Wicked Strings, Wicked Things
Jolly Karllson X Connar O'neil (female user)
18+ Sexual Content, Strong language, Emotional Intamacy
*on tour mischief and band pranks
*jealousy and miscommunication
*shower sex, dressing room sex, bathroom quickies
*emotional breakdowns + soft aftercare
* Secret relationship drama
Connar O’Neil’s first mistake was thinking she could walk onto the Bad Omens tour bus like she owned the place.
Her second mistake was doing it with a coffee the size of a toddler in one hand, a camera bag slung dangerously over one shoulder, and a cigarette she wasn’t even legally supposed to be smoking near a venue.
The third mistake? Locking eyes with Joakim “Jolly” Karlsson and immediately blurting, “You’re hotter in person. Still look like a haunted IKEA model though.”
Jolly didn’t even blink. Just arched one perfect Swedish eyebrow and stared at her like she was a particularly noisy raccoon that had wandered onto the bus.
“That was a greeting, I think,” he deadpanned, glancing over at Noah, who was too busy laughing into his protein shake to intervene.
“She’s the new photog,” Noah said, grinning like a man who lived to stir chaos. “Be nice, Jolly. We don’t want her quitting before we hit Cleveland.”
“Cleveland’s where I start quitting,” Connar muttered, squeezing past amps and duffel bags to claim a seat at the little faux-kitchen table. “Nice to meet you, IKEA. I’m chaos incarnate. Let’s make some regrettable art.”
Noah fist-bumped her. Jolly sighed like he’d aged ten years in ten seconds.
The first hour on the road was a mess of black denim, tangled charging cords, and an awkward amount of leg contact between her and Jolly in the cramped booth seating. She pretended not to notice when his knee brushed hers for the third time.
He pretended he hadn’t noticed her playlist blaring through tinny earbuds — until she started singing along.
“Are you actually singing Nickelback?” he asked flatly, voice almost drowned out by the sound of Chad Kroeger crooning something painful.
Connar yanked one earbud out. “Yes. And if you keep judging me, I’ll start on Creed next.”
He gave her a look. The kind that could curdle oat milk. She gave it right back — hers came with dimples and middle fingers.
Later that night, Connar tried to stealthily pee in the tiny bathroom without tripping over someone’s bass case.
There was a loud thud, a string of curses, and the unmistakable sound of someone falling directly onto the toilet lid. She emerged five minutes later, limping and laughing, to find Jolly leaning against the kitchenette, shirtless, drinking tea like a Scandinavian Bond villain.
“You good?” he asked without looking up.
“No. I have a concussion and I think your bassist stores socks in the sink.”
He took a long sip, eyes trailing up to meet hers, dark and unreadable.
“This is going to be a long tour.”
Connar grinned, tugged down her hoodie, and flopped onto the couch opposite him.
“Buckle up, IKEA. I’m just getting started.”
There were two things Joakim Karlsson hated more than social media: being photographed, and being photographed by someone loud.
Connar O’Neil was both loud and holding a Canon with a telephoto lens like she’d just been given a weapon and absolutely intended to misuse it.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Jolly muttered from across the dimly lit backstage area. His guitar rested across his lap as he adjusted a pedal cable, unaware—or pretending not to be—that Connar was already snapping pics of him from behind a stack of amps.
“Like what?” she said, the shutter clicking again and again. “Like you’re the reluctant cover model for ‘Moody Goth Daddy Digest’?”
He turned slowly, eyebrow cocked, mouth twitching just enough to make her question whether he was about to smirk or commit murder.
“You’re lucky that guitar isn’t plugged in,” he said, voice low. “I’d hit a chord so loud it’d shatter that lens.”
“Oh no,” she mock-gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. “Not my baby. You wouldn’t hurt her, would you? She’s done nothing but capture your tragic little jawline all night.”
“And you’re weirdly photogenic for someone with resting funeral director face.”
He blinked slowly. Then, in an act that could only be described as casual violence, he leaned back in his chair, spread his legs just slightly wider, tilted his head, and gave her the slowest, laziest smolder she’d ever seen.
“Oh, fuuuck you,” she muttered under her breath.
“Was that the shutter or your soul leaving your body?”
Later that night, the band finished rehearsals and disappeared into showers, vape clouds, and whatever chaos Noah and Folio got up to after 11 PM.
Connar stayed behind, importing photos into Lightroom on her laptop while sitting cross-legged on the venue’s crusty backstage couch. She’d just gotten to one where Jolly had his eyes half-lidded and a guitar pick between his lips when—
“You editing my funeral photos?”
He was behind her. Barefoot. Hair wet. Shirtless.
“Jesus fuck!” she said, slapping a hand over her screen like it was porn. “What are you, a ninja? Don’t sneak up on people with Scandinavian nipples out!”
Jolly looked mildly amused. “If you’re gonna photograph me all day, you might as well let me see what the damage is.”
“Oh no, this isn’t a democracy,” she said. “This is a dictatorship and I’m Stalin with a tripod.”
He leaned over the back of the couch. His arm brushed hers. His breath was warm on her neck.
“Let me guess,” he murmured. “You edited the shadows to make my cheekbones even more tragic?”
