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Sins Corp Prequel: Starstruck - Choerry

A/N: College Choerry! I gotta thank @sinswithpleasure for giving me so many ideas on this Sins Corp prequel, so much that I have to split them up into three chapters lol

So here's the first chapter! Every chapter of this prequel takes place in college days, before joining Sins Corp. Lots of uwus!

Special thanks to @midnightdancingsol and @worldsover @ V1n on Discord for lending a hand on editing as much as they could! Sorry for not being patient enough zzz. I actually don't know why, but my brain can't write anything else if a completed piece isn't published. My mind calls a piece "completed" ONLY when I click the publish button, and if I don't do that, my brain just can't move on.

So rn it looks like half an abomination, but I hope you'd enjoy

(Not fully edited due to immense word count)

====================

Choerry. Choi Yerim isn't just a star.

She's the brightest star that illuminates the universe. The loveliest woman that has ever existed on Earth. The mobile sun that outshines a supernova in the galaxy. The quasar that blasts X-ray bursts to the colorless void.

She's in her own league of natural selection, not to take part, but to take over since she was born. She appears to be the star you're meant to orbit around for nearly two decades and onwards. Not a single chance you can escape her solar system, even though you wouldn't want to leave anyway.

She isn't just a normal girl in your life; she's a cultural reset; it's the perfumes you breathe; it's a lifestyle—your drive to live, your escape from this constant yet abnormal world filled with horndogs and assholes.

Three knots of a braid, you've recalled what this sunshine is: An art, that first gift you've received in your life, that hug she gave when you received the same college offer as she did, and just... ninety percent of what you've wanted.

That ten percent is everything else in your life, but two more knots down, you realize you can give up that pie for her.

Choi Yerim. Choerry. You will never forget her name, and you’ll never let anyone ever get to her with the tiniest trace of malice.

Including yourself. The Asmodeus within shall be condemned if it inches inwards even a bit.

A sigil chains up a thousand words in the brain as you return to real life—Dormitory of Seoul University, under an afternoon with the clearest azure ever and mild breezes that create the best weather one can imagine.

The brightest rays outdoors would still be outmatched by Yerim on your lap, if she hadn't pouted this morning.

"Be quicker, oppa! Not much time left for us!" Kvetching tone to hurry you, torso completely relaxed though, she leans back on your shoulders and beats you mercilessly with the banter baton. Your agile fingers now out of thread, you have no choice but to pause and glare into the mirror.

Without a doubt she gleams one happy smile, sun rendered jobless.

"Carry me, Choerry," you tease, "Carry me."

A presentation in psychology class, and no, it's not a psychological social experiment. The synergy between you two has been flawless, from the libraries to this co-ed dorm you're braiding Yerim's hair in. Powerpoints and scripts have never been a problem, but facing thirty peers plus one lecturer, meanwhile, is not your greatest suit. Every bit of public speaking skills you seemed to have transferred to Yerim, who excels at socializing. Who would've known a rumored fuckgirl in high school would turn out to be the most vibrant and adorable being, able to form a spider web of a social network a month into the semester?

Everyone would love to make friends with Yerim, and of course, everyone would love to ask her out. That is until one day everyone you know stopped doing so. Even with Yerim sitting on your lap, you have no idea why. You're just friends with Yerim.

"Just follow my flow, oppa!" Her captivating smile is definitely not the reason after ranking her in the top list of prettiest freshwomen on campus. "And afterwards you can have fun!"

She doesn't forget to sit upright for you again to finish braiding her hair. Brown strands, silky and full, are all within your fingers' careful purview, not to taint the wings of an angel. Hot star; bright angel, a careless mistake might get your hands burned, and earn a grumpy Choerry whom you wouldn't like to deal with. You don't mind, to be fair—in fact, a grumpy Yerim looks incredibly cute when she puckers her lips like now, drifting within her own thoughts.

Tinkering with knots, you peer out of the window. It's another angle to admire the city skylines from afar. On the ground, not the mountains where your home stands. Abundant time left till the first snow arrives, a lot more time for the rainfall as the forecast predicts.

That Christmas night has earned its eternal throne in your memories. You wouldn't dare to break any of the promises.

"Stay by my side, oppa... Is that okay?" Now it's Yerim's turn to look through the mirror, and there you are, devilish smug mirroring the tattoo on her left wrist, and out of your notice she veers away with a shy grin.

One hundred percent concentration tries to find an elastic band for the final touches, before one percent escapes to answer your friend. "Can't do that when I gotta fight dragons after class"—look around; locate her handbag; latch onto her favorite band from within— "And don't you have your dance club to deal with? I saw you playing with paper cups yesterday."

"Mmhm! The sunbaes like my ideas!"

"I would've used those paper cups to make a fortress for my D&D group."

"And did you, oppa?"

"C'mon... You were hoarding them yesterday. I can't just take them when you have a competition coming soon." Playfully, you let go of the stretched elastic as it snaps onto Yerim's braids. She turns around after a squeal and pushes your shoulder blade.

"It hurts!"

"Karma."

On the edge of her bed you almost fall, but maintaining your balance brings you very close to Yerim's face. Microscale distance. Direct stare to her big, expressive eyes with eyelashes fluttering at your alarm. Shit, you internally curse, don't move an inch of your heart. Too late for salvaging anything from this sudden silence in the dorm, no matter how many things you attempt to locate to alleviate: bracelets in pairs on the table, your Polandball plushie Yerim gifted, to the radical difference of your desks at two ends—hardcore science versus flowery romance embrace for an ultimate clash on Yerim's desks.

Not the first time you've gotten this close to your best friend. The Christmas ball was the first, with countless repeats throughout high school making you flustered without failure. From a teenage girl to an adult, her positivity remains the same. The cheery, flamboyant, and vibrant girl that everyone admires has grown up without leaving your side.

Yerim glances at her hair, neatly braided and dyed spectra of brown. Perfectly fitting. She fits any color anyway.

Long still seconds. It doesn't take long for her to revert her attention to your lips.

Beneath no stars she freezes over time, adrift in her trinity saga. Magnetic. Her smile slowly fades away, leaving fatal auras of her eyes in charge. Not just puberty, but also college has hit her well—Not even a question as to whether those expressions on stage can pierce the hearts of a hundred men and women, as her plump lips slightly part.

You have no idea what she's doing, and affection is your overused yet only answer.

Yerim blinks once, then seals your lips with hers. A dip into the waters ends up with a plateau of land set ablaze, static charges rivaling Tesla coils zap your nerves to a forceful reboot. Morning fatigue expelled from your souls. Energy recharged; adrenaline injected into blood vessels. Every word you daydreamed while braiding her hair gets perfectly repeated within seconds. Receive the flesh jumping into your abyss and perform a twirling tango in the caverns for ten more seconds before you back off by instinct, only to see her trademark smile coming back to life again. The sun groans at its misery for getting outmatched by a girl on an ordinary planet.

"Payback."

Her grin lifts off an invisible load from your shoulders. You pledged that night to keep your sunshine bright, but the kiss slays your devils by a legion.

"Now we go get them, Devil-oppa." When Yerim giggles, finally getting off your lap, your chaotic brain cells struggle to piece a banter.

"After you, Choerry."

A rehearsal to your roleplay session instead of your academic presentation. The adventuring gang in Call of Cthulhu shall seal one part of your truest devil in deepest self.

You shouldn't have felt the tingles when your best friend kissed you, and you definitely shouldn't feel anything when she intertwines your hand. Nerves and senses betray by sending currents round a circuit again and again. Out of force of habit, your eyes land on Choerry as usual, your only clear image while walking out of the dorm.

Friends. You both are just friends.

Cultural reset—what a joke on Twitter, although you're in a dogfight with yourself, throwing meteors at the other persona.

One half of you embraces the meteor strike; the other half abstains from being starstruck.

