, an emo girl who probably chain-smokes and has dozens of underground lovers; Sharon, a goody-two-shoes who seems distant and condescending to someone like Tarja.

Boy are things going to be different for them, because impressions are overrated. Most important of all, it’s college, baby.




Sharon wears her favorite baby-blue dress, and a thin leather belt to showcase her waistline. The whole outfit is sleeveless with a v-shaped collar, low enough to mean business.

It’s no big business though. She’s only going to see Tarja perform tonight.

The lipstick Sharon wears for this rare occasion is probably all gone, because on her way to the club she has been biting and chewing her lip. Laugh all you want, but she’s willing to say that she’s too nervous to be walking in the dark, littered alleyways past 9 o’clock, alone. She didn’t tell Robert about this trek, because he would get angry then he wouldn’t let her come. Most of the time Rob has been a very good friend; he’s just too possessive.

Or that’s what she’s been telling herself.

She gives the doorkeeper Tarja’s name, and he let her through. As Sharon walked further into the loudness, her sandals suddenly too big for her feet, and she could feel the guard’s gaze trailing and piercing her back.

Until she sees Tarja.

The first word that jumps into Sharon’s head is Valkyrie. Tarja looks like a goddess of war and death in a tight leather dress, stockings and long heeled boots, black from head to toe. Her weapon is the microphone, which she clutches in her long, rings-adorned fingers, and she is now caressing it with her red, red lips, as she sways her curvaceous body with the beats. Lost in the music, Tarja’s expression is pure bliss.

The second word that comes into Sharon is vampire. Under the beams of stage light, Tarja’s skin glows in an inhumanly-pale hue, and it brings Sharon’s attention to the singer’s long black hair that’s blocking half of her face, bringing a dark, mysterious ambiance to the humming crowd. She feels Tarja’s charm affecting her band’s audience. Sharon is standing at the back of the small crowd, and she can see how people can hardly ignore the singer’s presence.

Sharon orders a ginger ale and stands in the corner of the club, sipping distractedly because she is transfixed by Tarja. After the fourth song, Sharon’s heart nearly stops because she swears that the younger girl has seen her. Their gazes meet midair, and Tarja freezes a little. Or maybe it’s all Sharon’s imagination because Tarja doesn’t mess up with the lyrics, and carries on as if Sharon is nothing but a ghost.

And maybe Sharon is ok with that.

She swings a little with Tarja’s sweet, melancholic voice, bangs her head a little with the heavy rhythm, and forgets a little that she’s an outsider. Again.




She loses count of how many songs go by. Coming out of a trance, she claps with the rest of the room but doesn’t cheer. A faint smile climbs up Sharon’s face as Tarja bows with her crew onstage. And she knows that Tarja sees her again, this time deliberate, shooting a gaze at her direction. It’s like a bucket of ice pouring over Sharon, making her skin prickle and no longer capable to hold their eye contact.

It’s all the final exams’ fault. The pressure is screwing with Sharon's head because there’s no fucking way that she’s fallen in love with her college friend, only three months after they met. It’s just a girl crush, another phase that Sharon is dealing with. Maybe liking girls is a phase, too.

Then a memory knocks her out of her pitiful self-denial. Sharon suddenly feels the room is closing up on her. She pushes against the crowd numbly, enters the bathroom, and stares at the yellowish, cigarette-stained sink. She shuts her eyes and permits herself a moment of silence.


It was a month or so after Tarja became her roommate.




“You are such a bookworm.”

Tarja husked. She had been nursing a whiskey bottle since she came back from her band rehearsal, and Sharon could feel her eyes on her constantly. Instead of thinking, just leave me alone, the attention left Sharon’s body tingling with anticipation. The book in her hand was suddenly meaningless: how Sharon felt whenever Tarja was around, won over everything that she had ever read.

Sharon huffed at Tarja and snapped her book close. She was not paying attention to it anyway. She turned around and found Tarja barefaced, wearing nothing but a black, oversized Pink Floyd t-shirt. With one leg tugged comfortably under, Tarja dangled the other leg. The nails of her toes were painted black, and so were her fingernails. Her porcelain skin reflected the moonlight, and her eyes were misty-black instead of green. Sharon tugged all those observations in the darkest corner of her head.

“And you are alcoholic.”

Sharon shot back, semi self-conscious as she locked eyes with Tarja. She raked her hair away from her face, while the younger girl stared with a knowing glint in her eyes. Maybe she is drunk, Sharon thought upon noticing the pink on Tarja’s cheeks. Tarja wrapped her luscious lips around the bottle, movements sluggish and unhurried, and took another sip of the beverage. It reminded Sharon something that she was not supposed to think about; despite her mind had fogged up with Tarja’s suggestive image, she was still sane enough to know a good person shouldn’t take advantage of a drunk girl.