Connar smirked without looking up. “Nah. You’re already a Victorian ghost. I just brought the dead vibe to life.”
There was a pause. A pause that had vibe.
“I should hate you,” he said.
He stepped back. “Not sure that’s the word I’d use anymore.”
And for a split second, there was heat. Dangerous, slow-burning, slow-building, do-not-touch heat.
Then Folio barged in, holding three boxes of pizza and yelling something about pineapple being a food crime.
Jolly grabbed a slice, winked at her — winked — and walked away.
Connar stared at the empty doorway.
And very quietly, to herself, she whispered:
Tour buses are not designed for normal human existence.
They’re designed by sadists who thought, “What if you trapped ten emotionally unstable musicians in a metal tube with the personal space of a coffin?”
Connar discovered this approximately ten minutes into night three of the tour, when she learned that her assigned bunk — a top bunk — was directly across from Jolly’s.
Like, eye level. Like, could-spit-on-him-if-she-tried level.
“Oh good,” she said as she stared into his unimpressed face from two feet away. “It’s prison, but with more eyeliner and bad decisions.”
Jolly didn’t even blink. “If you snore, I’m tasing you with Noah’s electric toothbrush.”
“If you breathe too loud, I’m putting glitter in your shampoo.”
“Do that and I’ll put your vibrator in the freezer.”
Connar opened her mouth. Closed it. Then muttered, “Bold of you to assume I only have one.”
And then climbed into her bunk, flipping him off as she disappeared behind her privacy curtain.
Sleep, it turned out, was impossible.
The bus rocked like a possessed washing machine. Someone farted in their sleep. Folio snored like a dying bear. And worst of all?
Some slow, low, dreamy melody — just under his breath. Soft enough to be almost tender. Close enough to feel it in her chest.
Connar turned over, pillow half over her head. “Stop serenading me, IKEA, it’s giving me feelings and those are banned.”
Then: “You could just ask me to stop nicely.”
“Nothing about me is nice.”
“No shit,” he said. “You eat leftover nachos in bed and you once called me ‘Goth Legolas.’”
“No you didn’t. You said it while pouring tequila into your Red Bull.”
Silence fell again — but not peaceful silence. It was that weird kind of heavy silence, like the air knew they were both pretending to be asleep, but not really.
“Are you—?!” she blurted.
His curtain snapped open. His face was blank. Calm. Hair mussed. Lips… parted.
“I had a cramp,” he said flatly.
Connar narrowed her eyes.
They stared at each other in the blue-lit dark.
“Fine,” she muttered, yanking her curtain shut again. “But if I hear you making those sounds again, I’m joining in just to make it weirder.”
And then he said — far too quietly, far too smugly:
She made a sound halfway between a shriek and a pillow scream.
Somewhere, a bottle of whiskey clinked as Noah laughed in his sleep.
NEVER HAVE I EVER... REGRETTED THIS
Tour stop number five was in a city Connar couldn’t pronounce and didn’t care to remember, mostly because the green room smelled like stale beer and someone’s vape exploded in the outlet earlier.
To pass the time—and possibly commit war crimes against dignity—Noah cracked open a box of cheap whiskey and yelled, “NEVER HAVE I EVER!”
Connar, however, perked up like a gremlin in heat.
“Yes. Yes, yes, YES.” She grabbed a plastic cup and filled it to the brim. “Let’s traumatize each other.”
Jolly, seated beside her on the battered couch with his arms crossed and his jaw tight, muttered, “I already regret this.”
“That’s the theme, IKEA.”
“Never have I ever had sex in a venue bathroom,” Folio grinned.
Noah choked on his drink. “Oh my god. Where?!”
“The Roxy. During a screamo band’s breakdown.” Connar smirked. “No one noticed. Too much double bass.”
Jolly shook his head slowly. “You’re a menace.”
He didn’t answer. But his eyes? His eyes said, Maybe I fucking do.
“Never have I ever made out with someone on the tour bus,” said Nick, already half-drunk and slurring.
Everyone drank. Even Jolly.
Connar raised a brow at him. “Oh? IKEA’s got secrets.”
“It was years ago,” he said.
He took a long sip and looked away.
“Holy shit,” she whispered. “Was it Noah?”
Noah yelled “WHAT THE FUCK?!” from across the room, nearly choking on his shot.
Jolly smirked but said nothing.
Connar was tipsy now. Hair falling in her face, lipstick smudged, her laugh bubbling out too fast.
“Okay,” she said, already evil. “Never have I ever jerked off to a bandmate.”
Nick and Folio drank without hesitation.
Noah did not drink but looked traumatized.
Jolly sat very, very still.
But he also didn’t look at her.
Which meant… he wasn’t drinking. But also... wasn’t denying it.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
Noah flung a pillow across the room. “This game is cursed.”
The others trickled out—some to bunks, some to puke, some to find food.
Only Jolly and Connar remained, sitting too close on the couch, the bottle half-empty between them.
He leaned in slightly. “You’re dangerous when you’re drunk.”
She smiled lazily. “You’re dangerous when you’re quiet.”
He stopped her—just lightly, his fingers grazing hers.
