Alex Turner/One Shots. (Smuts And Non-Smuts)

One For The Road. (Smut) Part1

Prompt: (Age Gap Fic;Fem!Reader) Alex is on an extended hiatus from the band and finds himself wanting to start a studio to recruit new talent. One day, he hears a voice on the radio that captivates him, so he jots down the name and, with that voice stuck in his head, searches for it on Google. When he finds you, you both decide to work together for your growth, setting off a journey filled with new melodies, issues with paparazzi and online exposure, and Alex being completely smitten with his latest discovery and love.

Words: 9,5K

A/N: The fic was planned in three chapters: before the recognition (fame), during the recognition (fame), and after the recognition (fame).
...

Alex felt fulfilled, both physically and emotionally; he didn’t need any additional elements to complete his sense of satisfaction. During the band's extended break, due to various factors like other members' children and James admitting that a break would be beneficial, Alex found himself contemplating new possibilities. Unable to step away from music entirely, he set up a studio and handled other bureaucratic aspects for future artists. This was his way of giving back to an industry that had been so rewarding for him.
He didn’t know much about the artist he was suddenly into, only that sabe was a young girl with a captivating presence. Alex had heard your voice in the car before visiting Miles. It had a numbing effect on him, in a good way, leaving him sitting in the parked car after arriving, gazing out the window and absorbing every word you sang as if they were drops of water in the desert. It was strange, but it was exactly what he needed.
Your voice was raw with potential but still unrefined—you were not bad, just clearly new. The lyrics were sweet and nostalgic, evoking feelings that seemed foreign yet familiar. Alex found your work mature in a way he hadn’t been when he first started making music. He couldn’t picture your face, hair, or preferred style, but your voice lingered in his mind; the breaths, pauses, sometimes resembling soft and failed sighs, were compelling.
After the song ended, he stared at the radio display, waiting for your name to be announced. He quickly grabbed a notebook to jot down before he could forget.
Alex briefly mentioned you during dinner with Miles, running his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. His friend could tell that you had affected him in some way. "Just a girl, huh? How many times have you listened to her songs, Al?" Alex was usually romantic in his descriptions, this time he swore he had been succinct—though he felt he had failed. As the visit was coming to an end, all he could think about was your voice; he had to share you with someone else.
"Not many," he admitted honestly, though it wasn’t very convincing. Miles laughed, indicating he would listen later. His friend's recommendations were always reliable.
…
Finding you on the internet wasn’t easy. Alex had written down the wrong surname, which delayed his search longer than anticipated. You had no professional recordings, and later Alex discovered that the radio segment he had heard was an exclusive broadcast for new artists. All he found were amateur videos on YouTube of you singing in some pubs, with poor audio quality that didn’t do you justice. He listened to them repeatedly over the next few days.
The videos with better resolution were watched more often, and although Alex feared it might be due to your angelic face, he tried to avoid focusing on the fact that you were younger than him–perhaps more than he could point out. Nevertheless, as he closed his eyes before sleeping, he often imagined you from the video of your channel, wearing that summer wine dress with the straps slightly falling off. He imagined gently adjusting them with his finger, smoothing your hair while your calm eyes followed him. Your head falling affectionately into the caress of his palm and a brief wet kiss to your temple as your eyelashes flutter; not that he thought he would have such an effect on you.
It was indescribable how your voice occupied his mind more than anything else. He found himself humming snippets of your lyrics in the shower, while cooking, every end of the day. When he called Miles the next weeknd, his friend knew exactly what to expect.
…
You were delicate, and the words flowed from your lips effortlessly. Indeed, the cameras, the analog look, and the audio from the YouTube recordings didn’t do justice to what it was like to experience you live. There were few people, mostly around your age, though some appeared older with their doubtful expressions. It was a pleasant environment.
He watched you from a distance, neither too far nor too close. Wearing a white collared shirt, jeans, and a brown jacket, he kept his sunglasses on even at night to avoid being easily recognized. Occasionally, he slid the glasses down his nose to get a clearer view of you without the lenses.
You held the microphone gently, as if it weighed nothing, intertwining the cord between your fingers and taking small steps across the makeshift, tiny stage. Most people were distracted, but many took a moment to watch and listen to your music. Sometimes your voice faltered, and he noticed your disappointment, but you were so endearing.
You wore white tights and a black dress with a Peter Pan collar; Alex thought it suited you perfectly. He adjusted the edges of his shirt peeking out from under his jacket, a reflex of how your fingers nervously fidgeted with the fabric of your dress on stage. He smiled sweetly, as if hoping you could see and feel encouraged by it. You were doing well.
At the end, which was marked by silence following your thanks, he began clapping, soon joined by everyone else. You tried not to look around too much, not expecting the applause, and Alex was pleased to see you so happy.