----------

The roar of the abomination tears the daybreak skies as its breath outburns the glowing sun, sharp blades of claws slicing into the rocks before the majestic torso looms over the adventurers. No, this isn't Godzilla appearing from the sea—its shape doesn't even fit the King of the Monsters. Not in the same universe either—although you wish the call of the cultists had summoned that instead of this amalgamated insanity with an anthropoid outline, scaly and rubbery skin reflecting the pathetic stars dying in distant cosmos.

In the house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming, intricacies exceeding the iPad in your hands. Cosmic horror in all ways drives your character to the brink of madness, nerve wires deformed and twisted like the book of myths in your hands. Yet your devil stands in braggadocio, with the aura of "Nat 20" burning down a temple by mere walking.

It doesn’t last long.

You know you can never win in Call of Cthulhu, but you can delay the loss as long as you can. The gates of the universe longs for your death—unforgiving omnipotence would casually delete a portion of the universe in every single round, like humans squashing mosquitoes without mercy.

Well, you'd still squash the mosquitoes apathetically. Running out of time considering, your restrained fist hits the table, as frustrated as other players in the dimly-lit room.

"Fuck, we're too late to stop the cult..."

"We’ve spent three months on this!" Another player protests, and of course, the master remains unperturbed, "Can't believe we're ending like this..."

"It's not over yet!"

"We still have one last way, right guys?" No tables in this roleplaying universe. Your avatar stares at a sealed spellbook rather than a modern iPad, while sigils and enchantments—imaginary yet surreal—coil around your right wrist like a chain of iron hoops. Yet you aren’t any kung-fu master, you're merely an investigator who managed to earn yourself a magical reserve in exchange for sanity.

"What way?"

"The one I traded my dagger for two months ago." Amidst the ruined chaos you look at other players. One among them discovers your grimoire and reacts.

"We gotta use it now!" His voice almost got blurred out by the background music. One more round passes, the master of the game silently deletes one more chunk of the universe as the player asks, "Do you think you can handle this?"

Your in-game avatar doesn't know, meanwhile your gamer brain calculates that one cast of this spell costs you thirty percent of sanity—if you fail the dice roll, that is.

You have exactly thirty percent of sanity left. The distorted screams from the Lovecraftian monster further decrease it. Eerie screeches crack the Pacific Ocean as one more cultist disappears in front of you. Alas, not much time till Armageddon. The planet will die soon if you pass one more turn. Rubbles of the ruin glitches out of the reality, twinkling stars die out in the colorless horizons. A member casts his spell against the cosmic horror. Roll: failure; Sanity: zero. The poor member screams in agony, his last wire disintegrating alongside his integrity, body into a goop of nothing made in abyss. Mutated, devoured by Cthulhu.

Another star dies, more horrible than death.

Unbearable eyes race down the ancient languages again. Throaty pronunciations invoking eldritch essence wraps your right arm further. That cherry tattoo on your wrist has long since gone from being visible. Your planet seems to have lost its star to orbit. Look back up, face your friend and other survivors who share the same objective as yours, against the game's master watching from a God-eye view.

Millions of words of scripted backstories run through your brain, each second striving to maintain that last bit of sanity which might be draining away. Anything happy; anything lovable; anything that puts a smile on your face— Right, there should be one, the cultural reset, in her own league of natural selection.

Why did you write her on your character sheet?

Brightest star that illuminates the jet black void would guide you through your turn. Deny the call of Cthulhu, wordlessly a band of warmth wraps around your waist, before something; or someone rests on your shoulder. A scent of cherry mixed with sweat billows in the battlefield. Extreme concentration gives you nothing to catch on other than the rampaging Outer God. You need to pause the catastrophe.

Maybe two percent of focus slips away, for two soft mounds squishing against your back. She has entered the room.

"I'll use the Eye of Yog-Sothoth," Embrace the wonders of the universe with a sigil in neon green deploying beneath you, the eye of the storm as it envelops the awash ground—"To warp the reality..." Deep breath. Three months of hard work in your hands—"To reseal the cosmic horror by thousands of thousands of millennia."

Horrific glow wraps the grimoire and your right arm, an unidentifiable fabric of spacetime bends the physics around. The grieving galaxy distorts into the orifice of the abomination; to your nervous, throbbing heart. You know this would be more painful than Doctor Strange's bargains—Warp the time, warp the reality. Prolong the deadline.

Then you can hear a distinct, commanding voice from a far end.

"Please, roll your dice."

For the one you want to protect, to keep her by your side. The limb-esque touch around your abdomen boosts a bit of bravery to look down, and out of the world, a 100-sided die appears in your palm, shimmering in cherry red with the size of a golf ball.

A gift for your previous birthday. Luck might be standing by your side, but you quickly calculated again: Seventy percent of going insane after sealing the abomination. Seventy percent of losing the campaign.

"You can do it!..." An ebullient whisper to your ear. Perhaps this is the effect of reality warping, that you can hear the voice of the one you're attached to.

She giggles muted, and you can feel another hand wrapping the golf ball die. "I'll wait for you-"

Grip. Lift. Throw. The die catapults itself into the unknown, a powerful vocal striking across the skies. It hits a surface, smooth and hard. Crunchy rebound; another bounce, louder than 3 hours of horror music in the background.

A hollow drum of revelation, you have no idea what will happen next.

----------

"You gaze upon the far ends of the cosmos. All matter slowly begins to reduce into atoms. One by one, the stars in the sky blackout, and astral dust fades away, proceeding towards the same destined fate as everything else in this universe, including the betrayed member—devoured; reduced; annihilated.

Nothing can be reversed. The fanatics have awakened the cold-blood universe itself, triggering such a cataclysmic event, trillions of trillion years earlier than intended. The so-called fanatics are now in desperate fear, screaming painfully as their bodies simply vanish into nothingness. No blood, no gore, no corpses.

Two eyes; Four eyes; Eight; Sixteen. Glowing spheres scream malignance as they consume your right arm, eroding your ordinary torso. You thought warping the spacetime continuum grants you success by carrying out a counter ritual.

Warp yourself to future space, but rewind yourself to the past time. You won't feel unwell with your body, not even sick, or horrible. Just a little bit itchy...

...

Before your organs mesh into one; skin returning to nature; blood erupting as geysers. Every bone becomes the final mist of dust only to be devoured by Cthulhu. Cells disintegrate before limbs twist to a synthesized psalm.

'Ia! Ia! N'ghaa n'nghai!

Ia! Ia! N'gai, n'yah, n-yah, shoggog, phfaghn!

Ia ! la ! Y-hah, y y-nayah, n-yah!

N'ghaa n'n'ghau waf'l pthanghn-Youg-Sothoth! Yog-Sothoth!...

Ia, Ia, Yog-Sothoth! Ossadogowah!'

All in one, you have become one with the timeline. Past to present and future. You have become one with Yog-Sothoth.

And so does everyone else."

...

Lights on.

At last Yerim the dance-society-cherry can see everything in this sunless classroom, after what seemed to be a century of darkness. Deep immersion gets cut off by a pause in a YouTube ambient playlist, and none of the games society players have the mood to greet this cherry on the devil, literally. You sit on your chair stunned and defeated while she flushes against your body, herself leaning forward; head resting on your right shoulder; arms coiling on your waist softer and warmer than an eldritch sigil.

The bright sunshine of a smile's still there, although toned down a bit after re-realizing what the game's master had narrated. Ironically the master is the only one who greets Yerim with a wave.

A silent wave back, just before six other players hammers the table in unsung unison. iPads and dice and pens suffer an undeserving quake. This is the first time Yerim comes across a campaign failure.

Not the very first bad ending you've ended up with. Yerim just didn't have the chance to witness until today, remembering the last time you rant about how your last campaign ended with the funniest death ever. The death today isn't an honorable one.

Yerim enjoys watching you play. In fact she enjoys whatever you're doing, as long as it's about you, and you doing anything you love. On the other hand, the games society enjoys having Yerim's presence as well. You and her have built the bridge between games and dance—two societies on two ends of the spectrum who get to watch a mood maker jetpacking cutely, admiring her "boyfriend" while trying to wrap his arm with Yog-Sothoth's eyeballs.