“Are you ok?” Sharon asked with a softer tone, perching herself up in her seat and hugging her feet, “You barely said a thing after you came back, and…it actually freaks me out, how quiet you are.”

“I’m that noisy to you, huh?” Tarja teased, uncertainty flashing by her face, “But I remember someone told me she likes the silence. And the dark.”

Sharon blushed and looked away. It was a miracle that they became some sort of “friends”—the kind that knew how to push your buttons and rile you up. Yeah, Tarja was moody and eccentric, but Sharon liked her for her honesty and unpredictability, especially those weird, good feelings…god. Sharon loved the times when Tarja was near, and when she touched her. Sharon wasn’t a very tactile person, and the skin-to-skin contact with Tarja just drove her nuts. She kept telling herself that it was the hormones doing the trick.

“Whatcha readin’?”

Uh oh, Tarja’s voice was dangerously slurred. The last time it happened, she forced Sharon to make a room for her to lay down beside her on her bed, then without Sharon’s consent, she curled herself up with a hot hand draping across Sharon’s waist, falling asleep.

Sharon hardly slept that night. And when she did, she fell into slumber with a stupid smile on her face.

Now, Tarja struggled a bit to get up, not giving up the whiskey bottle as she walked towards Sharon. Sharon widened her eyes and whirled around, no longer facing Tarja as if she was afraid of the younger girl.

“Oooh, The Alchemist.” Tarja drawled. She knew Tarja’s breath was going to fell on her neck, so she knew that goosebumps weren’t unavoidable. The nape of Sharon’s neck prickled as Tarja’s hair brushed over. “You really read something that I recommended.”

“I was gonna read this no matter if you told me to.”

Covering up her nervousness, Sharon sassed. Tarja chuckled darkly, backed away and leaned onto Sharon’s wardrobe, so she could take a good look at her senior. She put her hands across her chest, and that was a fatal move for Sharon—she could see that Tarja was not wearing any bra.

“You are a bookworm. The pretty kind.” Sharon blinked, lips slightly parted. Tarja continued with a lower voice, “You look real nice with glasses.”

“I know.”

Sharon deadpanned, her heart thumping like a drum. Wanting to show some kind of defiance, she took off her glasses, and rubbed around the bridge of her nose. She had been studying before reading something for amusement.

Brows arched, Tarja raised her bottle and dangled it in front of Sharon’s face. The brunet shook her head resolutely, but upon seeing the younger woman’s doey-eyes, she took the bottle. She sipped, hiding the surprise that it really burned, and swallowed.

“Oh c’mon. It’s good shit. Try some more.”

Tarja smirked, uncrossed her arms and came nearer, slanting against Sharon’s desk. Sharon could feel the raven-haired girl’s heat thrumming off of her smaller body. She took another sip, hoping that the alcohol would wash away her unrequited feelings.

“That’s a good girl.”

Tarja purred. Sharon almost choked on the drink. She searched Tarja’s eyes to see if she was messing with her, but she saw something entirely different: confusion, and reckless need.

“T, what really happened today?”

Tarja scowled.

“Why the fuck do you always wanna act like you’re my big sister or somethin’?”

Sharon winced as Tarja snatched the bottle away from her hand. The spirit spilled out a little. Sharon lowered her head while Tarja went back to her dark corner.

Sharon, on the brink of tearing up, suddenly realized that darkness is different from black. She loved black because it was the color that absorbed all the other colors, but she liked the darkness simply because it was violent and romantic.

Just like Tarja.

Sharon paused her breathing for a second. She threw a careful glance at the younger woman. A cigarette in her mouth, Tarja was searching for something. A lighter, perhaps. Sharon got up and walked towards her. Tarja tensed, shooting a stare that was more surprised more than annoyed.

Sharon took the whiskey bottle, raised it to her lips, and finished it in one swig.

“Now you can tell me what happened today ‘cause I’d be too drunk to remember.”

Woozy and warm, Sharon flashed a lazy smile at the dumbfounded girl. Tarja laughed hysterically, like she couldn’t control the air gushing out her lungs, then burst into tears.

She didn’t tell her exactly what happened, only that it had something to do with Tuomas, something to do with the bruises on her body.

Maybe Sharon was really too drunk to remember.

And this time, Sharon fell asleep next to Tarja on her bed.




“You came.”


Sharon’s head snaps towards the direction of the familiar voice. It’s Tarja. Realizing that she’s left the faucet running, Sharon hurries to twist it close, so she would have something to do instead of looking at Tarja.

“Your boyfriend didn’t come with you?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that Rob is not my boyfriend?” Sharon stares at the nonchalant mask on Tarja’s face. Tarja is holding some clothes to change her stage attire. “And no. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Why? You ashamed or something?” Tarja sneers, showing too much teeth under the white fluorescent light. She begins to turn away from Sharon, “Or is it about me again? How typical.”

“Not everything is about you.”