You held a glass in your hand, chatting with the guitarist. Alex could easily see himself playing guitar alongside you in that dimly lit place filled with long, whispered conversations that created an intimate atmosphere. The guitarist nudged you, indicating Alex standing in front of you. When you turned, Alex felt his palms sweating and had to hide them in his pockets. You were even more beautiful up close; your posture wasn’t perfectly straight, but he noticed your charming walk and had to avoid smiling.
Alex felt more awkward than a teenager talking to girls, and he wasn’t proud of it. You greeted him with a warm smile, and before he could say anything, he knew you were as warm as you looked. “I enjoyed your performance up there. You sing really well, and the original lyrics are great. You’re very talented.” The compliment came out smoothly because he had practiced it many times. He felt his face flush, knowing he was fully red.
You bit your lips, offering a shy smile and resting your fingers right around the edges of your dress. Alex found this to be an adorable habit of yours. If he could, he would have held your hand and provided some distraction from whatever you were thinking. You thanked him, unsure of what to do or say but sincere nonetheless. When Alex offered a drink, he noticed your hesitation, but there wasn’t anything better for you to do than share a drink with someone who, for reasons you couldn’t quite place, seemed familiar. He was being nice.
“I don’t think anyone has ever come to see me sing so well-dressed,” you said, your eyes sparkling. Alex felt that in a few hours, you’d be more comfortable around him.
Noticing your assessment of his outfit, you could tell it wasn’t cheap; the fabric of his button-up shirt was well-tailored, the collar had a unique design, and the jacket was definitely leather. Not that you knew much about such things, but you didn’t see many like that.
Alex saw you enveloping your hands and didn’t think twice before taking off his jacket and draping it over you. Fingers touched your icy skin and he wished he had noticed sooner. You didn’t resist, your expression showed that you needed it; you merely nodded in thanks. “Don’t you think you deserve it?” Alex hadn’t intended it to sound flirtatious, but he realized it as soon as the words left his mouth. You shook your head, giving a half-hearted laugh.
He considered apologizing, but you continued, “I think it’s nice to think that someone would dress up to see me here, you know? To know that you’d come to see me sing and then anticipate it throughout the day, even considering what outfit would be most suitable or comfortable. It’s kind.” You were much more eloquent than he was, your words flowed naturally.
You sighed in relief, snuggling into the leather and tucking your hands into the long sleeves. Alex felt his chest warm up. You gestured animatedly while speaking, clearly excited, and probably didn’t even notice when your knees brushed together and stayed there in a pleasant touch that made him not want to move. “Well, if it helps, I heard you on the radio the other day and wanted to see you in person.” He breathed between his words, his voice deepening with the pauses.
You nodded, brushing off the compliment, not because you disliked it but because you didn’t want to deal with it. “I like your accent; it makes you sound older than you are.” Your shoulders brushed together, casually but comfortably, a result of your restlessness. There was a brief silence as you both listened to each other’s calm breathing amidst the background noise of drinks.
Maybe the contact was what mattered; Alex hadn’t planned this poorly. Despite his struggle with succinct communication, he explained the record label project, detailing the steps and what could be done if you wanted to pursue something more professional. At some point, you stopped listening to him, your eyes wandering over his dark hair cascading in beautiful waves, the furrow between the eyebrows, his perfectly shaped mouth, and the stubble that was starting to grow. He gestured less than you did, but his large yet delicate hands made him seem like a Christmas ornament, like men in '80s movies or even a younger Al Pacino.
“I’m listening, but I wouldn’t have the money for it; I can’t even afford a guitar. I play in pubs because I can use their instruments; they don’t pay well, and sometimes it’s just beer and food.” You spoke honestly, without bitterness about how it limited your dreams. You had the purity of someone who believed it was for you. Someone bumped into your chair, causing Alex to steady it, which brought your bodies closer together. He could now distinguish the exact color of your eyes and the scent of your hair. His mouth went dry. “That’s my point; you get paid so I can help you get heard and recognized for your work.”
…
"Did you set up the record label for the girl?" Miles carried a hint of truth, though he knew it was initially Alex’s idea, and you were the final touch that made it happen.
"It’s not like that, she’s really good. You’ll meet her." Alex’s voice carried warmth and anticipation; in a few months, you’d be fully immersed in this with him.
"And does she know what’s going on in your head? Like, the reason for your soft tone and silly grin when you mention her name? I might be wrong, but it doesn’t seem like you’re just thinking of her as a musician, Alex."
He shook his head, as if Miles could see him. "It’s nothing. I just want to help her with this. Besides, I’m not at that stage; we don’t fit in the same place." The idea of putting all that into words hurt a little.
The conversation continued, as if that settled the matter, both on the call and in real life. But Miles’s final words were, "Alex, I’m sure this will hurt her more than it will hurt you; you don't deal well with reason, your feelings will get in the way.”