“You’re not drinking that,” he said. “You’re past tipsy.”
Connar blinked. “Wow. Protective. I thought you hated me.”
Jolly’s lips twitched. “I’m not sure I do anymore.”
Then, without warning, he leaned in and said low:
“But if you ever ask that ‘bandmate jerk-off’ question again, I’ll show you who it was.”
And walked off into the hallway like the goddamn devil.
Connar sat frozen for a full minute, heart hammering, brain screaming.
Then she whispered, to no one:
“…I need a cold shower and an exorcism.”
Connar had always known there was something inherently sexual about guitarists. Maybe it was the calloused fingers, or the cocky way they handled a fretboard, or how they always looked like they were thinking about doing unspeakable things to someone against a speaker stack.
But Joakim “Jolly” Karlsson?
He was in a league of his own.
She didn’t mean to stare at his hands all morning, but she also didn’t not mean to. She was only human, and those hands were basically porn for the creatively frustrated.
Currently, said hands were helping her haul a camera rig out of a road case after the venue’s tech crew bailed early.
“Don’t drop it,” she warned. “Unless you want to buy me a new one and sell your fancy Scandinavian kidneys to pay for it.”
“I’m not dropping it,” Jolly muttered, gripping the metal with ease. “You just like bossing me around.”
“I like watching you lift things,” she muttered.
The moment happened when she lost her balance.
One of her boots slipped off a coil of cable, and suddenly she was falling — right into him. Her camera rig clattered somewhere behind them, but neither of them noticed.
Because Jolly caught her.
His hands were on her waist. Steady. Firm. And not moving.
He was close. Too close. That clean, musky cologne she hated how much she liked filled her nose.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low.
“I—yeah. I just…” She couldn’t finish the sentence because his fingers were still gripping her like she might float away, and her brain had absolutely left the building.
“You fell hard,” he murmured, one hand sliding just slightly to keep her balanced. “Maybe you need a spotter.”
His palm brushed the curve of her back.
That wasn’t fair. Nothing about him was fair.
Her hands were on his chest now — god only knew when that happened — and yep, solid as sin.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, but she didn’t pull away.
The tension? Sickening. Stupid. Soaked in possibilities.
And then — his thumb moved.
Just a little. Just enough to graze skin where her shirt had ridden up. Just enough to make her gasp and step back like she’d been burned.
“You—!” she sputtered, pointing at him like he’d just committed a felony.
“I was stabilizing you,” he said, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m litigious, IKEA. I will sue you for emotional thirst.”
He tilted his head. “On what grounds?”
“On the grounds of—of—public indecency of the hands! Your fingers are a hate crime!”
Now he was smiling. A real one. A slow, infuriating, hot smile that made her want to both slap and kiss him.
She turned on her heel, grabbing the camera.
“Forget it,” she said. “I’m going to go edit photos and pretend this didn’t feel like third base with clothes on.”
“I’m left-handed, by the way.”
“My guitar hand,” he said. “The one you keep staring at.”
STICKY FINGERS AND SPIT TAKES
Connar O'Neil did not intend to cause a scene.
She just wanted dessert. One peaceful, post-show sugar high. Maybe two slices of sheet cake. Three, max.
What she did not plan for was Joakim Karlsson to appear behind her, shirtless (again), towel slung over his neck, and finger-deep in the last piece of chocolate cake like some sort of smug dessert gremlin.
"Are you serious right now?" she snapped, hands on her hips.
He looked up, completely unbothered. "What?"
"You're finger-eating the last slice. Like some kind of sexed-up raccoon."
Jolly licked the frosting off his thumb slowly. Too slowly.
"I'm clean," he said, deadpan. "Freshly showered. Want proof?"
Her brain short-circuited. "I-you-what the fuck, IKEA?!"
"I did not ask for your pornographic cake fingering."
He raised a brow. "Didn't hear you complaining during lunch when I split that sandwich with you."
"Yeah, but you didn't lick the ham."
She made a noise so high-pitched it killed a plant nearby.
Minutes later, she was still fuming and pacing the green room like an angry possum, while Jolly reclined in the corner eating what was now technically her dessert - bare fingers deep in frosting, smugness dialed to eleven.
"Fine," she snapped. "If you're gonna eat my cake like that, at least share."
He held up his hand, thick with icing.
The frosting glistened on his index and middle fingers like a sin she wasn't allowed to commit. Like a dare.
Connar took one step closer.
"You're bluffing," she said, breath catching.
"Am I?" His voice was low. Daring. Dirty.
She stood right in front of him now. Heat between them. Her eyes locked on his hand.
Then - slow as sin - she leaned in and ran her tongue along the pad of his finger.
The room went dead silent.
Connar licked her lips. "Mmm. Store-bought. Zero shame."
He stared at her like she'd just slapped him and kissed him in the same breath.
"I hate you," he muttered.
And then - like lightning - he gripped her wrist, pulled her hand to his mouth, and sucked a bit of frosting off her finger.
His lips were hot. Tongue slow. It wasn't a lick - it was a fucking warning shot.
And that's when Nick walked in and immediately choked on his water.
Connar and Jolly flew apart like they'd been caught cheating on a test.