Sharon barks, her body pivoting forward but her mind makes her stop. Tarja catches Sharon’s message in the abrupt movement: more frustration than anger. A red-hot wire barbing deep within, an animal inside of Sharon growls; she represses it with her unspeakable desires whenever she thinks about Tarja.

“Oh yeah? Are you saying that I am the selfish one?” Tarja speaks coolly, flipping her long hair away from her face, “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Fuck you.”

The words Sharon had never spoken to another human being, tumble out of her mouth; her head now blanks with rage, and that rage is just the simplest interpretation of what Sharon could understand from their situation—Robert and her, her and Tarja, Tarja and Tuomas.

It’s so much easier to just hate.

Tarja pauses. If she was surprised at Sharon’s crude outburst, then she sure as hell hides it well. Sharon’s breath is labored, eyes wide like she cannot believe what she’s said to the younger woman. Tarja drums her fingernails on the hard surface, each hollow echo boiling Sharon’s blood. In slow motion, the younger woman connects their gaze, her lips angling upwards into a cruel, satisfied smirk.

“You wish.”

The “snap” of reason is audible in Sharon’s ears. Before she knows what’s not supposed to do, she does the exact opposite: lunging at Tarja’s direction and trapping the younger woman against the stall. Tarja grunts when the back of her head made a painful hit. Sharon is aware of the sounds, but all of that is not being registered; she is in a thick fog and all she can feel is Tarja against her—hot, bitter, stunned and gorgeous.

Tarja writhes like she has just remembered it’s the right thing to do, but Sharon is stronger. She pins both of Tarja’s hand down forcefully, creating another sinister “thud” in the club’s bathroom. The clothes fall from Tarja’s clutch. The noises outside are lost frequencies.

“What are you gonna do, huh?” Tarja’s voice is unsteady but clear. Sharon tastes her breath. Tarja smells like beer, and it intoxicates her. Tarja swallows with a “click”, “What are you going to do? Punch me?”

“No, I guess Tuomas already beat me to that.”

Tarja’s eyes narrow, and she throws Sharon off with an aggressive struggle. Sharon hears a “slap” before she turns her head slowly towards Tarja’s direction, disoriented. Seeing the disbelief and confusion, Sharon instinctively wants to say Tarja’s what’s wrong, why do you look so pale, are you still angry at me, please forget me. But then the pain shooting from the left side of her cheek made Sharon realize Tarja has struck her across the face.

“Oh god, Sharon I—”

The older woman pries herself away from Tarja’s gravity, and flees.




Every drop of the cold rain that hits her skin, forces her to recall what Tarja had told her about her boyfriend. How Tarja and Tuo become a pair, how they started Nightwish; how the sex has gone from superb to appalling, how everything goes from great to shit to never enough.

How he started to hit her. How she just can’t leave. How Sharon still keeps Rob so close because she can’t bear to be alone if Tarja, one day, was going to leave her, and if she can’t have Tarja at all……

When an engine roars louder than the Lana del Ray that Sharon is humming—a morbid but comforting act—the only thing she’s happy about is that in the rain, no one will know you are crying.

The engine dies abruptly, with the eruption of someone calling for Sharon.

“Shar! What the fuck!” Turning around, Sharon wipes away the water from her forehead and brows. Tarja has changed into a pair of jeans and a black top (which Sharon can’t tell if it’s a tank or a t-shirt in the dark), her leather jacket is wet along with every piece of clothing, all clinging onto her petite frame. Tarja doesn’t seem to know what to as she jumps off her bike, stomping towards Sharon, “Are you nuts?”

Or maybe you can tell that someone is crying in the rain, because their wordless stare lasts no more than three seconds, before Tarja leans in to hug Sharon’s soaking body into her arms. Without heels Tarja feels smaller, Sharon thinks after she reclaims her breath. And maybe she’s not breathing, never alive whenever Tarja isn’t around.

“You’re crazy yourself to come after me.”


Tarja mumbles as she tightens her grip, shaking, and Sharon chuckles with her heart breaking a little, hearing the distinctive tremor in Tarja’s voice. Way to go Sharon, now two people are crying in the rain.

“I already broke up with him, weeks ago you know that?” Sharon’s heart starts to pound ridiculously loud in their embrace, and Tarja continues, voice raw and low, “And you know what I said back there, about Rob, was just to spite you because I just can’t bear—” Tarja sobs breathlessly midsentence; Sharon is too busy at rubbing Tarja’s back and processing the shocking information to say anything, “I just can’t take the fact, I’m too mad because it’s so unfair that you can’t see what I’ve done for you! Fuck, ‘cause I’ve never ever felt this way for someone.” Out of breath, Tarja gulps, “I have never loved someone the way I love you, Sharon.”

Sharon is tongue-tied, the good kind of shock. It leaves a strange, coppery flavor in Sharon’s mouth, and she realizes she’s been biting the inside of her cheek too hard to muffle her cry, that it’s bleeding.