More leeway to stay close to you. The dancer has no qualms if she can make you feel better by displaying affection—a smooch on your face; then a nuzzle into your shoulder blade. The ring around your waist has never loosened to send tingles through your nerves.

Hers too. Even your dissatisfied face makes her heart bubble, and very apparently, everyone else in the room. Their frowns slowly evolve to lighthearted smiles and laughter. Window blinds shying away under automatic control when Yerim joyfully greets everyone. Twice the power of sunshine today, determined to exile the temporary gloom of character deaths.

"Ahhh fuck." You groan; you painfully laugh; you facepalm, "Sorry guys, I ruined three months of a run."

The group laughs, infected by Choerry's brightness. "It's fine, devil! We'll try beating the record next time!"

"Punishment for you," the game's master pats your wrist, unaware of the cherry tattoo before you jokingly retract it. "You'll be the GM next time."

"Oh c'mon... I've been GM-ing since high school..."

"But oppa's been doing it well!" Yerim chimes in for her testament. Magnetic voice in control of an entire universe, whether it's calling imaginary dragons, or summoning cosmic deities with destined bad endings. She has lost count on the number of times a non-player like herself immerses in your narrated world; eyes fixating on your appearance and expression.

A low tone to shake the ground, then a frantic ramble to initiate combat. You're the commander of your legion, swinging the battles on a balance to the favor of heroes or villains.

Yerim is simply starstruck. The games society would watch Yerim squeezing herself in between you and the table, and sits sideways on your lap. Immediately she feels your hand reacting by hooking around her bare midriff. Training jeans and cropped tops have earned jealousy from your friends, regardless of gender.

"See? Even your girl says you're good at GM-ing."

"Bruh who said we're a coup-'' You would've flipped a bird against everyone else after Yerim pecked your cheeks. You freeze, and the others burn in PDAs.

"Oppa's so, so, so good at hosting DnDs and CoCs! I don't know why you can't do that in psychology presentations..."

Cute pout, and everyone laughs in harmony, while you pull her to your mouth and mutter.

"Why the fuck haven't you showered yet?"

Yerim approaches your earlobe and whispers in full exuberance.

"I wanna see you!"

She doesn't feel the need to mention how comfortable she feels around you, that caring about others' thoughts on her body odor become non-existent on her priorities.

And she doesn't care much about how others see the dynamics between you two either. One particularly new member of games society raises her hand, and throws a question. Clearly she's only joining your sessions for the first time.

"You two are dating right?"

"No?"

Seamless synchronicity in an awkward silence, but Yerim adds an extra line of answer, while scratching your shirt with her thumb, only under your notice.

"But he's my beeeeessst friend!"

From everyone's confused reaction, you definitely get why after her kiss on your cheek, yet again, Yerim doesn't care. Doesn't care. The extra weight is taken off from her heart when you hug her waist a bit tighter.

Another round of awkward silence, and the group laughs again.

"Come on! You don’t even need to hide the fact you’re dating! We aren’t stupid, you know?"

"Stupid enough for you to assume I’m dating—"

Yerim sinks deeper into your neck. Her fidgety thumb rubs harder on your shirt as well, a signal very apparent to your attention.

"Ugh anyway," you switch topics upon Yerim’s reflexes, "I'll get one of my modules in high school and we'll work on that. DnD. Is that okay?"

A games-only commander. It's weird, but Yerim likes it, especially when other members nod their heads and agree. Sunlight from outdoors fades a bit as the time goes past 6PM—perfect end to this two-hour session with a reminder from you.

"Do me a favor, Choerry." Maximum attentiveness from the dancer girl, "Go ask Mina-noona if they wanna join us after the recital. They need party time afterwards."

"Sure, oppa! Pretty sure Mina-unnie will come! Not sure about Yeji-unnie and Minjeongie though."

"I heard you don't want me to visit the practice room in person."

"I'll ask them, oppa! I don't need your help..." And the background chuckles again, probably gushing about how cute you and Yerim are. It goes back and forth, and again, banter intermixing with notes to be made for your next module. Background settings, internal duties and schedules. Choerry simply becomes a quiet ball throughout the remaining times, somehow going from your lap to your back—second version of a devil's jetpack till the sun dips halfway into the horizons.

Everyone says "see you later" and stands up, leaving Yerim coiling around your stiff back on the seat as they walk out one by one. The lecture room suddenly feels vast with only two people remaining. She loves being around people, but she also loves being with you only.

Wouldn't mind staying longer like this either, until her stomach and stamina request a refill.

"Let's get dinner, oppa," she says, getting off you the second time for today, tugging your idle fingers, "Wanna go to the canteen in Block B?"

Twirl your finger. Give a helping hand and slip your iPad into your backpack, only now she sees your full form while standing up. Hoodie; Shorts; Gym leggings; Sneakers. You've been wearing the same style, different brands every single day away from the dorms.

The outfit looks so "you" to her. No one other than you can wear the combination well. Not even the buff guys in the gym.

"Of course you'll suggest Block B." You give out a genuine answer, "They've got your kal-guksu tonight."

"Then be quicker, oppaaaaaa!" Fingers wrapping your tattooed wrist as Yerim pulls you towards the exit. She'll replace the submerged sun, and she'll stay close to you, as your happy mobile sunshine. You just need to be with her, running down the corridor to the canteen, echoing her excited squeals.

Yerim fully embraces a meteor starstruck.

----------

The ceiling of the backstage feels close enough to crush Yerim from above.

Instead of sitting at the back, the preparation room fits itself right below the main stage, only linked by stairs at two ends, forming the most private room of the entire concert hall. The most discreet as well. Not a sound from here can get out of four walls and a high ceiling. Yerim can only be relieved for having no outsiders being able to see or hear her nervous taps.

Proper hairdo; Tailor-made outfit; Attractive makeup that exudes those magnetic eyes even when her friends and seniors see an energetic, flamboyant Yerim to be slightly nervous for an inter-college contest.

Only the dance society and the makeup team are present backstage, scattering across the vast space either fixing their makeup, or facing a wall of mirror reviewing their choreography, something Yerim is extremely proud of. Paper cups in the dorm have finally gotten some use before being made into a dragon fortress.

Two main clusters of people, then there's Yerim, away from where she should be; away from the center, and sinking deep into a corner couch.

Uncannily similar to the one in her usual dancing studio. That's where you'd usually be when you waited for her practice to be over. Out of everyone but Yerim's attention, so as to not disturb anyone... but Yerim herself.

Not your fault. Never. It's always Yerim who can't help but stare at your mirror reflection, a trait everyone else has been teasing her with since joining.

She shines so bright on the stage, that the center is the spot she's made to be. Everyone's focus; everyone's sun. Eyes of admiration from peers and seniors and audiences always land on her.

Yet no one would think that sometimes, she just wants to be away from the crowd, and glue onto you. That might not work in terms of shooing away the pack, but your presence is catalyzed in your game master's aura. A bit bad-mouthed, words of a devil carry a much less sinister heart.

"Yerim-ah!" A senior calls out to her in the final 15 minutes of rehearsal. It startles Yerim a little.

"Yes unnie?"

"Final rehearsal! We need you!"

The phrase becomes a hydraulic pump lifting her off the couch as she steals a glimpse at the ceiling: appearing to be at the same height; feels a lot closer to her shoulders. Maybe that was what you meant when you had hosted your first DnD campaign in college a month ago, by the words of "all the stars come crashing down like a meteor."

A zigzag walk under ceiling lights, which are about to shower down in innocent malice. Yerim scratches her thumb on the hem of her shorts, before entering a circle of other members of the dance team, all visibly nervous for the impending performance.

Her gaze flashes, then a smile spans across her face, as cute and vibrant as usual.

Be the mood maker that hypes up the room.

Even the seniors love her. She leaped onto the pyramid apex the moment she walked in for the audition. This is it, thought the graduated senior. They had never seen such a bubbly personality that can get along with literally anyone, but able to switch on a fiery and attractive expression once she was told to dance, not to mention, on the other hand, the mouth-watering proportions from her waist to hips and legs.