And though it stung, it might be true—something to consider with concern. But would it really be so bad to spend all that time with you?
…
You learned who he was and thought it might be a scam, but a simple Google search left you stunned. You clearly knew the band, just not his exact current appearance; it certainly wasn’t like in the “Cornerstone” video, but the more recent ones fit the style of a dad with a six-year-old daughter, which was pleasant. Your friends were happy for you, even if they were as incredulous as you.
“It’s quite big; will more people be coming here?” Your voice echoed through the studio, your fingertips freezing. You’d arrived a few weeks ago and had some singing lessons Alex had arranged with another professional, but from then on, you feared he would be your sole tutor.
“For now, yes, but later there’ll be more people.” You nodded, hands in the pockets of your dress. LA was hot, he was killing you with that air conditioning. He had shown you every corner, you felt quite comfortable; the place had guitars on the wall, basses, and a drum set from that inaccessible brand. You stood in front of him, looking like a lost child, genuinely waiting for what to do next. It took him a moment, but he understood.
“Okay, I didn’t plan this out too well,” he laughed softly. He mentioned having read the songs you sent, even though he had heard them before, now he knew the exact lyrics. “Is it okay if I use the equipment?” Your question was followed by the tips of your fingers touching one of the microphones and holding the headphones, waiting for his response.
“Feel free to use whatever you want, little one.” Your cheeks were warm, making you bite the bottom of them. You looked confused at the buttons; they were just buttons with no informative labels. Alex had forgotten that this was familiar only to him. “Sure, it’s a good idea to get you familiar with everything first, then we can see what to do.” It sounded like a good idea.
The time passed quickly; what took hours, with Alex, seemed like minutes. Sometimes silence would fall over you both, but it was so comfortable. He had a pleasant voice, explaining things as if they weren’t intuitive, and you could visualize them. You liked it. His hair was longer than the last time you saw him, falling into a cute fringe over his eyes, which shone brightly as he spoke and gestured. He wore a suit and a button-up shirt, making no sense given the amount of fabric he was wearing in the LA sun.
“It’s pretty heavy, Turner,” he had given you a red guitar with white detailing, the side bearing his last name. It had clearly been through some battles but was beautiful. Alex found your pronunciation of the “r” endearing, rolled on your tongue and lingering. No one called him that around; it could be your thing. The guitars you had played were lighter, less durable.
“You can play if you want. You can also make it your own; it’s a good idea to get used to a specific one for now.” You listened, wondering why you wanted him to call you “little one” again. You held the strap, looking at the floor. “I don’t know how to play,” your voice was weak, your fingers pressing the strings without making any sound. He nodded, understanding you.
“What don’t you know, little one?” His face was calm, as if it didn’t cross his mind that you might be a fraud. His body was positioned behind yours, and you felt your heart racing; you were sure he could hear it. He placed his hand on the neck of the guitar, adjusting some strings.
  What happened was: you would hum melodies, your friends would map out the notes, next you had them with you.
“I only remember my songs, which are few. I memorized them with the help of some friends at the pub.” You didn’t like how that sounded. You stepped back without thinking, bumping into Alex’s firm chest. He held your waist, noticing your nervousness. You still smelled the same as before.
“There’s nothing wrong with that; no one is born knowing. I learned a lot from the first album ‘til now; we can work on that if you want.” You heard the guttural sound he made when speaking slowly in your ear, dangerously close. “Do you want to try something?” he asked, a little before plucking a small segment of one of your songs. Alex had heard it so much that he had memorized the chords. You found it strange but ignored it; controlling your breathing was more complicated.
“I don’t know, Turner,” he laughed, the pleasant nasal sound close, with his blazer rubbing against your bare arms. He took your hands in his, guiding your fingers as he wanted, explaining each string press and brief sound. It took some time, and due to your anxiety, it seemed to take longer than usual.
“It doesn’t seem to sound very good,” you impulsively turned your face to look at him. His eyes, which had been on your hands, moved to your face, and it was closer than you had experienced before. “But it will, you know?” He smiled, his slightly crooked lower teeth noticeable to you, as well as the light beard scars and age lines around his eyes. God, he was so beautiful.
“You’re doing well, lil’ one; you just need to relax and be more patient.” You felt your fingers ache, pulling your hands slightly away from Alex’s. “You trust me a lot.” He noticed the superficial cut, the tips of your fingers bruised a bit, pretty normal, and you seemed quite calm about it. “Shouldn’t you? Trust yourself? I haven’t seen anything in you so far that doesn’t show how good you are at what you do...” The sentence was lost, somewhat unformed, but you wished he would talk about you like that more often. He took your finger, drying it with the edge of his shirt, which had become slightly reddened, and pressed until it stopped. It was hard not to just look at him. Your cold hands made Alex make a mental note that you weren’t a big fan of the air conditioning or that maybe your clothes were too short and thin.