“Jesus, Sharon. Say something!”

Tarja breaks away and looked into Sharon’s eyes, frantic, her chest heaving after her emotional outbreak. Tarja’s green eyes are shadowy and desperate, her hair damp and dripping and sticking onto her face. She looks no more than a lost girl, no more than Sharon herself.

Sharon reaches out for Tarja’s cheek. Her hands are shaky until she touches the moist, smooth surface, and it’s like magic or how else can you explain the feeling, the pain and ecstasy Sharon is harboring right now in her chest, that is about to burst?

“I love you too, you dumbass.” Sharon croaks, but it’s fine when she can close the distance between them, cradle Tarja’s delicate face in her palms, then say thickly, “I have loved you before you taught me how to love myself. Although I’m still terrible at it, I still want to, because of you. You have changed me and transformed me, in a way I never expected.” Sharon licks away the raindrop from her lips, timid but unwavering. Tarja watches acutely, “I thought I can be fine alone in the dark. I thought silence is all I need. But you showed me the music and the colors, Tarja.” Sharon smiles, so bright and unplanned that Tarja blinks, “You are my darkness and my light. You are…you’re my color black.”

“And black is the color that has all the other colors.”

Tarja announces, no more than a whisper. Sharon nods and tugs a strand of hair behind Tarja’s ear, tender and slow. She notices now the younger girl is elf-like and celestial, with the rain continues to sprinkle from above. Tarja’s looks like she’s just survived the genesis and apocalypse, her profile silhouetted by awe and recognition, aging her face impossibly old.

Tarja looks away, for the first time Sharon has known her.

The younger girl seldom shows vulnerability, not until Sharon’s pushes turn into shoves, until she melts away the cold spikes Tarja has built around her heart. And now, finding Tarja not meeting her gaze, Sharon thinks that maybe she’s gone too far; maybe she’s destroyed Tarja’s guard with fervent warmth, but the fire has gone out of her control, burning them both this time.

But the wide, toothy grin that suddenly blossoms on Tarja’s face, makes Sharon doubt whether the statuesque, lost expression is ever there in the first place. The younger girl’s smile is infectious. Before Sharon knows it, she’s leaning in until their foreheads touch and giggling with relief. Tarja chuckles soundlessly, the nervousness ebbing away as her hand found Sharon’s forearm. She is her anchor.

“We should go back…”

“Instead of standing in the rain like we’re in some cheap soap opera.”

Tarja finishes Sharon’s sentence with her trademark deadpan. This time, Sharon just gazes at her with a smile.




The metallic clatters are loud, sounding echoes down the entire sleeping dormitory. Tarja’s hands are shaking when she fishes out the keys to their room, and Sharon doesn’t think it’s because of the cold, nor that her hands get tired because of gripping the bike’s throttle too long. It’s only a five-minute ride, for god’s sake.

They didn’t talk much over the ride. Now they are suffering the consequences of minimum words, and maximum observations. Sharon feels something spikes from her abdomen when the door finally creaks open.

Entering the smaller space, Tarja marches towards the heater with four long strides, switches it on with precision, and flings her things down on the carpeted floor. The “thumps” sound abnormally loud in their ears. Sharon watches, as Tarja continues to stare at her side of the window, shoulders frigid, her sleek hair dripping rain on the floor. The sight of Tarja’s lonely frame spurs a wave of boldness in Sharon’s body, making her remember the times when she denies herself from having people’s companies, just because she thinks she’s not worth it. Tarja makes her worthy. Tarja has taught her to think more of herself, and that gratitude and admiration turn out to be something more.

Sharon muses, peeling off the leather jacket that Tarja forces her to wear on the ride, and her belt, her dress, then her bra and underwear. As each drenched clothing is removed, Sharon feels freer.

Wet foot padding and drying on the floor, Sharon advances to hang the leather jacket on the back of Tarja’s chair. The younger girl doesn’t waver, even if she’s seen Sharon’s degree of nakedness from the corner of her eye.

“Time for me to be the big sis again. You’re going to catch a cold if you didn’t take these off.”

Sharon mutters. In a million years, she never dreams she has the courage to walk directly behind Tarja, touching the small of her back with want and confidence. Tarja turns out to be wearing a black t-shirt beneath her jacket. Sharon can see the outline of her bra before she sneaks her hands below the fabric, grazing her hands along Tarja’s slender waist and grabbing the hem of her shirt. Tarja’s skin is cooler than hers. And maybe it’s because Sharon is burning with a need, the need she has been ignoring for years.

“You are doing a lame attempt at talking dirty to me.”

Tarja grouses, but raises her hands up so her top can come off. Sharon piles it onto the jacket, smirking as if she can’t believe her good luck.