Her friends and teammates all turn around, and look at her. None of them are even calmly collected when they see who their stage clothes fit the best on.

"Remember to look straight, Yerimie. Don't stare at that couch over there!" It is a reminder that earns several giggles from those who know its implications, always enough to cast a faint tint on their star's cheeks, a pattern easily being looked through once in a while. They just love to see how cute Yerim's reactions can be when the dance room adds to itself a variable.

A devil's advocate. Advocates maybe, in plural form. They can always hear how loud and rapid her heartbeats become when her interest shows up, and they want that now, as her greatest morale boost.

Rumors of the games society are somewhat turned to be true ever since both groups hang out together more often. Thanks to Yerim, and her King Asmodeus. This monarch of hell is one of a living magnet, that every other girl in the dance team can't help themselves in awe of.

Some tried befriending the caller of Cthulhu. It works. Some went further and flirted, like this Jiwon. They got demoted to just friends after noticing Yerim's reaction aside. When Yerim has been glowing since high school, the devil next to her miraculously got his glow-up after graduating high school.

"Alright are we ready?"

Yet another glance at the ceiling, this time from the center of choreography; thumb still rubbing her short shorts. The stars have once again descended closer to the girl, maybe a retaliation for the times her smile outshines the real sun. They are determined to conceal her brightness before their performance.

Months. Yerim and the team have spent months preparing for the contest. She has no plans to avoid it at all, even with the revving heart that she tries so hard to hide away from others. At least the semi-forceful smile at Yeji-unnie and Minjeong is still effective.

"I'll turn on the music." Out comes the echoes of the treasurer who walks towards the corner for her laptop. Yerim also follows the treasurer with her eyes, before pausing at that couch. Still there, an immovable force guarding the room's quiescence till the play key would be pressed.

Final chance to tune the choreo. The cherry in Yerim splits into two—The blaze on stage fueled by unwavering confidence, versus the blizzard that persuades the other half to find the only person emerging in her brain. In three seconds her throbbing heart twists and turns in unease.

First second. Yerim wants that person to be there, on the couch, at least pretending to scroll his phone before stealing eyes from her.

Two seconds in, Yerim wishes you won't show up midway through last practice. Her eyes would've only locked onto you instead of the mirror.

Three. The intro kicks in.

----------

You know Yerim would become so distracted if she sees you. That's why you simply stand behind the glass door.

Soul-crushing pop overrides the cosmic horror playlist in your brain even in its minimum, barricaded volume. Your form hides in the perpetual dark of staircases, compared to the utterly bright backstage becoming a luminous cube in the void, containing the most energetic person you've ever met in your life.

You know nothing about dancing, let alone choreography that's not about leveled-up adventurers combatting a dragon. Cartwheeling arms without a sword or a battle-hammer suddenly feel estranged from your perspective. Locking without chains? Breaking without axes? Agility in formations creates your mind map of a cutlass-wielding rogue carrying stealth attacks. Can't argue when their greyish top with golden linings kind of fits.

So put your spectral cutlass on a girl called Choi Yerim.

Life-stealer, capable of thieving a beat of your pulse. Ferocious eyes usually non-existent in her now have got a free pass to unleash themselves. Captivate; capture; decapitate- Nah, you only behead in tabletop roleplaying. Yerim's too kind of a person to kill anybody, although she still laughs whenever you trip yourself over your own pair of slippers.

Whirlwind in brown sways delicate curves along her body, standing herself out of other dancers that surround her for a few times. She's the center—the Sun of the Solar System that radiates in confidence, her movements today, however, lack that zero-point-one percent of flow to it. Her smile, still high-hung, feels a bit forced to you. Neither of those traits would be visible to all others. Being a friend with her for nearly two decades always gives you hints left and right.

You... just don't think that's anything special. The imposter syndrome within thinks anyone else has the same level of observation as yours.

Against all odds, you're here. You want to keep the sunshine eternal. Keep its purity. You'd want to reignite her brightness after every setback.

"Okay that's good! Can Yerimie do her solo part once again?"

A comet streaks past the night sky, not in its straight line. It turns; it swirls; it strikes multiple angled trails. You can picture the girl in your glass door dancing on a sigil of purple, the ultimate incantation against the Cthulhu Mythos. It's not a perpetual prolonging of death anymore. You see strength, and you see hope. Abomination gone for good without any use of weapons. This is the true definition of style, conquering hearts without magic and madness.

What an exquisite beauty, your mind speaks with a drunken smile, before the games' master inside calls a halt.

She's your friend, motherfucker. Why are you feeling this towards her? The deepest, rawest impulse tells you to turn that knob in front of you. Turn it. Invade the land, but your mental bulwarks decide not to. You feel the magnetic force drawing yourself towards her again, smashing the glass door if it were that strong.

Slender fingers of hers draw the orbits of the planets, while her eyes dictate the motions of the stars. Torso evades otherworldly attacks, and her black boots perfect the sigil. Cheers from her teammates background the fame she deserves. At this point you almost feel guilty about yourself. You're merely a devil peeking from the stairway of twilight, who should've been sitting on that cornering couch, as her number zero fan.

Why? You have no answers, other than not to disturb. Your heart battles against your brain in another Dungeons & Dragons dogfight. Turn 1, you roll a dice to determine your constitution, against a very sweet cherry.

Nat 1. Too late to cover your curvature with hands before another girl shows up in your sight. Cat eyes and high ponytail, taller than Yerim according to your visual calculator.

"Hi!" Yeji greets muted, and you can only hear her suppressed whispers once she pushes open the door. "Coming for Yerimie?"

Answers shall be delayed, but Yeji can clearly catch your focus, not on herself for a millisecond. The microwave destroyer turns around and eyes other teammates, her seniors and the treasurer playing the music. You actually look better than what you think, even in your hoodie-shorts-leggings combo; and you remain in your dark side, fixating on Yerim, also concentrated, while choreographing wonders.

You really don't know why they're crowning you two as a couple. Everyone says a cherry and a devil sounds like a surprisingly matching pair of words. No idea what they mean when you're just friends.

Not enough time to ponder either. Yerim finishes her solo part, the same moment as she turns away for the rest rejoining, only for her big eyes spotting a purple hoodie.

You're the only person backstage who wears anything purple. The stand-out color freezes her entire body movement.

"Look who's here for you!" Apparently the rest have no intentions to complete their final practice, from Yeji standing closest to you, to the farthest treasurer unbecoming the DJ, everyone decides it'd be better to watch a fluffy romcom scene played live.

"B-But unnie!"

"Aigoo... is our baby cherry stuttering?"

Embarrassed, Yerim cups her face flustered, its radiating heat is something you can feel several meters afar. Very rarely you'd see Yerim being shy and abashed rather than a bright ball of confidence, and the ceiling casts her blushes even more apparent as her friends playfully woos.

Amused, you shuffle forward, finally embracing the light after standing minutes in the dark, succumbing yourself to her gravity. Your ears dispel all the noises the girls are making. The second-hand embarrassment they're giving will not deter you from getting close to the sunshine.

And in a blitz Yerim tugs onto your hoodie. There's her faint smile, but there's no bubbly greetings; no tight hugs; no kisses that rocks your pulsing heart.

"Oppa..." She mutters, "I told you not to come..."

"Opinion discarded." You look down, "Feeling nervous right?"

"N-No I'm not?"

"Be honest, Choi Yerim."

"Told you I-"

Your chuckle cuts her off before guiding her eyes to the hem of your hoodie, volumes ignorant of the chattering dance team, who seems thoroughly entertained. "You thought I wouldn't notice your thumb scratching my hoodie right now? C'mon Choerry, you ain't getting past my eyes."

That casual bravado has no doubt been boosted by the surrounding gang, and their recital countdown timer. Remind yourself why you're here. Your focus drifts from her twiddling thumb to her outfit exuding curvaceous lines, to the smooth midriff, then her full makeup. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy to dye her hair brown. The color perfectly matches. Cascading waterfall over one eye also conveniently blocks out a side of her reddened cheeks. This Yerim in front of you mashes cuteness and attractiveness seamlessly into one.