…
On the same night, before heading back to the hotel, Alex suggested you two could go out to eat together as a way to spend more time talking. Since you’d spent hours at the studio and he hadn’t thought to offer you food or water, he chose a more relaxed place, reminiscent of the pubs where he knew you performed—live music and cozy lighting.
Upon arrival, you felt the chill against your arms. Alex laughed. You hadn’t seen him take off his blazer, but you noticed his attentive gaze as he draped it over your shoulders. It was a comforting relief. “I can control the studio’s temperature, but most places ‘ere are air-conditioned; you’ll end up feeling cold,” he said. You didn’t respond, only pondering whether Alex would always have a jacket or blazer for you if you never wore one. You liked his scent on you and the respectful way he looked at you, you hated that your thoughts were not as innocent.
As you sat across from him, there was little distraction, and you knew it would be a challenging time—more accurately, a journey to be honest, regardless of what happened next. He had loosened more buttons due to the heat. The collar was pressed against his rosy skin, neck chain attached to his sweat, and his eyes were on you, making your stomach flutter. Your foot brushed against his calf under the table, you couldn’t look at him. He smiled pleasantly as usual, the distinctive nasal sound of his laugh remaining soothing, despite the feelings he stirred in you. Your foot found comfort there, resting against him; neither of you moved.
“It smells nice; what is it?” he asked before you put away your pink tube of moisturizer.
“It’s peach,” you replied, sounding a bit excited. You wanted to talk but felt that besides your music, you might not be interesting to him, even though you felt there was something desirable in that; even if you didn't see yourself that way.
“The scent is great; it makes me less tense, Turner,” you said. You took his hand in yours. They were larger and calloused—something your fingers should be. You applied a drop of cream, massaging his hand with focus on each callus and prominent vein.
The sensation was light for him (even for you); your nails brushed against his wrist with a pleasant tickle. Taking your time, you smoothed out the creases in his poorly folded shirt, rebuttoned it, and adjusted the fold to what Alex would consider the perfect height. Your touch was gentle, and there you were, right in front of him, with your shoulders covered by his blazer. He noticed the strap of your dress was a little crooked, but you were nestled in something warm. Alex cherished everything about that realistic snapshot.
When you finished, you noticed his attention was on your face. You smiled slightly, as did he. You were in complete silence, yet every minute counted.
The food arrived shortly, and you didn’t need to question it. He simply whispered a “thank you, little one” to you as you curled into his blazer a bit more. He was hoping it would carry your scent by the end of the night.
The atmosphere remained the same—you both enjoyed each other's company, evident in the unspoken comfort between you. The air felt light in your lungs, yet breathing was easy and relaxed. Alex wasn't particularly hungry, but seeing your bright eyes and inevitable smile with every bite you took, he couldn't help savoring his food as well. You made him feel good; he realized just how true that was.
He gently brushed the corner of your mouth with his clean thumb, wiping away a small smudge. You followed his movement intently, reflexively cleaning the spot afterward. For a brief moment, Alex considered bringing his thumb to his lips out of instinct, but quickly caught himself, realizing the weight of the gesture, and instead wiped it off with a napkin. He thought about apologizing, but feared it would make things awkward.
However, you continued to look at him, your face full of color, the atmosphere just as comfortable and inviting as before. It wasn't a mistake for you; you liked the tingling sensation his touch left on your skin.
…
The weeks passed effortlessly; neither of you avoided the other. Occasionally, you both made your way down from your rooms together for dinner at the hotel restaurant or to have a drink. Conversations came easily. At first, Alex felt uneasy about how you didn’t smoke during routine activities, which made him uncomfortable for not being able to cut back on the habit himself. However, over time, he grew used to it and eventually stopped smoking around you, finding that he missed it less.
Sometimes, nights at the studio would deliberately stretch late, with Alex fine-tuning guitars that didn’t really need it or you attempting to replicate familiar songs on the drums, under the guise of practice. The truth was, even though you both knew you didn’t truly need each other, you still made an effort to be close to one another, whether in quiet moments or during busier times.
"Y’know, oldie. We moved it all online…”  You mentioned it when you opened your eyes and noticed Alex annoyed by the droplets from his hair dripping onto his newspaper.
You couldn't pinpoint where the idea came from, but you understood his priority in not overwhelming you—imagining how a poor work dynamic could fall into the hands of bad journalists. In the end, that led you both to the beach, enjoying the refreshing breeze that made the sun less intense.
Your comment drove him to give up on the newspaper and just look at you. He couldn't look at you casually or quickly, he was getting used to that. Behind his sunglasses and cap, he felt like he was taking advantage by noticing the thin strap of your bikini and the ties and lace that drove him to think of other pieces. He took a deep breath, sinking into the lounge chair, like in romantic comedies that end well. You brushed your knee against his, drawing his attention back to you (yes, you were sharing the only remaining chair meant for couples—neither of you even knew such a thing existed).
