chase

“Is everyone enjoying themselves tonight?”

The crowd roars back its appreciation thunderously, deafeningly. Tonight’s two hour set is just about done, and you’re at that part of the concert again, the highlight of every single show: you’re scanning the thousands in attendance, searching for the one—

And you find her: she’s right at the corner of the barricade, modestly dressed compared to the rest in band merch and simple tee shirts.

“You! Lady in the corner!” you call out through the mic, trying to grab their attention. It’s not even intentional, but she’s acting like those performative folk who claim they’re ‘not like other girls’ by reading a book during these shows. She isn’t even reading at all; if anything, she seems lost—like she shouldn’t belong here, or anywhere close.

Her angelic face doesn’t help case one bit.

But you try anyway. And she does notice. Her eyes catch you, sparkling, and—

Your stutter almost catches on the mic, only to go overlooked by the raucous noise. Even when her eyes widen in surprise and her gaze locks onto you, you never lose your full grip on being professional. You’ve done this dozens of times on the tour alone, but none of your chosen audience has ever caught your breath away—until now.

Reluctantly, she points a finger to herself, just to make sure. You repeat the invitation.

“Yeah you! Would you like to come on and sing this next song with us?”

The crowd echoes its support through another round of deafening cheers. After a moment’s hesitation, the young woman reluctantly agrees, being guided by security past the barricade before walking herself up the steps and onto center stage.

As the woman reveals herself to the thousands strong, the thunderous roar feels louder than usual, with some even calling her out specifically— Yuri —as if she’s someone you’re supposed to know. Given the general anonymity of your guests, comprised entirely of teenage fangirls and the occasional fanboy, she’s not far off from the former.

But nevermind that; now she’s standing right in front of you, your eyes meeting directly once more.

“What’s the pretty girl’s name?” you ask, holding up the mic in her face.

Someone in the crowd echoes out “Yuri,” drawing another round of resounding cheers. The woman covers her face out of sheer embarrassment. Doesn’t seem to be a partner or accompanied by anyone; it’s just her, but the way everyone calls out her name makes it now clear she’s more than ordinary in an otherwise faceless room.

As you draw the mic back, trying to ease her into it, she utters her own name, modest and low: "Jo Yuri."

And the patrons roar out their approval again. This unprecedented level of support for an invited fan is something else, something foreign.

"You seem to be quite the popular one here!” you remark, pointing out how everyone’s been on her side. Her cheeks are flushed; she keeps her hands close together, head lowered for the most part, trying to look unassuming when the spotlight’s on her.

But you’re committed to the part, so you keep it pushing: “So—for this part,” you start again, breaking the tension, “You know the lyrics to our next song, yeah?”

The guitarist begins strumming to the tune of a familiar song, one that’s deemed difficult, if not impossible to cover, but the lyrics convey the ironic relationship you have with your general fanbase.

Yuri nods along as you hand her your mic and grab a second one from nearby. The crowd relaxes into solemn silence as the stage lights fade, shrinking down to just you and your invited guest as the rest of the instrumental kicks in.

Even after the show’s long over, the frenzy’s still there.

Emerging from the exit doors, the crowd make themselves loud and clear, standing just outside from a distance, with security posted up at the barricades, coming alive as if you’re starting the night all over again. Patient, obsessive hundreds of fangirls lined up in rows willing to die for more, another round, a glimpse, a chance.

A simple glance and wave of acknowledgement in their general direction is more than enough to get them going again, screaming their lungs out, cameras flashing, phones held high, the lot of them.

It’s a sight you’ve gotten used to, the same thing day in, day out. It never gets old, but it does become tiresome at points. They should be going home, not waiting in the freezing cold.

Fuck it, the tour is almost over. You’ll oblige.

As security tries to dissuade you from approaching the rabid throng, you assure them it’ll be quick. Pulling a pen from your shirt pocket, the guards form a makeshift wall as you step towards the crowd, taking pictures, signing random shit they throw your way (mostly tour merch and albums), ignoring that some of them are down horrendous. You feel the desperation when they pull on your arm, on your shirt, and when they refuse to budge whenever you move away from them.

It’s a lot. It’s dangerous. It’s why you’ve stopped doing these public backstage walks, mostly. But the fans have also adapted, through bribery or knowledge of the surroundings, any means to get close to you.

Front row gets majority of the interactions before security decides enough is enough and whisks you away and to the cars. You don’t get through to them all. That’s to be expected, but it is what it is.

The other bandmates have already left while you stayed behind, meaning it’s just you back to your hotel.