Fuck, you soundlessly cussed at her full lips. Despite how moist and sweet they look, you never dare to take the step further. She's been the initiator of all kisses ever since that Christmas night, and today with bewitching lipstick strikes a breach on your defenses.

Fidgety boots tapping the dance floor, that sigil of confidence becomes shaky. "I'm a bit scared, oppa."

Never had you heard those words during her high school cheerleading days, but you know this is not the time to tease. Her finger is still rubbing your hoodie, and her chest heaves noticeably more frequently in front of everyone else. Your character in Call of Cthulhu would behave the same way.

Every reminder from your games club about DnDs are thrown into the vespertine horizons. Observation turned up to eleven, catch that scratching thumb with your hand. Your mind recites promises you've pledged, and one of them is to maintain her smiles. A stellar battle against thousands of ceiling stars.

If Yerim has a million fans, then you're one of them. If Yerim has ten fans, then you're one of them. If Yerim has only one fan then that’s you. If Yerim has no fans, then that means you're no longer on earth. If the world is against Yerim, then you're against the world.

You're her friend, and you're a big fan of her smile.

Wrap her drumming digits, your inner dungeon master rains the essence of sedation.

"It's gonna be fine, Choerry." As if the backstage only has two people, you can only see Yerim now. An invisible dome has shielded you two, from the drama viewers and the blinding, vengeful stars. They are merely the constellation of this celestial sphere, while the zodiac is those arms Yerim rings around your waist with.

So natural with her body contact, that you wouldn't realize until the colors suffuse Yerim's cheeks. Not enough with your camaraderie.

"Aww look how cute our Yerimie is..." The weakest squeal you can hear outside of your world. You only see her lips again, slightly parted, unable to spell syllables of what she's been good at hiding with.

"Think of happy things you've had with me," you whisper, a magnetic storm calming the cherry ocean, "Anything that you can get your mojo back in 5... 4... 3...

Break the seal just for one second.

2...

Forgo one second of self-control.

1..."

You both mutually lock lips.

The dance society delves into a chaos of screams and squeals. By chance they've represented your inner devils, scrambling your stars and meteors into one. You've just thrown a meteor into the sun.

"Did he just..."

"Aaaaaaaaaaa he kissed Yerimie!!!"

"So cuuuteeee I'm melting I'm melting I'm melting..."

"Now tell me they aren't a couple!"

Awkward questions. Responses are unnatural. Yerim's friends have done a shit job decorating your séance; your soulful suction on her nervous spirits, along with a light brush on her cherry-flavored lips.

Galvanize the heaven's gate with the price of increasing guilt. The guilt shuts down the entrance by separating you and Yerim.

"I'm leaving. Good luck."

Contradicting your morals. Instant regret. Farther than Moana you'll go to make your friend smile, and you don't mind those stars from above attacking you either. You'll take them all for her, carrying them all as you turn around, walking away in a rehearsed choreography towards the dark stairway, where your devil self should reside.

Back into the dark, or hide yourself in the audiences later on. Yerim though, her mind plans otherwise.

"Oppa." Leather boots clacking the wooden floor, Yerim ambushes you from behind. One step away from the void, you're stopped by such a familiar sensation, old yet new. You haven't felt it since you punched a chairman in high school. She stopped you exactly in this way.

But she didn't turn you around and crash onto your lips. Again.

A lot of times before she had done this, including that memorable one after you braided her hair a few weeks ago. The kiss between two realms this time, makes the world stop spinning. Your lips interlock right below the door frame, the sharp boundaries of light and dark, a lovable cherry motion fueled by no other than a passionate Yerim, dethroning the king of hell in one grateful twirl.

Of course, the coup d'état sends everyone else into ruptures. Some even pull out their phones to record this heavenly moment, while the seniors cover their faces, fully immersed. Your closed eyes would figure it doesn't matter anyway. You're pumping adrenaline and dopamine into their blood.

More importantly, you're giving Yerim strength by merely standing, and receiving a continuous wave of electrifying charges. Voltaic butterflies in your stomach is quite of an interesting concept, lasting past Yerim breaking the kiss into a saliva bridge, just as an event helper appears from the opposite set of stairs.

"Please be ready in three minutes."

The final countdown. It may seem your recharge has failed when the atmosphere changes from blazing barrens to freezing tundra, but out of all the eyeballs outnumbering Yog-Sothoth, you can only find the crystalline ones; The galactic ones. Her subsequent smile signifies superb success, sending sensors small shivers.

Shit.

Enough buffs on their character sheets. Now it's your time to leave, backing into the shadows. Chills from the metal doorknob act like a brutal reminder of your relationship status. Don't forget about the pledge with Yerim, who gives you a final glance once you close the glass door. She's heading towards the other end, and further away from you.

You'd still be able to decipher the movement of her lips; bright red of a cherry they translate into "thank you, oppa," with a brighter tint of blush. Those three words have never failed to topple your heart, for the fact she takes you as an important person, regardless of the affection.

It’s all about friendly affection. Twist your logic to deny anything else, yet no matter what you do throughout the performance soon after, all you can think is how her lips feel so soft and so right against yours. The painful reminders from romance dramas you watched have all been devoured by Cthulhu.

Maybe her cherry lipstick can explain the fizzles on your taste buds. Following your plan, you bury yourself within a cheering crowd, away from her sight. No more distractions for her. Powerful limbs and magical eyes sway the crowd and judges with her charisma. Shyness and embarrassment are all gone from Yerim, as if the kiss never happened. You wish that's actually true.

Damn, her lips taste good.

Your mental bulwarks are definitely regretting this.

----------

You think Netflix should buy the broadcasting rights of Formula One.

Twice or even thrice a week, you'd definitely have something to watch other than whatever series with Netflix adaptation. The four-digit Korean wons would've definitely been worth more than several Marvel series you'd love to watch.

As for that Netflix series for Formula One—Drive to Survive. Sometimes you'd rather watch Yerim repeating her Harry Potter movie marathon than listen to lousily edited engine noises, as well as fabricated rivalries.

Not that realistic for you and Yerim either. You don't even know what's going on in between. Hire an interviewer and ask about dating tips in a black box, and you wouldn't have any to give out. The university just happens to love fabricated love-lines from your point of view, and certainly they are making urban legends through phones and texts, while you, cross-legging in the bed, have your mind free from the daily siege.

The freedom only lasts for half an hour, however, when Yerim exits the bathroom with your hairdryer. The stage outfit now fits perfectly on a shirt rack preparing for laundry, as she approaches your bed without makeup.

The girl crush vibes in the end was just a façade. In front of you is a girl without mascara and shades, eyes still big and adorable under the only filter of starlight. White shirt doesn't carve her waist line, but her dolphin shorts expose succulent thighs to your habit. Sometimes you just find them attractive, before guilty demons shift your focus on Netflix.

Already, minutes have passed from where you stopped watching. Every time your attention simply drifts towards Yerim without realizing. Her expressive eyes and cherry lips spell question marks, and leave tiny traces of alcohol on her cheeks, now glowing in faint pink. Glad she's not dead drunk after a 3rd place finish. At least it wasn't those teases from her unnies that made her go very shy.

The girl crawls onto your bed, and drills through your arms holding the iPad. Neither of you had ever slept in separate beds, despite the co-ed dorm giving you two per each room. Yerim cares none of that and rests her head on your shoulder blade. Long waterfall of brown brings a scent of oranges to your nose.

That's your shampoo.

"Oppa what are you watching?" Followed by a cute sniff. Autumn's here already. You pull the covers over yourselves, and hand over the pad.

"Money Heist."

"You haven't watched Hawkeye yet?"

"Nope." You're soon met with a request for a channel switch—Netflix to Disney+, from the pleading eyes of Yerim.

"You should, oppa!!"

"I'm waiting for you." A smirk to retaliate, then a flick of your imaginary wand. "You always want us to watch Marvel and Harry Potter together."