Alex quickly realized he was blushing, feeling the heat in his cheeks when he got you had noticed him staring at you. "Do you need sunscreen? I didn't see you apply any yet," you asked, getting ready for your second layer, while Alex hadn’t put on any. "How disgraceful, Turner. You hardly seem like an older man." He rolled his eyes at your amusement.
His hair was tousled by the wind. His face had a radiant glow at you. You put some of it in his hand, and he began to apply it to his sun-kissed cheeks and nose, a bit of it smudging into his hair. You couldn’t help but laugh at the scene, his clumsy hands more likely to smear than spread the lotion properly. "Alright, Tur, let me handle this." You moved closer, your cool fingertips touching his skin and discarding the sunglasses. He caught the scent of peach as it drifted on the breeze, smiling softly as you smiled at him. Your gentle touch grazed his cheeks, finding comfort in the rough texture of his beard, which made you scrunch your nose in a playful smile that turned into a quiet laugh. Letting himself relax, Alex closed his eyes as you smoothed the excess lotion onto his neck. He wished he didn’t enjoy that closeness, but he did, and he had no intention of denying it.
You cleaned the stray strands of hair and lightly traced your thumb up the bridge of his nose, pausing briefly between his eyebrows. Alex sighed in contentment, his lips parting slightly, you felt even more at ease. Before he could open his eyes, you stepped back, slathering more sunscreen into your hands, then pressed your palms against his soft shoulders and just above his chest. He gave you a funny look, but before anything else could happen, you pulled away. "Rub it in," you instructed, noting his slight confusion. "And turn around. I'm going to apply it on your back." Touching his warm, velvety skin felt therapeutic. He shared that same sentiment. Was this how cats felt when they kneaded with their paws? It was just as comforting.
Alex felt the same when his fingers touched your back in return. The silence weighed on him, with only the pulsing of his veins echoing in his ears. Yet, you smiled peacefully, eyes closed and lower lip caught between your teeth as you lay on your stomach. He massaged your skin with sunscreen, convinced that this was a laborious task. Your muscles relaxed under his touch, and he noticed a foolish smile creeping onto his lips.
He gently moved the delicate strap of your bikini aside, making sure to cover every inch, no matter how thin the material was. His palm brushed your hair away from the nape of your neck, and for a long moment, he imagined kissing your sensitive skin, hearing your sighs at a playful bite, letting out the repetitive thoughts that were always about you stuck in his mind. He had memorized your scent, longed to immerse himself in you until your peaches became his, something only he could experience–no one else, not even the stupid boys your age (especially them). He followed the same ritual on your neck, sighing to himself as he acknowledged how addictive your skin was there; you were highly addicted.
  "Wait a minute," you murmured, your words drawn out and languid, almost like failed moans that would fade into silence. Your delicate fingers fumbled with his as you pulled the bikini string down, revealing more of your skin, though not in an obscene way. Even though his gaze was heavy in a way that it wasn't entirely clear. Soon, the piece was no longer there, but the view was limited by the way you were lying.
Understanding his place, he lightly rubbed sunscreen over the exposed area, subtly moving down your waist and barely grazing your hips. He felt as if he were touching porcelain, afraid that any poorly thought-out movement might shatter you. He gave your flesh a final gentle squeeze, and your abdomen contracted at the loss, accompanied by a soft murmur. Returning to his position, Alex chuckled to himself as he noticed how you kept your head closer to the towel you used as a pillow, your body not moving a single millimeter. It was then that he realized the process had taken longer than expected, you had fallen asleep.
He pulled his cap down over his face, a bit embarrassed, even though you couldn't see him. Adjusting his sunglasses back in place, he quietly watched you, taking in your calm breathing and relaxed posture. He took his own shirt, wrapping it over you, deciding that you had been in the sun long enough. He didn't touch you, knowing you were still asleep, but couldn't resist briefly brushing his fingertips against his lips and gently moving the strands of hair that covered your face. His gaze sharpened instinctively, and while he knew how to handle it if he were alone, you didn't deserve that side of his life.
It was quick—just a fleeting moment, a feeling of being watched, though he didn't hear any cameras or whispers. He didn't want to risk dismissing the thought, even if he couldn't see anyone nearby. Slowly, yet without hesitation, he gently called your name, softly stroking your arm. You responded by murmuring his name, manipulating a warm and soft sound, making him wonder if you were conscious of his presence or merely dreaming—of him. It took a while, but Alex remained patient until your eyes opened, startled. He then placed the cap on your head, carefully cradling you in his arms, being cautious not to disorient you further as he buttoned his shirt on you, doing so with as little awkwardness as possible. Despite touching your skin, he never once looked anywhere but your face, waiting for your arms to slip into the sleeves until you looked somewhat presentable.