“Oh yeah?” The heat running off of Tarja feels hypnotizing. Sharon tells herself to slow down, getting the last piece of clothing off of Tarja’s upper body. Gathering the rivulets of damp hair and brushing it away towards Tarja’s chest, the feminine back presented in her view is alabaster and white as chalk, shimmering under the moonlight. Sharon closes their gap. When her breasts are pressed against Tarja, the younger girl lets out a muffled exclamation. The sound spirals a surge of arousal in Sharon’s lower abdomen, and she swallows, nipples hardening against somewhere upon Tarja’s shoulder blades, “What makes you think that any of this is sexual?”

The girl facing the window doesn’t answer, her breathings turning erratic when a pair of hands climbs down from her stomach, to the button of her jeans.

“Coming from someone who’s now trying to get in my pants.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to get into your pants.” Sharon whispers next to Tarja’s ear, and it prompts the younger girl to angle her head, baring her neck, the invitation loud and clear. Sharon pops open a button, lands a peck on the elongation of Tarja’s neck, and unfastens the zipper with her deft fingers. The sounds of the zip coming undone are provocative, but not more intense than what Sharon’s implying, “I’m just trying to get your pants off.”


With that, Tarja turns around. Like the shooting star finally clashing with the earth, their eyes bore into each other in an inevitable force. For over five seconds, the charged air is filled with nothingness, heartbeats, shallow breaths, and hungry stares.

“Kiss me.”

The request is harsh, contradicting everything Sharon stands for. She doesn’t fucking know what to do, and all the things she holds on for comfort is gone this instant, when she’s completely open, in front of the one she loves.

But there is Tarja to be her haven. When she inches closer, one hand on Sharon’s shoulder, another gentle upon her collarbone, Sharon closes her eyes blissfully for their first kiss. But it doesn’t go as planned. It never does. Tarja leaves the softest kiss upon her cheekbone. And another on her jawline. Then another on the center of her forehead. In between kisses, Sharon gradually eases out the breath she’s holding.

“I love your freckles.” Tarja murmurs, pecking Sharon at the corner of her lips. Sharon smiles lopsidedly, her round shoulders relaxing into her usual pose, “They’re so cute.”

“Jesus, you know I hate them.”

Sharon exhales, melting further into Tarja’s warmth. She doesn’t know she is this nervous. The younger girl backs away, only to caress the dimple and the curve of Sharon’s mouth, memorizing the beauty with her touch.

“You are perfect, Sharon Janny. Don’t you forget that.” The serious undertone captures Sharon deeper into Tarja’s lime-green eyes. She’s the only person to call her that, and when she does, it’s usually layered with something grave, or something Sharon hasn’t been able to understand. Tarja sighs noiselessly, “Maybe someday you will see how you are too good…too good for someone like me.”

“I’ve seen your darkness, T, I know there’s no way you can be free from it.” Tarja’s gaze hardens into a poignant look, but Sharon continues, “And I know there’s no fucking way you can be who you are, without the dark. You are a godsend to me.”

Tarja doesn’t reply. Sharon is not giving up. She ventures forward and presses her lips onto Tarja’s.

They are incredibly soft, more delicate than rose petals, and for a moment Sharon is too lost in the heavenly sensation to know, that Tarja is not responding. Sharon draws away dizzily, panic and arousal making her nauseous. Her hands are clenched into fists, then widening into surprised-open-palms when Tarja’s lashes flutter before opening her eyes. Her pupils are dilated. And that’s the farthest Sharon can tell before Tarja kisses her back.

Their teeth knock brusquely, but with adjustment they mold into one another like they are always meant to be: warm, wet, tongues and lips chasing in an eternal dance. For a while, Sharon doesn’t know how it begins or where it’s going to end, only that Tarja tastes so much better than Marlboro or cheap liquor or anything else in Sharon’s fantasy. Blood is being pounded into her head, pumping and pumping even if she’s nearly out of breath. A separation is a must, but after a brief pause, their mouths are on each other’s again, this time less pure, more urgent.

“Please…Tarja, I want…”

Sharon doesn’t know how to articulate it, not when Tarja’s smoky-greens are filled with innuendos and promises, her face focused like Sharon is some kind of lost treasure to her. It’s a miracle that Sharon can even function right now, when her limbs turn light as feathers with her head heavy in wanton.

“What do you need?” Tarja coaxes, her voice raspy as she takes Sharon’s hand, guiding her towards her bed. When the younger girl sits down at the edge, Sharon realizes she is inviting her to sit on her lap. She complies, the movements shooting sparks of awareness—she’s awfully wet. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

“God yes.”