"And you always want me to watch F1 with you!" Jolly tone from Yerim, who lodges deeper into your neck. Always a trait of you two doing things together, in tandem everyone can see, like Yerim's dance contest not long ago. She even insisted on bringing you along for the celebratory dinner, before you refused with some excuses and headed back to the dorm yourself.

You didn't feel you deserved to be applauded. You're simply doing what you think is correct, except for couple-level affections.

For every kiss she gives you, a layer of bulwarks and barrages is deployed; For every inch of her legs coiling around yours, a level deeper your heart goes.

The bright dots on the black canvas might as well be the escape of your reality. The Hawkeye on your screen shoots an immaculate trajectory as the arrow pierces your heart. When the shooting stars go down, you want to slingshot your heart upwards, away from Yerim, to a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

Yet you can't go far. The willful pledge tethers your same heart back to earth. The innocent smile on your childhood friend is something you still wanna see, and preserve everyday.

"Gosh I like Kate Bishop already!" Like this giggle ringing the bells. It makes the hellion in the cage rock out of your control. Another round of mental struggle to put it back in your place, tougher than your college entrance exam. Past papers and study sessions in that year can only blind out eighty percent of the throbs your heart was experiencing.

Zero focus on Hawkeye and his apprentice, you take a glimpse on your right wrist, its cherry tattoo glowing under bed lights before you turn at Yerim. A moment to be amazed at her exuberance, where you wouldn't have been accepted had she didn't exist in your life.

She's such a lovely girl. The best in the world. Tethering strings would sting your nerves, and activate the defense system in your depths.

Cthulhu rises from your altar for a daredevil starstruck. Maybe that's you, better but not far from the abomination. You aren't a horndog like those psychology classmates, and you aren't an asshole like that high school chairman either. You're a devil kinder than most proclaimed angels in the world.

Even her imperfections are so perfect for you. Are you even a match for her? You look out of the window, into the skies for an answer, only to find Yerim staring at you. Turns out neither of you are truly attentive to the Marvel TV series.

"Bored?" Not a single question asked to the constellations after all. A layer of emotions has been added to Yerim's eyes. Sometimes she has those sentimental hours on random nights, where a hug is needed. Yerim can only spill out her negative jar during those moments.

"Tired or anything?"

Your childhood friend puts away the tablet and shakes her head. The time on the clock says 11:00, far from the sleep hours of you two. You both would've been continuing Netflix, or playing on your PlayStation. FIFA to Mario Kart to PUBG, whatever that can make your night slightly noisier, that even the security needs to knock on the door. Other dorm-mates might hang out as a group, but they'd evade your room. No idea why, especially with their reason of not disturbing "a couple."

You didn't mind living with a total stranger, yet an extrovert of Yerim begged you to live with her when you got to choose the room number. Now she slithers her arm across your waist and hugs it tighter.

"What do you want, drunk Choerry?"

Dead silence lasts for two seconds before Yerim scoots a bit closer to your face. Mild breeze is the only coolant for Yerim's alcoholic blush.

"I'm not drunk."

Not a drunkard's denial. You know Yerim would only laugh and kiss everyone if she took too many cans of beer. This Choerry you see in close distance maintains a soft smile, an unintentional attempt to melt your walls.

"I wanna thank you, oppa," she says in sober, "I did well because of you."

Deep breath, you shake in denial, "You practiced for months. I only helped one second."

"It's you, oppa. Your kiss made me a lot less nervous."

You could've hugged her instead. Why would you jump out of the logic and kiss her? Unbeknownst to you, the Polandball plushie in your hand suffers a stronger squish while Yerim hoops another arm around you.

"Remember you were the one who told me it’d be fine before entrance exams?" Yerim shyly continues, one centimeter closer to your muted lips, "You're always the first one to know I'm nervous."

"Bruh… we've been friends for like 19 years…"

"I know, oppa. That's why I wanna thank you..." Half a centimeter diminishes. The magnetism slowly creeps in.

And Yerim seals off the tiny bit of gap left.

No words as your lips collide, sparkles exploding in ethereal fireworks. Matchstick and flintstone, Yerim grazes her tongue over your lips—A pop bursts the serenity bubble in an intimate smack, rupturing the bed as you both sink down. Both hands roaming your back, Yerim is determined to bring you down the sinkhole, while the smacks and smooches release the beast out of your cage, and for the next two minutes it would dominate your guilt, and the girl whom your arms have tightened around.

"Mmmm..." Frictions of your lips spew currents, down the nerves you go, spilling tingly touches from your fingertips. A slightly more vocal Yerim makes your head light, yet the lack of oxygen makes it heavy, in and out of weightlessness like humans. No doubt you're hitting a writer's block. Your brain simply can't form words right away. You had prepared for kisses since that Christmas night, but when Yerim sews your waists together, every talent you had gotten while narrating Dungeons & Dragons breaks down.

Sink deeper into the abyss together. Your guilt can only let your demons release every pent-up feeling about her, all unidentifiable through the slurping languages, lips concatenate; annex another wire of nerves. More of the vocabulary collapses, and you can only lash it out against her tongue.

The smack echoes the night loud and clear. It never stops, and has no plans to stop a minute into the crusade. That's the work of a devil's cherry, more intent to slide her legs around yours. Short-circuits lead to fire, and Yerim removes a hand from you, beginning to squish your Polandball plushie as well before her thighs start to feel the burn.

The first, wild burn spreading from the core. A whimper leaks out of her mouth, in a fortunate timing where your phone suddenly rings.

Your ode to the savior has been heard, although your demons blaspheme the same deity. A few fights within allow your self-control to seize your mind. The lock is forcefully disconnected, leaving the deepest connection lingers with at least two strands of saliva.

Annoyed and adorable eyes from Yerim, with mists of unknown haze clouding its reflection. It won't stop you from scooping that phone aside and swiping the green button.

"Yog-Sothoth ffff... king." Surprisingly none of your saliva bridges breaks down before Yerim, now being impatient, starts pecking your face. Meanwhile your brain scrambles enough to deal with not just Yerim's constant kisses, but also scavenging your lost vocabulary. A fictional god and a cuss don't make a good phone receiver.

"Urgent, mate! We need..."

The rest of the words become intelligible. Yerim gives no care regardless. A mysterious drive of flame keeps tempting the girl to not stop kissing, predominantly cheeks. Moist and swollen flesh immediately marks dominance on your skin. Still not enough.

"Fuck... d-do I ha-have to?" Your question gets sliced into chunks as your friend magnetizes her cherry lips onto your neck. Electrifying magic spiraling your senses to different realms outside of tabletop roleplay.

Another string of inaudible words, then you sigh, "Guess I'll go." Three words make the coil around your waist slightly tighter. More effort instilled from Yerim nibbling your chin and neck, with the rest going all into your lips after you end the call. This time it's not your devils in command. Quite forcefully you'd guard your cavity and separate the kiss, leaving Yerim whining, apparently asking for more.

Parted lips swollen red restricts you from getting over the mental hurdle, only for a moment.

"Friend told me Jiwon's drunk." Further and further away from Yerim, your other half screams and cries and throws up like a Twitter stan. The one in control, in the meantime, feels liberation.

"Heo Jiwon-unnie or Park Jiwon-unnie?."

"Park Megan. Megan-noona," you say. The name erodes the fuse in Yerim’s head. "I'm the closest to where she’s now so..."

The ending lingers into oblivion. No, the horoscopes up high tell you not to leave. You have pulled every card out of your sleeve to stop yourself. Don't go and get your games club sunbae. Battles between temperance and impulse, grills a mark that pouty image of Yerim in your brain, and your self-control converts the mark to a holy sign.

Also a sign of warning. You're still, still friends with Yerim. That's what your purple hoodie says as it slides onto your shoulders. Slippers feel more suffocating than ever, locking your legs from moving away from the bed.

Or Yerim, but you rather blame your struggles on the bedsheets, now rustled and messy after galvanizing a cherry.

"Okay, oppa! Take care of her and come back safely, okay? I'll wait for you!"

"For what?" Mimicking a radio message you ask.