"We're going to walk to the car, alright? It'll be quick," he said, his voice concerned, firm, and reassuring. He knew what he was doing, hoping to minimize the damage. You simply nodded, resting your tired cheek on his shoulder, and he chuckled softly. "Can you put on my sunglasses, please, little one?" You gave a sweet smile, making him internally berate himself for putting you in this situation. He placed the sunglasses on you, guiding your hands with his own, and kept you close. "Shall we? It'll be quick, promise and you can sleep on the way to the hotel, huh?" You appreciated his calm demeanor, respecting your groggy mood after just waking up.
He grabbed your bag, abandoning any attempt to save the newspaper, and drove his hand on the small of your back. Leaning into him for comfort, you felt him hold you tighter. Instinctively, you nuzzled your face into his chest, only to hear him say, "Okay, just don't get too close to her, alright?" His heart pounded against your ear, and you heard the sound of camera clicks. You didn't want to, nor could you, open your eyes. You couldn't make sense of the noise; the person continued taking photos, asking questions, and you couldn't tell if there was more than one of them.
Alex opened the car door, firmly guiding you until you were seated inside. He gently stroked your hair, noticing how visibly shaken you were. He quickly kissed your forehead. It was a brief, hurried gesture, one you wished you had more time to savor. You held onto his arm, unable to speak. "I'll close the door and come around; I'll be right beside you, and we'll head to the hotel, okay?" He was frustrated, angry, but it wasn't directed at you; he didn't want you to see these feelings of his. He should have been more careful, knowing that this was possible even with the band being on a break, but he had been careless.
Once inside the car, with the windows tinted completely black, ensuring no one could see in, he reached for your hand as he started the engine, holding it tightly as you looked at him, dazed, avoiding looking outside. "Does this happen often?" you asked, your voice small. His throat tightened with an irrepressible knot; he hadn’t considered how foreign all this was to you.
…
Alex’s head throbbed, the furrow between his eyebrows deep with tension. You sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between your thighs, eyes filled with unshed tears as you looked at him. He had used his connections, calling to inform them of the situation and to request the removal of any photos of you from gossip sites if they had already been posted. He was told on the phone that it would be handled, which confirmed that the images had likely been uploaded.
Alex chose to make the call in the hallway, asking you to go ahead to the room, not wanting you to hear and worry more than you might have already. But as soon as he entered, it was clear you had seen something. Your fingers played with the hem of his shirt, lost in thought, and guilt washed over him.
"I can listen to you, pretty one," he said, his voice soft, showing a rare vulnerability as he assured you that he was there with you. He wanted to hear you out, to relieve any burden weighing on your shoulders.
  "I know this happened because you’re well-known," you replied, swallowing hard as you struggled to find the right words. Alex waited, kneeling in front of you between your legs, his fingers lightly brushing your skin. He didn’t know exactly what to do, but hoped he could offer some comfort. The touch didn’t feel like a mistake—it was a natural act of reassurance, though the proximity made him feel conflicted. Yet, considering the situation, it seemed right.
"I’m really sorry, truly. It was careless of me," he apologized, his tone sincere. You shook your head, gently cupping his face in your hands, pushing his hair back. His warm, caramel eyes focused on you, filled with concern as you teetered on the edge of tears, a feeling he feared he didn’t fully understand.
"Tur, I might sound stupid, but—" You hesitated, then he responded with his usual tenderness, drawing you closer. Your legs wrapped around him, your arms holding him tight. He stroked your hair, helping you find comfort against him. The towel draped over his shoulders—since he had given you his shirt and didn't feel like walking around the hotel shirtless—slipped to the floor, and having his warmth was enough for you.
"If they like the album, which I really hope they do, and with all the pre-album promotion as an artist... I don’t want to sound ungrateful, huh, like, this whole journey with you has been amazing, but is it going to be normal to have so many people talking ‘bout me? Pictures of me without my consent? And comments about my appearance?" You couldn’t look at him, which made it easier for you to speak coherently without feeling embarrassed about opening up.
It was so much to process, and Alex hadn’t considered it from that angle. After all, he was the one who had brought you into this situation, both in the moment and for the long haul. You were young, and he didn’t want you to go through what he had at your age. He could have prevented this, but now you were caught up in it.
He kissed your forehead, then your eyelids, realizing just how intimately right—and wrong—this all felt. It was inevitable, and it shouldn’t have been. He pulled back slightly, only to give in when you tightened your hold, snuggling closer. You took his hand and placed it on your waist, your way of asking him for it to take longer, seeking more of his embrace. He chuckled softly, needing it just as much.
  There wasn’t much to say. "I think you know the answer, little one. I wish it wasn’t like this either. I’m sorry for introducin’ you to this.”