Sharon chokes when Tarja pulls her even closer, planting open-mouth kisses down her neck while Sharon curves away her head, welcoming everything Tarja is giving her. Her skin is hypersensitive, so when a suck comes amid Tarja’s nipping, Sharon whimpers, bucking her hip forward. Distantly, she knows that she’s searching blindly for friction, and it’s an implication Tarja doesn’t miss. A readied hand on Sharon’s waist, Tarja seems hungrier when her mouth encloses on Sharon’s nipple, swirling her tongue on the areola, and sucks. Sharon hisses as pleasure explodes behind her lids. Her body arches for Tarja, only for Tarja, to place more touches on her.

“Do you want me to touch you?” The words reach Sharon’s ear, but she forgets to respond when Tarja shifts, and Sharon follows her then the next thing she knows, she’s lying on her back, her nipples erect with the need to be touched. Tarja takes off her boots and socks, then her jeans and underwear are discarded on the floor. Sharon stares, blatantly, at Tarja’s creamy form. The naked sight of her makes Sharon’s mouth thick with saliva. Tarja looks into her eyes calmly, before traveling a hand from the ankle, the shin, all the way to Sharon’s upper thigh, “Do you want me to touch you, baby girl?”

Sharon nods dumbly, spreading her legs with a gulp. She can feel she’s soaked, besides the pressure building between her thighs. Tarja’s expression is stoic as she drags a hand over Sharon’s wetness. The older girl moans, the agonizing pressure turning into an ache, then gapes when Tarja puts her arousal-coated finger into her mouth.

“You taste so sweet.” Sharon has never flushed so hard in her life. Tarja smirks faintly, and says the unthinkable, “You wanna know how I taste like?”

Sharon can’t say a damn thing when Tarja starts to maneuver, sneaking one leg under Sharon’s, another across her lower abdomen. Sharon gapes, realization dawns hard when Tarja’s hands finds her own wetness.

“Open your mouth.” Sharon takes in the glistened fingers, sucking the juices clean with wonder, not only for Tarja’s libido but also her own. Tarja is a salty flower with a rich tang; Sharon nibbles lightly at the tip of her finger, eliciting a hitched breath. “You are one naughty girl.” Tarja says, surprise and want coloring her voice thick, “You’re not as innocent as you look, are you?”

“Why don’t you find out yourself?”

Pushing herself up with her elbows, Sharon uses the support to grind forward, connecting herself with Tarja briefly. Tarja hisses with a blissful frown, cheeks flushed. Sharon can see the pulse on Tarja’s neck, and the view of the younger girl losing control is incredibly arousing. She makes Tarja this way. Sharon uses a hand to pull Tarja towards herself in one heated second, and grants a wish: cupping Tarja’s perky breast, and gives it an experimental squeeze. It feels perfect, too perfect in her hands; holding Tarja’s softness makes Sharon wild, and she’s just in time to catch Tarja biting the bottom of her lip, gazing back with a sheepish expression, like she’s begging Sharon for mercy.

Before Sharon can clarify all the pent up emotions being freed at that sight, she already has her mouth wrapped around the tip of Tarja’s bosom. Tarja mewled hotly, her body turning into a graceful arc. Sharon repeats the same method on the other one of Tarja’s sensitive tip, reducing the younger girl into a trembling mess.

“I thought, you’ve never been with a girl before.”

Tarja rasps. Sharon covers her breasts, rubbing the nubs gently but not without firmness.

“I don’t. Have you?” Tarja stays silent, not willing to voice out her desire nor wanting to admit the obvious. Sharon’s eyes widen and then crescent in glee and realization, “All those big talks…and I thought you are some kind of sex-veteran.”

“Shut up.”

Tarja growls, gyrating her hips forward, effectively wiping off the smirk on Sharon’s face. Now the older girl has her mouth in an “o” shape, her eyes shut with lust as their wetness rub against one another’s. Tarja, fascinated and ridiculously turned-on by how unruly Sharon becomes, doesn’t forget to keep her movements rhythmic as she grinds, humping her pussy onto Sharon’s. This isn’t rocket science.

The shame when upon hearing the wet, ungodly echoes, only fuels Sharon’s state of arousal. They are both so fucking wet. Sharon peeks at Tarja, and finds her face contorted and flushed, just like her own. It diminishes the last bit of anxiety in Sharon, and she levers her body to follow Tarja’s rhythm, surrendering herself into their desire and gyrates into the other girl. The movements send electric currents up their bodies; both of them cry out for the sudden pleasure, so intense that it seems to bind them as one—body to body, soul to soul.

“Where’d you learn to do this?”

Tarja asks with gritted teeth, now holding onto Sharon’s milky thigh for support. A drop of sweat (or is it residual rain?) fell from her concentrated brow, and Sharon is transfixed by it. She leans over, reaches for Tarja’s neck, and kisses the moisture of her pink face.

“I thought scissoring is universal knowledge.” Sharon purrs, satisfied by the surprise on Tarja’s face, “I ain’t no saint.”

“Oh really?” Tarja raises a brow, giving an extra hard grind, “Prove it, then.”