"Sleep!" Right. You always go to bed together. No matter how cheery her tone sounds, you're more focused on evading her rustled shirt, hiked up enough to show her full midriff—waist line contouring the faintest abs, and her belly button poking out just above the dolphin sleep shorts.

Sweet, succulent thighs. A bit damp and warm. You glance over them before finally detaching yourself from bed.

"I'll be back within two hours, 'kay?" An overestimation, but you don't want to break a promise and let her down. Like always. You throw an eye at her from the door, and be amazed by the night view. It always manages to shine itself into this particular room you share, as if Yerim garners all attention from the light waves. They synchronize with your heart, pounding the earth with every beat, yet the skyscraper amidst the city skyline afar stands unperturbed. You’d love to erase your sin. The sin of having feelings towards her.

Even if you know that’s impossible. You’re thinking about hiding them as the second best choice as you freeze up looking at Yerim.

Still, a happy smile, shooing you away.

You really don't deserve this living sunshine.

----------

Fifteen minutes in. The moon crawls up a bit on its canvas, a lot more time needed than expected to reach its apex. Yerim on the bed can wait for that.

Yerim can wait for you. She can stay in this bed and wait as the stars burn their hydrogen millennia. Old stars wither, and the new stars ignite, none of which care about the sunshine that outmatches them every single day. Without the cute, energetic smile from the girl, the horizon appears more dazzling—not much time for them to flaunt their worth.

Yerim doesn't bother with her brightness anyway. Loneliness already creeping into her extroversion, your iPad aside becomes her companion whenever you're gone, while that Polandball plushie she gave you becomes her stress ball, under the bed lights that illuminate the room.

Neon lights faraway won't brighten up the room enough, but Yerim easily catches those accessories and objects scattering across your deck: Hardcore technology, cutting edge devices on the surface aloof. Gaming laptop carrying racing games and football games reminds Yerim how it's actually stacked with more photos of Choerry in the RAMs.

More Polandballs; Trading cards; then two Lego mini-figures standing on a base plate in front of that photo frame. A round of visual tour brings her eyes to this pic of you two being mischievous high-schoolers.

Like those binary stars in the skies—In tandems, bounded by gravity. The further you are, the stronger tug Yerim feels inside her chest. You once said that they make eighty-five percent of the universe, and now that same fact seems to be twisting her heart the most.

An enchantment she recites, "Stay close to me..." Four words, millions of kilograms of true heart. You've been trying everything you can to cheer her up, and the list goes on and on, into the deep depths of the galaxy. Not everything she requests makes you happy, but behind those bothered mumbles and complaints, you just try to make her smile, even if she doesn't expect you to do so.

Yerim blinks, and picks up the iPad. Immediately entering her eyes, is the wallpaper of you two again, this time in an amusement park. You really hated roller coasters, and you rode every single one available with her.

"I can wait, oppa..." She mutters, her fingers tutting their way into the gallery. Every second of the past has been sealed within an app overloaded with memories. Yerim lets randomness take over, and tap onto a photo of you hugging Choerry from behind.

Both of you smiled at the selfie stick, but Yerim cared more about the arms that wrapped her body. Too bad of a hideaway from you, who always claims you two are just friends, but she knows you've been liking her.

That's why you'd respond to her kiss, yet so fidgety about it when it ends. The image remains incredibly fresh as she just kissed you, followed by a long make-out that electrifies the cherry on her lips. Without realizing, she licks her lips, and a current fluctuates in her nerves.

So soft; So magnetic. Yerim wants to kiss it 24/7, until that god damn phone call brings you away. What you have left before leaving isn't only a bittersweet taste, however. The newfound fire inside Yerim's body has yet to be put out.

A roll on the bed sheet, then she brings a palm to her chest, pouty lips are met with two halos of pink blush from her face. Fingers have crept into her shirt; Her mind has begun to theorize where your kiss can go: Her lips where tingly electrons reside; Her neck where midnight breezes tickle. Go down, a call from inside pulls her touch to her mounds.

Heavier breathing, lips slightly parted as an airy gasp runs through the gaps. A caress then a squeeze, it pops to Yerim about what she's doing, only to have her dormant instincts conquering her mind.

"Mmm... so warm..."

It's your kiss' fault. You are the person who irresponsibly grows a wildfire across her body. Not only your lips that she likes everyday, Yerim likes everything about you, more than a one-day thing ever since she glued onto your elbow walking out of the tattoo shop. She's so sure the feeling is mutual as well, when you never reject her hugs and kisses. Anyone around can easily notice the spoiling gazes of yours. You're each other's universe.

Bury an eye into her pillow. Grope her softness. A sensual whimper breaks free for the first time. Yerim has no idea where that heat comes from but- Mmmnghh... Somehow a nub grows taut and brushes her fingers. Shivers kiss her nerves like a guitar, vibrations making her head slightly dizzy... Then there's this weird flush of heat, which piles up more and more in her pelvis.

So dirty... like Minjeong who told her she'd do the same whenever she misses her boyfriend. The changing room talks have taught her to unlock those hidden switches with fingerprints—Hers, or what Minjeong was smirking at, yours.

Your fingers, or your lips roaming her neck and breasts and waist. This pure cherry becomes her fruit's innuendos. Friends have been referring to you two as "the devil and his cherry," and now her heart flushes hard against the sexual jokes implied. Imagine her devil-oppa tasting whatever she's kneading on. Not that big, but worth a handful.

Yerim wants you. You could've been here touching filth, cleaning up the residual flames post-makeout. One dirty Yerim, now becoming a bit more daring than any explorers on Earth, draws a line from her clothed breasts, as a guide of your imaginary drooling eyes. Down, down, down, feral instinct messes with her vocabulary. No words can describe the stickiness between her crotch, too uncomfortable has Yerim figured.

She can wait for your reciprocated crush. No way she could wait to peel off her dolphin shorts. Sizzling fires elicit sparks, and those sparks tingles her mind. Driven by curiosity her finger traces down. You know Yerim is very smart as well, and no more than ten seconds is needed to locate where that insatiable outlet comes from.

Estimate; Evaluate; Execute. Press the button, and a chain of fireworks explodes within Yerim. The cracks shoot upwards, before Yerim catalyzes midway with another soft squeeze on the breast: Wow. Her moan doesn’t sound like "wow" either. Just a cherry messily processing the discovered sensation, unable to stop the urge, and instead she can only tame it with a rub on her panties.

And almost at the same second, her core tightens, before vanity invades underneath the fabric.

"More... oppa..."

Liberate herself from the stars. Evade from the billowing fear of ruining the relationship, or at bare minimum, spiraling into the awkward abyss. Day after day she waits for a reciprocation- the day she can finally confess without making you uncomfortable.

You'll figure it out and c-cum... come to me soon.

Fuck, she almost feels the same writer's block as you do. Instead of words, she can only think of a rhapsody, cheap melodramas slowly corrupting into porn Yerim accidentally ran into, thanks to Minjeong fingering herself in a shower booth. Her friend today, though, doesn't appear in Yerim's mushy brain. It's completely full of you...

And your wood. The girl sits up, full-blown blushing, and stares down at her fingers rubbing the hormone overflow. Obvious hints from her cotton panties give the final drive of her wrists that shed off that final cloth down.

Her bravado doesn't stop there, turning on the selfie camera of the tablet. It lands right in front of her bare core.

So that's where your devil's wings have gone. Lustful thoughts turned up to eleven for Yerim. Cherry lips aren't helpful at all when they bite each other defending against the fire. Ounces of blood have gone through starry treks towards swollen folds, where your spacecraft would venture in between.

Already she's making metaphors for her desires, language broken down and reformed. Only her impulse remained to prevent that pussy pic from being taken. You really should've brought the pad alongside, but keeping your Choerry entertained was far more important, despite the fact that she's doing such a thing just fine with mere fingers.

"Hnnng... oppa it feels so good... what should I do...." She couldn't imagine your reactions had you received a picture of her pussy, and oh, she might've written a cheeky caption of "my devil's wings" Extra emojis. >_<, and let your Megan-noona see it.