And when you return to your room, the adrenaline crashes all at once. The couch has never felt more comfy when you slump back on it. The weight of the world finally seems to ease up, and the deep sigh feels like heavenly relief: no more obsessive crowds, no more nailing songs, just some much needed peace and quiet.

As you pull your phone from your shirt pocket, you notice a thin sheet of paper caught on the phone case. Tearing it away reveals a number and a familiar name:

> +82 10-XXXX-YYYY

> thanks for inviting me, twas a lotta fun. here’s my number if you wanna talk

> jy

If the initials didn’t give it away, the note itself is a dead giveaway.

'Jy’ was the very same girl you had picked out of the crowd. Yuri. You recall her soft, innocent smile and timid, demure nature before she belted her ass off during the cover. Admittedly, for those four minutes she shared the stage, she overshadowed you. And it wasn’t remotely close.

It’s a strange new feeling. And to think she’s supposed to be just another fan.

“Yuri,” you mutter, trying to connect the dots. There’s more to her than just a pretty face: the way the crowd roared as her presence was reflected on the cameras, how they erupted once she said her name—how they already knew—she’s something more.

Against your better judgment, you dial the number. A few tense moments later, an answer:

“Hello?”

“Yuri?”

Her soft, airy laugh fills your ears. “I—I didn’t think you’d entertain my number. Thanks again for letting me join you on stage. It was a huge honor.”

“Um—I know this might seem sudden but—” You’re swallowing your throat, ruminating about the consequences. It’s been a while since the last hookup, the last blind bender. One fueled by drugs and alcohol to cope with the stress of touring. Clean ever since, but this—this is a voluntary choice. “Do you have time tonight?”

“Of course.” The answer comes out almost immediate, as if she’d been waiting her whole life for this opportunity. “Why? Do you wanna talk?”

“Sorry I don’t really have much,” you say to your guest, pouring a glass of alcohol on her cup. It was already half empty from the night before.

Yuri’s got the whole act pat down like muscle memory: quiet, reserved, shy. The smile’s constantly modest, barely touching her eyes as she sits on the edge of your hotel couch. Her posture is deliberately straight, shoulders slightly hunched inward as if trying to make herself look smaller than she already is. She keeps her gaze low most of the time, only occasionally stealing glances at you through thick lashes that flutter against her porcelain skin.

Even the way she takes the tiniest sip from the glass seems rehearsed: delicate and measured, as if afraid to disturb the shoddily crafted atmosphere between you with something as mundane as thirst.

“I gotta say it one more time,” you start, trying to ease her into conversation, “You were fucking amazing. That voice is—something else.”

“Thanks,” she hushes, deliberately suppressing herself. So maybe it’s just Yuri being—Yuri.

“I mean,” You’re drinking up the last of your own glass, setting it down with a loud clasp, “You got some of the loudest cheers of any invited fan. At points, I thought you were the one inviting me to perform.”

She doesn’t say a word; she just smiles. Her blush turns a slight rosy red, hands clasped together, cheeks puffing a little at the flattering comment.

“So after the show ended, we did a bit of searching and—” you pivot on your heel suddenly, her gaze completely avoiding yours, “—turns out you’re a singer. An indie singer, but a singer’s a singer.”

You hold your phone up toward her; the screen displays her Spotify page, with her 526,000 monthly listeners, a step below your band’s 4.3 million, but given the crowd’s immense reception earlier, she’s not just some small-time name.

“Is there anything else I’m missing?” you ask.

“Well,” Yuri sighs a bit, furrowing her brows staring intently at your phone, “I’ve done some acting here and there.”

Suddenly, it clicks. The missing piece. One that got lost in the heat of the moment.

“Wait.” You suddenly say, your eyes widening at the realization. “Player 222, right? Squid Game? Fucking loved the show! Hate what they did to your character, but you crushed it.”

She simply nods.

“So,” you continue, putting the phone down on the coffee table, “What brought you to our concert? I didn’t know the Jo Yuri was a fan of our music.”

“Just wanted to catch a good show. A friend had tickets, and she didn’t want to go alone, so—”

“Gotcha,” you reply, nodding along.

“You had an amazing show, by the way. Like, really good. Loved that you performed my personal favorite song.”

“Thank you. Means a lot.”

You’re smiling. She’s far more relaxed now, crossing her leg, her posture still mostly straight, but clearly loosened up. Seeing her now like this—black dress even in the cold, beneath a thick winter coat—she’s angelic.

And perhaps that’s the point: to not be seen. To not be recognized. To be caught lacking in public during what’s meant to be her downtime would bring even more stress than it already is as a celebrity figure. She probably would have preferred being all the way in the back, now that you think about it. The fans—both hers and yours—can’t stop talking about her unexpected presence and performance online too, sharing videos and pics that spread like wildfire.