Nick blinked. "Were you just-was he-did you-?"
"It was cake," Jolly said calmly, licking the last of the frosting off his thumb.
Nick stared, traumatized. "You were finger-fucking dessert."
Connar coughed. "It was consensual cake."
Nick walked away, muttering something about "needing therapy and Jesus."
Connar O'Neil didn't need to know how to play guitar.
She wanted to. Sure. Mostly so she could impress hot sound techs or shred onstage like a she-devil. But right now?
She had one reason, and his name was Joakim Karlsson.
Later, alone in her bunk, Connar stared at the ceiling with her heart still pounding and her mouth still tingling.
She had tasted Jolly Karlsson's fingers.
And now she had a problem.
A very, very sexy, tattooed, emotionally unavailable problem.
Connar O'Neil didn't need to know how to play guitar.
She wanted to. Sure. Mostly so she could impress hot sound techs or shred onstage like a she-devil. But right now?
She had one reason, and his name was Joakim Karlsson.
It was just past 1AM on a rest day. The others were passed out, gaming, or blacked out drunk in a Taco Bell parking lot. And Connar?
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bus lounge, cradling one of Jolly's guitars in her lap - his favorite one.
"Okay," she said. "Don't laugh if I suck."
"You already suck," Jolly muttered, kneeling behind her, "but not at this."
"Wow. Sweet talk me more, Karlsson."
"You're not. That's a war crime against E minor."
She looked down. Her fingers were in pain. Her pride? Worse.
And then - oh no - he wrapped his arms around her from behind.
His body was warm. His scent hit her instantly: cedarwood, soap, and sin. And his voice was a soft rasp in her ear.
"Relax," he said, and gently moved her hand to the correct position.
Every finger he touched felt like it had a direct line to her nervous system. His hand slid under hers, palm to palm, guiding. Teaching. Lingering.
"This chord feels illegal," she whispered.
"You're holding it wrong."
"You're holding me wrong."
"I'm not holding you at all."
She turned her head slightly. "You sure?"
Jolly didn't answer. But his breath was warm on her neck now.
She strummed - badly. The chord buzzed like a dying mosquito.
He chuckled, low and deep.
"You're not bad," he said. "Just... tense."
"Oh really? Why would I be tense when there's a Swedish man sandwiching me from behind whispering about E strings?"
His hand slid up her forearm. Just a brush. But it left a trail of heat.
She strummed. Cleaner this time.
"I have no idea what I'm doing."
Then, gently, he set the guitar down.
She turned. Slowly. Chest to chest.
"You're a problem," he said softly.
"I'm your problem," she whispered.
And then - finally - he kissed her.
Hot. Desperate. Built up from weeks of bickering, tension, and icing-flavored foreplay.
His hands gripped her waist, pulling her into his lap. She kissed him like he was air and she'd been drowning.
The kiss broke only when he muttered against her lips: "We still on E minor?"
She grinned. "No. You just hit D major."
He groaned. "You're impossible."
Then kissed her again - deeper this time. Dirtier.
Completely forgotten.
She wrapped both legs around his waist tightly, "Fuck Connar." He groaned in between kisses.
We weren't even fully laayed down in his bunk before they were half way through fucking, connar was moaning loud and constant while Jolly thrust his full length inside her roughly and horribly fast.
This was barely anything compared to what he can actually do to her...
Walk Of Shame, But Make It Metal
Connar O’Neil woke up in a bunk that was definitely not hers.
And definitely contained one (1) large, shirtless Swedish guitarist, currently sleeping like a Disney prince who moonlighted as a demon in a metal band.
She was wearing his t-shirt. Just his t-shirt. Which read “I SHRED THINGS” across the chest, and god, if that wasn’t prophetic.
She blinked up at the ceiling.
Body? Wrecked in the best way.
She glanced down. Jolly’s arm was slung across her waist like she was a guitar he wasn’t done playing. One of his thighs was still between hers. The scent of sweat, skin, and sinful guitar sex clung to the sheets.
“Oh no,” she groaned, covering her face. “We didn’t even get to C major.”
“We hit every chord, baby.”
She kicked him weakly. “You are the worst.”
“You moaned my name like a prayer.”
“You still wearing my shirt?”
Ten minutes later, she was sneaking down the bus hallway like a raccoon who just banged the headliner. Her hair was wild. Her makeup was smudged. And the t-shirt barely covered her ass.
Naturally, this was the moment Folio chose to round the corner, armed with a Pop-Tart and two very judgmental eyebrows.
Folio looked her up and down.
“I see you’re… cozy this morning.”
She smiled tightly. “It’s laundry day.”
“Mm-hmm.” He bit the Pop-Tart. “Did you fall into Jolly’s bunk on accident, or was it a... ‘group project’?”
“Mind your business, drum boy.”
“Sure. But if I hear any plucking from the walls tonight, I’m filing a noise complaint.”
Later, Connar was in the venue’s backstage shower, trying to wash the sin off her skin — unsuccessfully — when the door creaked open.
Jolly stood there, towel slung low, water bottle in hand, and a look that screamed round two.
“I need a shower,” he said casually.
She blinked. “Are you trying to seduce me with... hygiene?”