“Happy to.” Tarja’s air gets knocked out of her lungs when the older girl springs up from the bed, and pushes her down, reversing their positions. The predatory look on Sharon’s face is unfamiliar but oh-so-tantalizing. Talk about the turn of events. “I’ve thought about this.”

“Wow I’m so flattered.” Tarja breathes out the words, trying to regain dominance, but Sharon breaks away from their entanglement, efficiently climbing on top of Tarja, weighing her down by pinning her hands with her knees. “Am I always the bottom in your fantasies?”

“Hmmm. Let me think about it.” Sharon pretends to be deep in concentration, but her hands betray her thoughts as she casually thumbs Tarja’s nipples, until they turn pink and hyper-sensitive. The younger girl squeezes her eyes with pleasure, her hair half-dried and tousled. To see Sharon being this confident makes Tarja drunk with excitement. “Actually, I think you’ll be fit to be a top. But I don’t feel like being under your thumbs right now. I kinda want to…”

Sharon trails off, dragging her fingers down the valley of Tarja’s breasts. Tarja has a vague sense of where this is going, and it causes her to thwart her body upward.

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

Sharon chuckles and shifts, leaving her arousal on Tarja’s body while she licks the expanse of paleness, occasionally biting the tender skin she finds. Sharon looks like a girl who has found her favorite toy, treating Tarja’s body like she owns it. It infuriates and makes Tarja’s blood pound into the area where she really wants to be touched.

“Fuck, Sharon…”

Tarja whines when Sharon plants a hard nip somewhere near her labia, making the pulsing there almost unbearable. Sharon gently eases her legs apart, and licks her lips at the mess she’s caused. Tarja is positively dripping.

“You are so wet.” Sharon dives and Tarja doesn’t know she’s going down so fast, that she thrusts her hips upward at the exploding pleasure, brought by Sharon’s tongue. The coil in her belly is about to snap, and Sharon knows it. “So impatient.”

Tarja has lost her ability to talk right now. In the corner of her mind, she ponders if she could let out the muffled scream she is hiding. It might awaken their neighboring dorm. Sharon gazes at Tarja while she changes the pattern she’s been tracing on Tarja’s clitoris. God, she tastes so good and Sharon can practically feel Tarja’s heartbeat against her tongue. Tarja writhes, her jaw slackening with pleasure and she can’t stop pushing herself onto Sharon’s mouth. Tides of lust awash her whole being and all she can think about is Sharon, Sharon, don’t stop.

“Look at me.”

Sharon demands amongst placing slopping kisses on Tarja’s mound. Tarja opens her eyes and locks gaze with the older girl. The sight of Sharon eating her out is almost too much. The coil in her lower abdomen begins to loosen itself by winding impossibly higher, and higher still. Sharon can see it in Tarja’s eyes, and she redoubles her effort, alternating between sucks and twirls and flicks on the engorged little nub. Tarja is now all at her mercy.

“Sharon, I…I’m going to…”


Sharon growls, the vibration and the sudden replacement from tongue and lips to the palm of her hands, rubbing roughly and earnestly onto Tarja’s pussy, is all that the younger girl needs. Tarja screams out her release, body into an arc, the chords in her body snapping in throes with strikes of blissful lightning, exploding everywhere from the tip of her toes to every fiber of muscle in her body.

When she drifts down from the high, boneless after her orgasm, she’s almost complacent when Sharon places soft strokes of tongue to clean up her juices, she finally understands what is missing. The final ache that needs to be quenched.



The smile on Sharon’s face is petrified into a scared, excited look, and if you asked Tarja, she would say that submission looks good on Sharon. She rises slowly from her spot, cocking her head with childlike curiosity, and Sharon gets the message well that what Tarja has in mind, is far from something chaste. The malevolent glint in the greens takes a lustful voyage all over Sharon’s body. She shivers. Wiping Tarja’s juices with the back of her hand, she slowly gets up so she can look at Tarja levelly.

“Tarja? What are you—”

Tarja shuts her up with a forceful kiss, and drinks up the sweet eruption of protest. Oh yes, she has to get going with giving Sharon the orgasm of her lifetime. Sharon doesn’t put up a long fight, her body is still tingly with residual tension, and what Tarja is doing now is a perfect reminder, of how close she’s about to come when they were scissoring. Sharon flushes and berates herself for feeling sheepish now at conjuring that image.

Tarja’s hands are charged with magic, and she’s making good use of it now as she grabs ahold of Sharon, and coerces her to rotate. Sharon leans back on Tarja, head spinning.

“Tarja, what are you—oh!”

Tarja slaps her legs open, the red mark soon visible on Sharon’s pale thigh. Sharon’s feet curls with pleasure that’s drawn out by pain, her clit screaming for attention as the cool air hits her dampness. Tarja remains silent, and sinks her teeth down on Sharon’s smooth neck with precision. Sharon gives a hot hiss and throws her head back, and that hiss turns into a loud mewl when Tarja’s hand makes contact with her inner thighs, hard.