A brutal realization hits: you just brought her unwanted attention that she accepted with nothing but quiet grace.

“So—sorry, about the little gig,” you suddenly say, remorseful and genuine. “I mean—I didn’t realize—”

“Okay, let’s not get carried away,” she interrupts, grabbing your arms and shaking you down to her gaze. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. I said it was an honor to join you. And it was nice to sing, even for a little.”

You’re shaking your head, insisting on the apology. “Right.”

“I may be an actress, but I’m a singer first,” Yuri suggests, assuring you with that charming little smile that’s too good to be true. “I don’t forget my roots.”

“Not bad,” you remark as the instrumental to her recent song ends: very rock sounding, a far cry from her otherwise bubblegum, light fare. You’ve spent the hour going through her rather small but flavorful discography on the couch. “I can see where the inspiration came from.”

“Yeah, wanted to do something different this time,” she answers, pressing pause on the music playing through her phone. “But thank you.”

“Wish I could say the same for us, but—” you chuckle a bit, rubbing the back of your neck, “We’ve been running the same formula for a few years now. That new song at the start was us experimenting, you could say.”

“Nah, I think you guys are pretty solid. I’m a bigger fan than you’d expect.”

“Everyone says that,” you say, jokingly.

Yuri raises a puzzled brow. “Really?”

“Nah. I’m just playing; you’re the first one to say that. Or third. I don’t know anymore. I’ve lost count.”

She laughs. The softness in it—ugh. It pulls on your heartstrings.

“So,” Yuri starts again, placing the phone down, “How does the rest of the night go?”

“Well,” you sigh, leaning back on the couch. “It’s whatever you want. We can keep talking shop, or we can call it a night. Either of those options is fine by me.”

“Very bold to say that straight to my face,” she remarks. “So the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” The atmosphere has shifted now, her grin going from modest to coy. “You’re a fuckboy, they say.”

Shit. She may be more than just a fan after all.

“Where’d you get that from,” you ask.

“I don’t know. Just some accounts describing situations like this: making your guest feel comfortable, getting rather intimate, and then, you know—”

“Hey. They didn’t say no,” you interrupt. No pretense, no hiding. The tone makes it clear: you’ve been through this before. “And no, I didn’t have them sign NDAs and all that shit. Too much paperwork. Not a damn peep other than some snarky comment about finishing too soon.”

Yuri laughs. “Makes for good songwriting inspo, though.”

The chuckle you let out is priceless. Like breaking character. It’s funny cause it’s true.

“Would you?”

“I don’t know. Try me.”

She raises the challenge; from this point, the chains are completely off.

Yuri sees it coming a mile away: the inevitable. Yet she doesn’t resist or budge when you lean in and kiss her. You’re backing her against the couch, her chin cupped in your grasp, breaths smelling like alcohol and mint all at once. She closes her eyes and lets it sink in; further and further you assert yourself over her, like the stakes have never been higher.

Because she’s no ordinary fan and should be treated as such. She doesn’t come onto you like the typical groupie begging to be slutted out; she’s daring you to prove something: that you’re not just another performer looking to notch another conquest on your tour belt, that you see beyond the carefully constructed facade, that you recognize the talent and raw potential beneath the shy exterior.

She’s testing you, seeing if you’ll crumble under the weight of her gaze or rise to meet it with equal intensity.

And the way her legs wrap on your waist, you’re matching her level. Or maybe she’s stooping down to yours.

The careful, casual facade disappears with each kiss, turning rougher and rougher, trading rational thought for pure, primal instinct. While both your hands are pressed on her warm, blooming face, she’s wrestling on the fabric of your shirt, sighing as air escapes her lips, demanding breathing room that you subtly allow back in.

“For a self-professed fuckboy, you sure kiss like a goddamn lover,” is the best possible way she can describe it, and hearing it straight from her saccharine voice is something else. Validation.

“Let’s see how well you take it, then,” you tease, pulling her so close that your temples meet.

She tilts her head, conceding the expanse of her neck. “I’m ready whenever.”

Your hand slides across the length of her luscious thigh, moving up and down, squeezing, feeling, savoring the warmth and the smoothness of her skin. Yuri shudders, her grip tightening, her teeth sinking into her lip. All that creamy flesh under the slimmest of dresses beneath.

“Someone’s sensitive,” you mumble, breath hot, trailing soft pecks down to her collarbone.

“Could say the same about you,” she sighs, her hand finding your groin and the bulge growing behind your pants.

Using your strength, you scoop Yuri into your arms, continuously making out with her as you lead her to the bedroom, setting her down just in front of the mattress itself. As you transition between rooms, you loosen her bun and let her raven colored hair down.