He stepped in, dropped the towel, and smirked.
Just a whole lot of tattoos and muscle and dripping, unholy confidence.
“I’d rather just help you rinse.”
She smirks at that, and that little smirk brought him to groan and pin her against the shower wall aand start fucking her relentlessly as he kept his mouth on her throat as she moaned in plessure.
---
Fifteen minutes later, they emerged flushed, damp, and way too smug.
Jolly tossed him a towel. “Don’t go in there for at least an hour.”
Nick caught it. Sniffed. Screamed.
“OH MY GOD, YOU TAINTED THE SHOWER?!”
Connar winked. “We did more than that.”
Guitar Picks And Hickey Tricks
Connar O’Neil was doing her job.
Camera strapped to her chest, lenses slung around her like armor, she moved through the pit shooting the night’s Bad Omens set like a professional.
Or at least she was, until some barely-legal fanboy in the front row started making heart hands at her like they were in a Disney Channel reboot of The Notebook.
She tried to ignore it. She did.
But every time she crouched for a shot, he leaned in with the same shit-eating grin, mouthing things like “📸 me?” and “ur cute lol.”
He was mid-breakdown, hair in his face, fingers flying over strings like he was summoning demons — and still he caught it.
The fanboy biting his lip at Connar like he wanted her autograph on his ass.
Jolly turned around, walked to her side of the stage between songs — and bit her neck.
Not like a little love nibble. Not a gentle “mine” moment. No.
This was a marking. A territorial, primal, fuck-off-heifer-she’s-mine kind of bite.
She gasped. Loud. Barely caught on the ambient mic.
He smirked and leaned in.
“Cute fan,” he said. “Should I bite him too?”
“You’re a goddamn menace,” she hissed, grabbing her neck.
“Good.” He winked. “Now get my good side.”
Backstage, thirty minutes later, Connar was inspecting the damage in the mirror.
The bite? Deep red. Perfectly shaped like a guitar pick.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or punch him.
Jolly slid up behind her, smug as a devil with a Grammy.
“You branded me,” she snapped.
“You left merch on my throat, Karlsson.”
He tilted his head, inspecting his work. “You look good ruined.”
Her thighs clenched. “Stop saying things like that unless you’re gonna back them up.”
She turned to face him — and slammed him against the door.
Their mouths crashed together like cymbals. Her leg slipped between his. His hands found her hips.
But before it could escalate into Rated R for Ridiculous, Noah pounded on the door.
“Hey! Some of us need to piss without hearing sex grunts, please and thank you!”
They froze. Breathing hard. Clothes wrinkled. Lips swollen.
Connar giggled. “Looks like we’re getting caught a lot lately.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then stop being so hard to resist.”
“Or you stop pretending you’re not obsessed.”
Connar O’Neil was doing her job.
Camera strapped to her chest, lenses slung around her like armor, she moved through the pit shooting the night’s Bad Omens set like a professional.
Or at least she was, until some barely-legal fanboy in the front row started making heart hands at her like they were in a Disney Channel reboot of The Notebook.
She tried to ignore it. She did.
But every time she crouched for a shot, he leaned in with the same shit-eating grin, mouthing things like “📸 me?” and “ur cute lol.”
He was mid-breakdown, hair in his face, fingers flying over strings like he was summoning demons — and still he caught it.
The fanboy biting his lip at Connar like he wanted her autograph on his ass.
Jolly turned around, walked to her side of the stage between songs — and bit her neck.
Not like a little love nibble. Not a gentle “mine” moment. No.
This was a marking. A territorial, primal, fuck-off-heifer-she’s-mine kind of bite.
She gasped. Loud. Barely caught on the ambient mic.
He smirked and leaned in.
“Cute fan,” he said. “Should I bite him too?”
“You’re a goddamn menace,” she hissed, grabbing her neck.
“Good.” He winked. “Now get my good side.”
Backstage, thirty minutes later, Connar was inspecting the damage in the mirror.
The bite? Deep red. Perfectly shaped like a guitar pick.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or punch him.
Jolly slid up behind her, smug as a devil with a Grammy.
“You branded me,” she snapped.
“You left merch on my throat, Karlsson.”
He tilted his head, inspecting his work. “You look good ruined.”
Her thighs clenched. “Stop saying things like that unless you’re gonna back them up.”
She turned to face him — and slammed him against the door.
Their mouths crashed together like cymbals. Her leg slipped between his. His hands found her hips.
But before it could escalate into Rated R for Ridiculous, Noah pounded on the door.
“Hey! Some of us need to piss without hearing sex grunts, please and thank you!”
They froze. Breathing hard. Clothes wrinkled. Lips swollen.
Connar giggled. “Looks like we’re getting caught a lot lately.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then stop being so hard to resist.”
“Or you stop pretending you’re not obsessed.”
Connar O’Neil was doing her job.
Camera strapped to her chest, lenses slung around her like armor, she moved through the pit shooting the night’s Bad Omens set like a professional.
Or at least she was, until some barely-legal fanboy in the front row started making heart hands at her like they were in a Disney Channel reboot of The Notebook.
She tried to ignore it. She did.