You should listen to the wet squelches her fingers are making. Eyes shall be attentive to the pool of cream that has ruined the sheets beneath, with beams of vision also scanning the twitching lips. Two digits rubbing the ball bearing, same moves she had replicated from your massage on her abdomen during periods.

It's all about you. The wait has made her fragile heart a little bit more sensitive—a pouty and grumpy Choerry whenever girls tried to hit on you. Of course she knows why you're getting flirted with. It's fucking the same reason Yerim likes you.

Jealousy unlocked; Lust upgraded. Yerim wants your love so badly.

She wants it on her, like her palm enveloping her clit. Lewd whines elicited.

And she wants it inside her, like the other finger pushing into the utter wetness. Maximum pleasure overcharged.

Her hips twitch; euphoria floods the canal for its first ever intruder. The unventured cosmos has finally welcomed the trailblazer as it stretches the realm open. Paralyzing charges again, dragging Yerim's head deeper into the bed for the second time making loud moans. She doesn't care if the janitor knocks on the door for noise complaints again. No one can stop her from making love calls for you.

If one finger is enough to pool up a sticky mess between thighs, Yerim would love to have another digit in, still too far from what she estimates on your clothed missile.

An interstellar missile giving Yerim an incomparable starstruck. She timidly pulls out, and with glittering expectations, another thrust; another ballistic impact. Residue of your body heat spreads further across Yerim's body, only visible behind those closed eyes. For the very first time, she's lost in the cosmos, madly pumping a sensitive hole in and out, Pink flesh—only driven by instincts—wraps stronger and stronger around the digits.

The other hand, in the meantime, chases down the blaze and goes under her shirt. Imagine. Visualize your hands doing naughty jobs on her private parts. This is something only the person she loves can do, and that person is you.

You you you you you. Meteor strikes, crashing her nerves from her core to chest, with one hitting a creamy puddle and squelches, the other hitting her heating brain and splashes sparks. What words can she describe such a feeling? Any syllable that a writer can manifest on the involuntary flutters in her vagina? Even if there's one, the burgundy patch on Yerim's cheeks are too shy to say anything, but she's definitely thinking of you.

You, pulling her flush against your body, her desired rocket delivering raptures in astronomical levels, and all of a sudden her core initiates a countdown.

1...

Expel the vanity by emptying your rocket fuel. Unload all your seed inside as Yerim squeals to an orgasm debut, learning not to let go of your imaginary cock inside with whatever way she can. Milk it, and squeeze it in full force. Yerim suffers an electric shock and writhes all over her bed, in utmost jubilee of cream that overflows the occupied hole and ruins the bed.

"Oppa- oppa... oppaaaaa...." Not enough it seems. The devil inside her is finally free after ages of chastity had secured itself behind the bars. Accept the invite of her palm rubbing the clit, and dance with the thrusting digits. Another orgasm crashes down the bed, before thick blows of heat gushes onto fingertips—a cream pipe exploding in space.

One more, her devil whispers into her ears. She wants you, to the point of taking your pillow and sliding it between her legs. Creamy pussy instantly glues onto the pillow case, as experienced as her hand clinging onto you everyday. Dopamine would overflow in her head that way, and it works the same right now, but with extra dose of sex hormones on rampage, Yerim needs you as well.

More core strength she'd use than in dance club; More stamina she'd burn to grind your pillow. The stain grows dark, and it can go darker and creamier. Everything is possible when Yerim closes her eyes: You can be underneath kissing her pulsating folds, or you can rock her wide hips on your cock. Imagination fills the emptiness of her hole gripping onto nothing.

"Ffff-fuckkkk... o-oppa..." Lewd whimpers dismantle Yerim's purity and innocence. It's all infatuation, the mysterious driver that pushes Yerim to the climax again. "Oh my god, oppa! Oppa please play with my pussy- I'm... I'm gonna cum! I'm gonna cccc-ahhh...."

The world delves into a dead silence.

Cherry bombs explode all over her body in unstoppable tremors as her wall contracts and inflates. White cream recolors the imaginary cock, or face into the white world she creates solely for you. Remnants of her overloading love, paler than the moon, drizzles down the pillow to join the ocean of cream, a celebration for their freedom, from the girl now entering her own white world till she returns.

She opens her eyes, and there's no you. Just a pillow and its bed. What a harsh reality.

So full, yet it's not your seed. Shattered senses are finally recovered when she sits up, and to her surprise, what a mess she has created on your bed. The iPad discarded aside is splattered with slick, and the bed sheet gathers all the sweet, cherry stars she has, a lot more to go when cream won't stop flowing out of her clenching hole.

Fatigued, she lifts up her dirty hand. More spider webs her pussy can create than Yerim herself in Minecraft. The girl is utterly embarrassed.

But masturbation feels so good. All the stress she had has been effectively erased. That's why Minjeong loves touching herself in shower booth. Sluggishly she folds up her legs and retrieves the creamed iPad. The selfie camera is still on, finding whatever that glitters under bed lights.

Yerim's shy smile is one. Can't help herself immersing within the aquatic planes of post-climax, every cell of hers itching for another go.

Click. The pad cracks a flash, now the gallery app is tainted with a cheeky filth, pink lips hungrily pulsing for your cock. This horny Yerim—a newly discovered persona—would love to check out your reactions again.

Including your dick growing hard enough to poke her inner thighs. "Mmmnnngh...." Cute whines from Yerim wouldn't aid anything upon realizing the mess she has to clean afterwards, especially when you'll return soon. The libido has to be postponed, maybe in the showers later. Everything on the bed from bed sheet to covers has to be renewed.

In the shower booth she stares at her left hand, where her devil tattoo marks itself on. Three rounds of lovely mess have almost blotted out the cartoonish design before Yerim waggles her fingers. Maybe your semen would feel similar to those gooey webs.

She can't wait to know, but she can't be this selfish.

"I'll wait for you, oppa..." Muttering under the shower she thinks about you. Perpetual thoughts.

"I really really really like you."

----------

Hands on her waist, her hips and legs gluing onto yours. Your nose buries into brown hair, where citrus shampoo abides. Cold midnight beams have cast a shadow on Yerim, now halfway into the land of tranquil. She would've slept before you did, if you hadn't returned in time, meeting her half-lidded eyes.

But as far as you know, she could never sleep without you. The cherry in your eyes remains the cute, bright ball of sunshine that can't turn off her energy most of the time, while you're the moon, or the planet that bounds to her via gravity. She pulled you into the bed, and complained about leaving her alone for too long.

And she still does, "Stay close to me next time." Hoarse tone tingling your dormant heart while rustling the bed, "Oppa should've brought me along to get Megan-unnie..."

"If you wanna watch her throw up in a trash can, absolutely."

"Eww oppa..."

"You said I should've taken you along."

It was actually a question Jiwon asked you as well, albeit not in full consciousness. Seeing you not in tandems with Yerim is rarer than a halo eclipse, or you two not bantering with each other. Even Megan’s drunk self found it weird of you to be with any girl that isn't Yerim. Everyone just assumes you and Yerim are born to be together.

Childhood sweethearts they say. A fluff that's meant to end well. Maybe the mental barricades are saying otherwise, but you know they would rampage when Yerim turns around and faces you.

Starstruck. The only word a dungeon master can come up with whilst dreams slowly intruding the minds, your night vision flawlessly captures her form. Stunning stars, represented by her orbs, seem to withhold a desire behind those parted lips. By now you would've asked her what she wants. Yerim in sentimental hours would love your hugs and cuddles.

Unbearable of silence, Yerim closes in with a gentle kiss on your lips. No tongues; no make-outs. Ringing her arms over your neck, she lingers for a longer freeze, and reluctantly, you follow your devil's will and complies.

You like her enough to nibble her lips.

Too bad you still don't know that she likes you enough to suckle yours.

No words would like to admit that is the strongest kiss you both have ever felt.

"G'night, Choerry." Your guilt separates the kiss, but your body accepts her tighter embrace.

"Good night, oppa." The last three words you hear from Yerim, before you both head into the cosmos.

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