Wicked Strings, Wicked Things.

Tuning Her Strings

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."

"Play the chord."

"I am."

"You're not. That's a war crime against E minor."

She looked down. Her fingers were in pain. Her pride? Worse.

He sighed. "Here."

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?"

"I didn't whisper."

"Whisper again."

"No."

"Coward."

His hand slid up her forearm. Just a brush. But it left a trail of heat.

"Try again," he said.

She strummed. Cleaner this time.

He hummed. "Better."

She could barely think.

"Jolly," she whispered.

He tilted his head.

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

"With the guitar?"

"With you."

There was a pause.

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.

Not soft. Not slow.

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."

"And you're hard."

He laughed.

Then kissed her again - deeper this time. Dirtier.

And the guitar?

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...