But every time she crouched for a shot, he leaned in with the same shit-eating grin, mouthing things like “📸 me?” and “ur cute lol.”
He was mid-breakdown, hair in his face, fingers flying over strings like he was summoning demons — and still he caught it.
The fanboy biting his lip at Connar like he wanted her autograph on his ass.
Jolly turned around, walked to her side of the stage between songs — and bit her neck.
Not like a little love nibble. Not a gentle “mine” moment. No.
This was a marking. A territorial, primal, fuck-off-heifer-she’s-mine kind of bite.
She gasped. Loud. Barely caught on the ambient mic.
He smirked and leaned in.
“Cute fan,” he said. “Should I bite him too?”
“You’re a goddamn menace,” she hissed, grabbing her neck.
“Good.” He winked. “Now get my good side.”
Backstage, thirty minutes later, Connar was inspecting the damage in the mirror.
The bite? Deep red. Perfectly shaped like a guitar pick.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or punch him.
Jolly slid up behind her, smug as a devil with a Grammy.
“You branded me,” she snapped.
“You left merch on my throat, Karlsson.”
He tilted his head, inspecting his work. “You look good ruined.”
Her thighs clenched. “Stop saying things like that unless you’re gonna back them up.”
She turned to face him — and slammed him against the door.
Their mouths crashed together like cymbals. Her leg slipped between his. His hands found her hips.
But before it could escalate into Rated R for Ridiculous, Noah pounded on the door.
“Hey! Some of us need to piss without hearing sex grunts, please and thank you!”
They froze. Breathing hard. Clothes wrinkled. Lips swollen.
Connar giggled. “Looks like we’re getting caught a lot lately.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then stop being so hard to resist.”
“Or you stop pretending you’re not obsessed.”
Torn Fishnets and Thirsty Confessions
They weren’t supposed to go out.
One night off. One quiet evening. That was the plan.
But then Folio found a dive bar three blocks from the venue called “Hail Mary’s” that served whiskey shots for $2 and played nothing but late 2000s emo hits, and suddenly everyone had eyeliner back on and nothing to lose.
Connar sat on a torn barstool, legs crossed, fishnets ripped in multiple places, and a Bad Omens hoodie several sizes too big that very obviously belonged to one (1) Joakim Karlsson.
She hadn’t meant to wear it. He’d tossed it at her on the bus with a “don’t freeze to death, gremlin,” and it had somehow turned into comfort. His smell, his warmth, his everything — wrapped around her like a warning label.
Now she sat across from him in a sticky booth, holding a shot glass, knowing this game was gonna end badly.
Nick, already tipsy, smirked. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone in the band.”
Folio cackled. “Ohhhh, this just got spicy.”
Connar raised an eyebrow at Jolly.
He sipped his drink without hesitation.
She stared. “You didn’t even pause.”
He wiped his lip. “It’s not a secret.”
“No,” Nick said, eyes wide. “But it’s real. You two actually banged.”
Connar knocked back her own shot.
Jolly leaned in, eyes dark. “That a problem?”
“Whether it happens again.”
Even the jukebox seemed to shut up.
Nick whispered, “I am witnessing softcore live.”
Later, outside, on the bar’s loading ramp, Connar sat on a crate with her knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves too long, heart racing like she’d just stagedived into traffic.
Jolly found her there. Lit a cigarette.
She looked at him, backlit by the amber bar sign, hair falling over his face, tattoos peeking from his sleeves, and thought: fuck.
“You told the whole band,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t tell them anything.”
“You didn’t hide it either.”
He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “You think I’m ashamed?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know.”
Then — softer — he added: “I haven’t wanted someone like this in a long time.”
He looked at her now — really looked — and for once, the smirk was gone. Just truth. Raw and a little terrifying.
“I don’t do this,” he said. “I don’t catch feelings. I don’t get involved.”
Connar’s mouth was dry. “But?”
“But you’re in my bed. My shirt. My head. And I can’t fucking stop.”
She blinked. “That sounded dangerously close to a confession.”
He smirked again, slower this time. “Take it how you want.”
And then — of course — he crushed out the cigarette, walked over, and kissed her like the bar was on fire.
Room Service and Rule Breaking
The hotel lobby was too fancy for a band like Bad Omens.
Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Staff that side-eyed them like they were going to start a mosh pit in the elevator.
They’d been booked here by mistake.
They weren’t complaining.
But when they checked in, Connar noticed something… concerning.
“Wait,” she said, holding up her room key. “This is the same room as Jolly’s.”
Noah looked up from the desk. “They ran out of doubles.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Jolly muttered, snatching his key. “You’ve shared a bunk with me. You’ll live.”
She crossed her arms. “You sleep naked.”
He shrugged. “Guess you’ll die.”
The room was massive. Modern. Ice cold.
Connar walked in, looked at the one king-size bed, and immediately threw her bag on the left side like she was planting a flag.
Jolly raised an eyebrow. “You claim territory now?”
“I’m not getting rolled off the bed by your linebacker ass in the middle of the night.”
“You think I move in my sleep?”
“You moved in me last week.”
An hour later, room service arrived.