Alex’s hands slid up and down your back, gripping the fabric and holding you tightly against him. Your sigh was one of relief, drawn out, so sweet. He cupped your chin, lifting your head to meet his gaze. Your cheeks were damp, and he offered a small, uncomfortable smile.
“It’s okay,” you said weakly, trying to sound more composed than you felt. “It’s not your fault, Turner. I don’t think that, and I don’t regret being here with you. I’m just scared of everything that’s going to come with this, especially since I never really thought about it before.” Your words seemed distant, but even in your emotional state, you were eloquent.
Alex didn’t know exactly what to expect either; things had changed since 2008. He remembered the Humbug era being the worst, with all the attention from MTV. His tongue rested on the roof of his mouth as your fingers found a home at the nape of his neck, gently tugging at the fine hairs, much like you do with the hem of your shirt when you’re anxious. It soothed you. Your eyes lowered to his chest, and you realized it was the first time you’d hugged him this longer, and he was shirtless. You liked everything about it—the warmth and the view you had.
He pulled the collar of your shirt toward him, bringing your face closer until his tiny beard tickled your skin. You looked at him, and he didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring right into your soul. You were beautiful with your red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Understanding what you were going through, he got you whispering amidst the chaos of finding the right words, “I can’t mess this up, Tur.”
He focused on your words, though he wanted to pull you into him even more, but he resisted, waiting for you to continue. “I want this too, I just don’t want you to think less of me, okay?” Your eyes welled up again, and as soon as you tried to lower your head, he gently lifted it back up, fully aware of what you were trying to convey. “I don’t want you to think I’m like this just because I’m interested in you. I don’t want you to see me as…” You paused, struggling with the words. He simply rested his forehead against yours, holding your face gently in his hands.
“I don’t think anything bad ‘bout you, lil’ one. I’ve never thought that way, and these are just your worries, you got me? Nothing changes the fact that I think you’re talented and competent, huh? That has nothing to do with how I see you as a professional. You don’t have to be afraid of that.” He was firm, his voice louder than usual. You took in every word, noting the roughness of his tone and the space between his lack of manners with sentences. He swallowed hard, his mouth slightly open, and you appreciated how patient he was with you, how well he seemed to understand that you needed this moment. Your fingers tightened on his, and then your lips met his. It was slow, and though you felt like you lacked experience, it was warm. He pulled you closer, every inch of you molding to him.
You started to pull away, embarrassed, feeling like maybe this wasn’t meant for you, but as soon as your lips began to leave his, he tugged your collar, bringing you back for a more urgent kiss, making it clear he had been waiting for this for a long time. You leaned back slightly, but he held you firmly, sensing how your body was softening against him. He chuckled into the kiss, and you felt his velvety tongue against yours, slowly being enveloped by wet, lingering kisses. The taste was salty from tears and the sea, you laughed at the thought of him being seasoned.
You brushed his fringe away, noticing how his cheeks were flushed and his lips swollen. You wanted more. You realized your brain hadn’t fully registered what it felt like to have his beard brushing against your face.
“Was it bad?” you asked, your voice barely audible. You couldn’t help but think about how Alex had been with many other women, while you could count on one hand the people you’d kissed in your life.
“Do you talk when you’re nervous?” His warm breath brushed against your skin, close enough to be unsettling. Before you could answer, he planted soft kisses on your lips, still making a slight sound and lingering just a bit. He tasted of mint, not quite of cigarettes. The tip of his nose grazed yours, and the subtle stubble on his face slid pleasantly against your cheek. When he pulled back, your natural reaction was to lean forward for more, which he didn’t resist, a playful smile on his lips as he let you set the pace. Your fingers seemed made for his hair, and Alex was sure of it. By the end, you were breathless, though he wasn’t quite as much.
“Okay, I need to breathe...through my nose while doing this.” He chuckled, pulling you close for a hug. You felt at ease with him, talking out of nerves, but it was clear it didn’t bother you. He liked that. “It’s not bad at all. It’s actually wonderful, pet.” He touched your nose and cheeks, his fingers tracing every feature, wanting to soak in each detail of you. “You’re beautiful,” he said. You nodded. He struggled to figure out if the way your eyes fluttered when he spoke to you like that was because of his voice or his compliments, yet he was determined to keep drawing those reactions from you.
He ran his calloused fingers up your thigh, stopping at your hips, squeezing them hard. Your nails dug into his shoulders in anticipation as your legs parted briefly, giving him better access and also making the fabric of your shirt give him more of a view. The bottom of your bikini was tight, very tight, leaving a mark on your skin and he ran his fingertips over the spot. You looked at him, thinking about how no one had ever looked at you like that; the mix of desire and actually seeing you as something more than that. You had written about it before, but never experienced it, and so you wondered about the possibility of Alex acting like that because he knew your writing. However, you didn't want to think badly of him, you wanted to enjoy it.