“Did I say you can move?” Tarja growls next to her ear, her hot breath ticklish and makes Sharon more eager. Oh god, maybe I’m really a masochist, Sharon thinks as she bites her lip, shaking her head carefully. Another slap that lands near her center makes her cry out with humiliation and arousal, “Answer the fucking question.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Sharon whines, and Tarja gives her several caresses as consolation. Sharon moans and spreads her legs further apart, “Please, please touch me.”

“You’re quite greedy, aren’t you?” Tarja’s hand lingers just inches beside Sharon’s wetness, and it’s excruciating when she deliberately delays Sharon’s pleasure, planting hot kisses near her ear and her shoulder, “You’re making yourself a slut.”

“I’m your slut. I’m yours.” Sharon is so far gone right now, that she’s willing to say anything in exchange for a release. Tarja hums in delight, rewarding Sharon with a tweak of her nipple, causing Sharon to writhe keenly, “Please make me come.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Tarja tugs Sharon’s clit in between her index and middle finger, causing Sharon’s hips to hurdle forward. The movement earns her another smack, this time directly on her drenched center. Sharon cries with a frown, “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

Sharon’s breath shallows as she waits, the sting transforming into arrows of ecstasy that is about to break the dam of her peak. Tarja, sensing that the older girl is trying her best to stay still, smirks with evil glee as she places one finger at the entrance of Sharon’s pussy, and a thumb at Sharon’s clit. Sharon muffles a groan at the intrusion—so tight—but welcomes all the sensations. She trusts Tarja implicitly. Tarja’s kiss falls onto her neck like small crusts of warm-snow, and she starts to move her hand, rubbing Sharon in unpredictable patterns while experimenting to finger her velvety warmth. Sharon’s body spasms into a bow, pleasure causing her vision to swim. Tarja palms one of her breasts as incentive and reassurance.

She comes unexpectedly with a yelp, and then a series of incoherent wails joining with curse words (who would’ve thought that Sharon’s a potty mouth?). The spark deep in Sharon ignites into a fire that consumes all of her; the intensity, the pain and the high forces her into a trip to nirvana, and when she comes back, she’s safely in Tarja’s arms, satiated and still panting with residual passion.

“Holy shit.”

That’s all Sharon can muster. Then she breaks into a fit of giggles, her limbs all straggly as she moves away from Tarja, and collapses beside her. Tarja smiles when Sharon pulls her down with her.

For a minute they just snuggle, nicely tugged into one another’s embrace, lids droopy yet minds still sharp with questions and resurging doubts. But when Tarja sneaks a hand down towards Sharon’s waist, savoring the warmth as she traces the curve of Sharon’s perfect body, Sharon speaks, her angelic voice quiet and raspy in the dark.

“Do you have class tomorrow morning?”

Tarja pauses her movements, and fixates her gaze into Sharon’s chocolate browns. She looks back with naiveté, but Tarja knows better. Sharon is up to no good.

“You know I can just call in sick, right?”

She says airily, her hands crawling lower towards Sharon’s hip, cradling the smooth skin there. Sharon shudders.

“Awww, don’t know you’re such a golden student. I thought most of the time you just skip ‘em.”

Sharon drones cheekily. Tarja sets her jaw and within a heartbeat, she’s mounted the older girl’s body.

Looking at Sharon’s shiny eyes, then her red lips still plush from their previous activities, Tarja deflates, breaking character of an evil seductress, a small grin making way up to her lips while shaking her head.

“What kind of sex-craved-monster have I let out?”

“You free it, you feed it.” Sharon says jocularly, but her tone quiets down when she asks, “Having second thoughts?”

Tarja watches as clouds gloom over Sharon’s delicate features. The older years sucks in her bottom lip, a habit that Tarja knows Sharon will relapse whenever she feels uneasy. Her chocolaty brown eyes are wide with melancholy and wisdom, the knowledge that she has yet to tap into. Her expression is not exactly sad, but close to one-sided devotion and despair. Yet, now Sharon still tries to smile, and it’s what she has done from the past to now, no matter how bleak everything is.

Tarja wants to tell her it’s ok to not-smile from time to time. She wants to show her many things, and she has time. Because they’re just in college and there’s plenty of time.

So Tarja smiles for Sharon, and for herself, one that is true, guard-less, affectionate and unconditional, everything that Sharon needs. Then she bends forward and connects their lips.

It creates a soft flow, a vow, a commitment when they melt into each other’s mouth, then their consciousness so they can communicate without words. Sharon smiles contently as Tarja spells out the present for her, with lips and tongue. But then time doesn’t exist anymore, and so does everything else. For now, Sharon has Tarja to cherish, and love.


“Wanna be my girlfriend?”

“What took you so long to ask?”