Connar sat cross-legged on the bed in nothing but one of Jolly’s old tour shirts and her underwear, dipping fries in aioli like it was foreplay. The TV played The Witcher on mute.
Jolly was trying not to lose his mind.
He nearly dropped his water bottle.
“You’re evil,” he muttered.
She glanced over, all big eyes and shameless grin.
“You’re starving for attention.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I want dessert.”
She bit her fry. “Make me.”
His jaw clenched. Shoulders stiffened. The quiet, slow-burn tension that had been building for days finally snapped.
In two strides, he was in front of her.
“You want to play?” he asked, voice low.
She blinked up at him, still holding her fry.
He grabbed it, tossed it aside, and pulled her into his lap like she weighed nothing.
“I said stop teasing,” he whispered, mouth ghosting her jawline. “You didn’t listen.”
“Are you gonna punish me?”
He smirked against her skin. “No.”
She gasped as his hand slipped under the hem of the shirt.
"Please d..." Not a single word came from her mouth was her head went flying back.
His mouth already eating her sweet tight pussy underwear already off his tongue darting back and fourth in her clit till she shaked uncontrollable.
Then he got up before he can do anything she grabbed his thick cock and started licking the tip before taking it all.
He gasped and then grinned devishly and grabbed her hair in his hand tightly,
"Good Girl," she moaned at that and at the fact he came down her throat.
And the only thing room service heard when they checked in later?
Was laughter, moans, and Jolly yelling “THAT WAS a $400 DUVET, CONNAR!”
The Group Chat Has Entered The Chat
A blurry, definitely-not-on-purpose mirror pic of Connar brushing her teeth in the hotel bathroom.
Holding up the devil horns behind her head like it was senior picture day in Hell.
She didn’t notice it until hours later — when Folio texted:
> Folio:
👀👀👀 IS THAT THE SWEDISH SHIRTLESS GOBLIN IN THE BACK OF YOUR TOOTHBRUSH SELFIE???
> Noah:
she said she was “just friends” with him lmfao
> Nick:
oh to be a toothbrush in that bathroom
> Folio:
how many groupies do I have to unfollow before y’all just fess up
> Nick:
“just friends” my left nut. your hair’s in his hairbrush in his bag, woman.
Connar, face buried in a pillow, screamed.
“You TOLD me not to post it!” she yelled at Jolly, who was entirely unfazed and sitting on the bed shirtless eating a croissant like this was nothing.
“I didn’t think you’d ignore me immediately,” he said, smugly. “I’m flattered.”
“You’re naked in the background!”
He grinned. “That’s your fault.”
“You smirked at the camera!”
She threw the pillow at him. He caught it. Laid back. Looked infuriatingly satisfied.
“They were gonna find out eventually.”
Later, after load-in, Noah cornered her in the green room.
“So,” he said, arms crossed, expression full older-brother-who-knows-you’ve-been-sinning energy. “You and Jolly.”
Connar winced. “Is this the HR talk?”
“No,” he said. “This is the don’t get your heart wrecked by the emotionally repressed Swede talk.”
She blinked. “Wow. Thanks for the faith.”
“I like you,” Noah said. “You’re good for us. You’re good for him.”
“No,” he said. “But he hasn’t written anything in three weeks except songs that sound like they belong in a breakup montage. He’s already spiraling and you haven’t even left yet.”
“You’re gonna tour with another band eventually, right?” he said gently. “You’re not ours forever.”
That night, back on the bus, Jolly handed her a hoodie.
Freshly washed. Folded. Like it meant something.
“I found it in my bunk,” he said.
And for a second, neither of them said anything.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“I thought you didn’t do… this,” she whispered.
A blurry, definitely-not-on-purpose mirror pic of Connar brushing her teeth in the hotel bathroom.
Holding up the devil horns behind her head like it was senior picture day in Hell.
She didn’t notice it until hours later — when Folio texted:
> Folio:
👀👀👀 IS THAT THE SWEDISH SHIRTLESS GOBLIN IN THE BACK OF YOUR TOOTHBRUSH SELFIE???
> Noah:
she said she was “just friends” with him lmfao
> Nick:
oh to be a toothbrush in that bathroom
> Folio:
how many groupies do I have to unfollow before y’all just fess up
> Nick:
“just friends” my left nut. your hair’s in his hairbrush in his bag, woman.
Connar, face buried in a pillow, screamed.
“You TOLD me not to post it!” she yelled at Jolly, who was entirely unfazed and sitting on the bed shirtless eating a croissant like this was nothing.
“I didn’t think you’d ignore me immediately,” he said, smugly. “I’m flattered.”
“You’re naked in the background!”
He grinned. “That’s your fault.”
“You smirked at the camera!”
She threw the pillow at him. He caught it. Laid back. Looked infuriatingly satisfied.
“They were gonna find out eventually.”
Later, after load-in, Noah cornered her in the green room.
“So,” he said, arms crossed, expression full older-brother-who-knows-you’ve-been-sinning energy. “You and Jolly.”
Connar winced. “Is this the HR talk?”
“No,” he said. “This is the don’t get your heart wrecked by the emotionally repressed Swede talk.”
She blinked. “Wow. Thanks for the faith.”