Next, you’re undressing in a quick, rushed manner. How she casually slips off her black dress down to her bra while you make light work of your shirt, belt, and jeans, puddling your clothes together into a single large messy pool on the floor—it’s curt, economical, clearly screaming to get on with the sex and focus less on the romance of it all.

You both know the deal and how it ends; this night will be an afterthought soon after.

But the way you admire her body, and the way she admires yours is a momentary respite from the raw carnality.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” you remark, drinking in the sight of her almost bare, utterly divine form. The way her bra emphasizes her shapely breasts contrasting her petite frame—Christ.

You’re kissing her again, a little harder, a little faster, a little more intense. Her hands are around your neck, her body pressed against yours, her nipples hard, poking through the thin fabric. Yuri seems to understand, reaching back to unclasp the bra, letting you bite the center gore off and tossed aside.

When your fingers hook on the hem of her panties, she’s already wet, and she moans slightly, shuddering, her thighs clamping on your wrist.

“Want it bad now, do we?” you tease, slipping a digit between the obstructive piece of clothing and feeling her core, freshly slick and aroused.

Yuri doesn’t respond with words; she answers with action.

Dragging you down onto the sheets with her, you crash and freefall together, falling on top of her like loose pieces of an incomplete puzzle. Then you capture her lips in another passionate kiss, her nails raking your scalp and neck, while your hands are reaching around the expanse of her back.

Passionate and needy, you can’t stop making out, as your bodies tangle up beyond saving.

Her hands snake down your chest, past your stomach, until they reach your boxers. Staking her claim, her fingers tug on the elastic band and yank them down, letting your cock spring free, hitting close to her inner thigh.

“Look who’s eager,” you whisper, your breath hot and heavy, hovering above her. She keens.

“Maybe I am,” she mutters, her hand wrapping around your girth, stroking the shaft slowly, her thumb swiping your tip.

“Fuck,” you groan, the sensation sending shivers throughout your body.

“Like that?” Yuri teases, eyes fluttering, gasping for air. She doesn’t relent; her strokes pick up speed, her thumb rubbing the head, the precum oozing out, inking her fingerprints.

“C'mon,” you say, snatching her wrist. “Enough teasing. Let me—”

“Just getting it ready,” she quips, smirking devilishly, that air of modesty now a weapon turned against you. “Easy now—”

Your mind blanks out on that last bit, because you slip into her cunt gradually, drawing a groan from her lips that feels rather heavy.

“Shit—too big—too big—” Yuri grunts out, her eyes slamming shut, the sensation of your cock entering her too much to bear.

The adrenaline consumes you; the euphoric embrace of her welcoming, tight walls overrides any rational thought. You’re slamming into her slick folds effortlessly, each thrust driving you further into her warm, suffocating heat. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, her ragged breaths and your guttural groans its own musical chaos that feels just right.

“Yes—fuck—fuck yes—” she whines, lifting a leg, pressing it on your waist. All the more reason to fuck her senseless.

This is both reward and relapse; the kind of nights you live for and regret; what the songs are inspired by. It’s why you do this shit, and also why you drink, smoke, and have sex to cope when the lights fade. It’s the rockstar lifestyle that they glorified back then but condemn now; fucking your choice of groupie or girl, sometimes two or three (maybe at once), keep it on the low. The rumors are indeed true; you’ll fuck the lights out of the girl tonight and forget about her the next day. You’ll get on that plane and do it again twice more in Singapore and Manila before it’s done, and this is what you’ll miss the most when the tour wraps.

But fucking Yuri— the Jo Yuri —seeing, hearing her gasping, shaking and pleading for more, is the ideal victory lap.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” you murmur, kissing her forehead. Groaning against her temple, your thrusts are relentless.

“Yes, yes, yes,” is her only response, her hips rolling, bucking, her back arching. Eyes closed, letting the pleasure utterly consume her entire being.

“So damn tight,” you growl, bottoming out, her pussy wrapped around your cock. “Fuck—fuck—so good—”

The way your body naturally moves when she begs— faster, harder —and you effortlessly give her what she wants. It’s so fucked; the girl would usually fold to your whims, but this—is something else. And not just because Yuri is—well, Jo Yuri—rather, how goddamn incredible this feeling is. More than the usual ecstasy of letting loose after a stressful couple of hours. For once, you’re not rushing, not dying to get to the climax and pass out; but instead, you’re savoring every thrust, every moan, every bounce of her breasts, every slap of flesh against hers like this is truly the last one.

It makes for great cold turkey against your vices, yet it’s as addicting as all of them combined.