“I like you,” Noah said. “You’re good for us. You’re good for him.”
“No,” he said. “But he hasn’t written anything in three weeks except songs that sound like they belong in a breakup montage. He’s already spiraling and you haven’t even left yet.”
“You’re gonna tour with another band eventually, right?” he said gently. “You’re not ours forever.”
That night, back on the bus, Jolly handed her a hoodie.
Freshly washed. Folded. Like it meant something.
“I found it in my bunk,” he said.
And for a second, neither of them said anything.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“I thought you didn’t do… this,” she whispered.
Backstage Pass To My Heart
The house lights were down, the stage lights still dim and golden — warm like the glow of an old memory.
Connar sat alone on the edge of the stage, camera set aside, legs swinging, hoodie sleeves pushed up. The night had been loud, chaotic, perfect. But this? This was her favorite part.
Quiet. Stillness. The smell of sweat and vinyl and Jolly’s shampoo lingering on her hoodie.
She heard footsteps behind her.
“I thought you went to the bus,” she said.
Joakim’s voice was soft. “Wanted to find you first.”
She turned to find him standing there — backlit by the ghost glow of the stage. Loose tee, black jeans, hair damp from the set.
Like he was about to walk into traffic voluntarily.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
She blinked. “There’s no music.”
He pulled out his phone. Hit play.
A soft, low song spilled through the venue. Something haunting. Something slow. Piano, strings — romantic.
Connar looked at him like he’d grown an extra guitar neck.
“You? Joakim Karlsson? Slow dancing?”
He smirked. “I’m full of surprises.”
Let him press her body to his, chest to chest, arms wrapped around her like he’d been waiting years to do this exact thing.
No stage. No crowd. Just them.
She looked up at him. “Are you going to drop a cheesy line now?”
He looked down at her, eyes full of something dangerous and too real.
“Because I didn’t plan to feel this,” he said. “And now I can’t un-feel it.”
She didn’t know what to say.
Didn’t know how to say it.
The next day, during a last-minute interview with the band for a rock podcast, everything was going fine.
Until the interviewer asked, “Any of you in love right now?”
> Nick: “With tacos? Yes.”
Folio: “With sleep.”
Noah: “With not answering that.”
Then — too fast, too casual — came Jolly:
The interviewer blinked. “Wait, really?”
Jolly, cool as a damn cucumber: “Yeah.”
Connar, across the room holding her camera, nearly dropped it.
Afterward, back on the bus, she cornered him in the kitchenette.
He leaned against the counter, unfazed. “I did.”
He met her eyes, calm as ever.
Her whole face short-circuited.
“You don’t have to say it back,” he said. “But I’m not hiding it either.”
Then — very, very quietly — whispered, “You’re going to ruin me.”
Panick! At The Afterparty
The band wasn’t supposed to attend the label’s party.
They were tired. Sweaty. Emotionally compromised.
But then someone said “free drinks”, and Folio had his eyeliner on in 0.2 seconds, and suddenly they were in a rooftop bar surrounded by industry people with fake laughs and real cocaine.
Connar had one goal: survive without punching anyone.
Jolly had been distant all night.
Not in a cold way — more like trying really hard not to fuck you in public kind of distant. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Connar since they walked in. But he hadn’t touched her either.
Probably because she looked like sin in a skin-tight black dress that defied both gravity and God.
Connar had tried to behave.
Had even worn flats instead of the murder heels.
Wannabe punk. Vocalist for a D-list band that opened for Bad Omens once before vanishing into irrelevance. Bad tattoos. Worse opinions.
And, apparently, no sense of timing.
“Connar,” Matt said, sliding up beside her at the bar, already smelling like whiskey and disappointment. “Wow. You still tour with them?”
She stiffened. “Yep. Still gainfully employed. Wild, huh?”
He grinned, leaning in. “I miss you. You ever think about us?”
He laughed like she was kidding.
“You with the guitarist now? The quiet one? Doesn’t talk much but has those hot murderer eyes?”
“I mean,” Matt continued, “he can’t be that great in bed. Guys like that never are.”
And that’s when it happened.
Appearing out of thin air like a vengeance demon.
No raised voice. No big scene.
Just calm, lethal energy as he stepped beside Connar and looked Matt up and down like he was gum stuck to his boot.
“You should leave,” Jolly said.
Matt scoffed. “Relax, bro. We’re just catching up.”
Matt blinked. “You gonna hit me?”
Jolly didn’t even flinch. “I won’t have to.”
Connar, cheeks flushed, put a hand on Jolly’s chest. “Let’s go.”
“But if you ever talk about her like that again, I will not be.”
Matt snorted. “So you’re the jealous type.”
“No,” Jolly said, smiling coldly. “I’m the don’t test me type.”
Later, in the hotel elevator, Connar finally exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s a cockroach.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.”
Saw the fire in his eyes. The tension in his jaw.
“You were really gonna wreck that man for saying I was bad in bed?”
Jolly raised an eyebrow. “He insulted you.”
She grinned. “You didn’t deny it.”
His voice dropped, dark and low.
“Because I didn’t want to talk about it, Connar.”
He backed her into the elevator wall.
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