“Ah—baby—I'm—close—” she pants between gritted teeth, trying to find some semblance of composure, but not quite.

“Not yet—” you mutter out, desperate not to let this fleeting moment pass so quickly, “Not yet. Cum only when I tell you to.”

“Oh God—”

The cry Yuri lets out is complete anguish and despair, the kind that brooks no argument. Not a want, but need.

It feels cruel to demand such a twisted thing from someone as demure as Yuri, like stripping a goddess of her divinity. Yet you call all the shots, reminding her—and yourself—of how the game is played.

“I—I can’t,” she whines, her mouth agape, head lolled all the way back. “Can't—hold—”

“Trust me baby, it’s gonna be all right,” you assure her, but the strokes you pump into her are anything but comforting. If anything, it’s coaxing her into an earlier demise. “Need you—just a little longer—”

“Please, please, please,” she mutters back, beyond overwhelmed by the sensation coursing through her veins. Tears are welling from her eyes.

“Almost—” You manage to utter, crashing your lips hard into hers, trying to keep it together, but for only a moment.

Losing grip on reality with each passing second, your loins feeling like hell, the coil threatens to snap at any given time. Still, you’re hammering into her with reckless abandon, one leg raised, pumping from that same angle with the exact same result. Everything else feels irrelevant; only the climax, the taste of bliss on the other side is what matters right now.

“Look at me,” you command; not a request, but a demand.

Yuri struggles. Ecstasy overriding her senses, unable to follow even the simplest of orders. Her head’s all over the place, scrambling to open, to find clarity, to find you. It’s pain, punishment, and pleasure all at once.

And when she focuses, locks gazes for a split second—

“Cum.”

The singular command activates something in her.

A raw, primal scream tears from her throat as her body arches violently against yours, back bowing so deeply you fear she might break. Her eyes, wide with shock and overwhelming pleasure, fixate on your tired gaze for a moment before closing once more.

Her leg goes limp, falling back down to the bed, as her orgasm ripples through every muscle, every nerve in her now slack body. Turning into a melting heap beneath you, watching a woman fold like this, especially now that it’s Yuri—it never gets old. Every single time.

As waves of her slick coat your cock and spill onto the sheets, you don’t stop moving. If anything, it only coaxes you to follow sooner.

When your own climax finally comes moments later, the feeling is its own reward.

Her pussy hungrily swallows your load, wasting not a single drop as you bottom out and bury yourself to the hilt. Resting your head against her neck, leaving a mark on her skin with your teeth for good measure as you slam into her cunt one last time.

All that leftover adrenaline dies right then and there, and your bodies become one satisfied puddle on the bed.

Hours ago, your ears were filled with screams and loud music. Now, it’s only deep breaths and satisfied sighs.

A phone ringing breaks your otherworldly daze. Not yours.

Hers.

Sighing, your grip on Yuri’s hair loosens while she works your cock with her pretty mouth. On her knees while you’re seated on the couch, her lips are glossy stained with your cum, spreading to her cheek, chin, and even down to her chest.

“3 AM,” is all you manage to groan out, annoyed by the audacity for someone to call at this ungodly hour. Either you were deeply passed out drunk or in the middle of writing new songs around this time. But not tonight. Not when you can’t feel your legs. And it’s all thanks to Yuri.

Her airy hum reverberates through your bones as she releases you from her mouth with a sloppy pop, reaching for the buzzing phone on the coffee table. “Hello?”

The room momentarily goes silent, save for the hushed chatter between Yuri and the anonymous caller. She only answers in simple 'hmms,’ nods, head shakes, and 'okays.’

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I just—wanted some late night coffee. I’m already home,” she says, adding “Goodnight,” before hanging up.

“Who was that?” you mutter, sounding borderline drunk, tipping on the point of stuttering.

“Just a friend,” she says casually, setting the phone back down on the table. “You know, she really wanted to be on that stage. Instead of—”

“Of you,” you finish her sentence, smiling at the cruelty of it all. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I mean, she’s more of a fan of your music than I am,” she admits. “She has a poster in her bedroom.”

“And why was she calling at this ungodly hour?” you ask.

“Wondered where I disappeared to,” she answers, blunt and to the point. No lies, no sugarcoating. “When you called, I just—left her.”

“And you didn’t say anything? Not even a clue?”

Yuri shakes her head vehemently. “No.”

“And why didn’t you tell her?”

“Because,” she sighs, closing her eyes for a moment, a smile subtly forming. This modest tone feels foreign and unusual now that you’ve come to know her rather intimately. It’s like seeing a whole different person, even though both sides are one and the same.

“A fan is nothing compared to a star like me.”