His gaze rose to meet yours, his tongue moistening his lips and the crease between his eyebrows deepening, was it fair that that alone made you wet? He didn't need to say anything, you confirmed what he wanted.
The attention lingered on your face, your heart racing at the serenity of how he undid the ties, getting rid of the piece. You couldn't move, taken by how delicate he was and his eyes on you didn't do the same, even though he didn't fail to contemplate you.
“Turner,” it was like a sob, a tiny sharp. His fingers touched your center, sighing as a way of savoring the moment, then he sank a little deeper, smearing his fingers and spreading them from your entrance to your clit to improve the sensation.
“It's all right, princess, I'm right ‘ere. I've got you, but we've got all the time in the world, so let's be patient, you're with me?" Each word was breathy and soft, difficult for you to string together, but you still repeated his last name in a pleading whisper.
He brushed two of his fingers against you, one of your legs lifting and bending at the knees, he laughed at your reactions but it was adorable, even though he was nothing much but his dark orbs. Respecting your body, he plunged his fingers deeper, sliding in easily. Your body gave in, your hands supporting you back and your moans getting hotter, you felt tighter but it still felt good.
"Relax, lil’ one. You can lie down, everything's fine, huh? You can just relax, no thoughts." His accent, full of patience, so familiar yet made you swallow hard. Alex’s fingers were damp, all along their length, carrying that blissful energy that comes with youth. Certainly, it could be said that you were not so used to that, the gap between doing something and thinking about it was great, given your state you had fantasized about it a few times; maybe you expected something he couldn't give you, but he was there for you.
He felt like an exception, he wasn't so young anymore, but he was acting like one. His fingers slid, you swallowed them completely, until your legs trembled a bit and he pulled back, only to repeat it all over again. He was touching you, getting to know you, and thinking about how he would be tasting your juices on his tongue in a few seconds, getting you ready to have him inside of you without any concern... He throbbed with each glimpse.
He couldn't deny that he had fantasized about you too, how he wanted to corrupt you while you were wearing your usual spaghetti strap dresses, hike them up to your waist and just pull down his pants to take you in the studio, have your voice fade away while instruments were thrown to the floor. He would get heavy, swollen with sensitivity in his underwear when he thought about you from time to time, refusing to do anything that bordered on disrespect, and even if he failed, he followed a ritual in his light groping, looking for relief, without letting himself get there as punishment.  He never felt right thinking about you that way, but it seemed like a plausible moment to let himself be reminded of it.
Your eyes were closed, your face to the ceiling, your head pressed into the mattress in agony. You weren't expecting it, but your muscles clenched tighter into the sheets, this was new; you knew what it was, it just had never been like this. There were brief kisses on your wetness, noisy and messy, his hair brushed against your thigh and his hands were firmly on you. You had never seen yourself without thinking about anything, not literally, but your senses only hovered over how to be good for Turner so he could make you feel great.
For Alex, it was better than he remembered imagining. It was hard to breathe when all he could do was focus on keeping going, listening to your sweet whimpers for more. The vivid scent of peach filled his senses, your taste taking over his consciousness, everything felt so good.
He sank his tongue, contracting it hard so that it dissolved inside you and felt in honor how you dripped down the sides of his mouth. He held the edges of your shirt tightly, pushing you closer to him, his nose brushing against your clit while his whole face rubbed all over your folds with desire. Your fingers tightened in his hair, gripping hard as you called out his name, the words barely coherent. You focused on him with a dazed expression, your gaze hazy and unfocused. His face was serene, eyes closed in deep enjoyment, completely immersed in your taste. You shifted a little, although he soon forced you against the mattress so you wouldn't do that, wanting to feel his beard hurt your skin. In fact, boys your age, or at least your experiences, did that very quickly, as an obligation. Alex was not a boy.
"You're so addictive," your throat was dry.  Alex hadn't even done half of what he had in mind with you; and you certainly couldn't handle it.
He turned his face away due to your trembling knees, holding your gaze to his. He wanted you to get there, but in another way. Still, he watched you as he pressed only the tips of his fingers on your clit, without movements other than those of your hips. “So smart and charming, is there anything you can't do?” You pulsed, electric current going through your entire body.
You didn't know what to do, your cheeks were burning and you could only moisten your lips, wanting the agonizing knot to disappear.
“Turner,” he laughed, the same nasal sound you loved. It was like a mantra, the repetition of the drawn-out last name coming out of you and the cocky laugh. “Please, I need it, I need you, Tur.”
He nodded, stiff and sore in his shorts, then stood up and pulled them off. He didn’t look in a hurry to you, it gave you a headache, but he was nice to look at; his pale skin, his slim waist, his shoulders red from your scratches and his reddened length. He was hot and well-endowed, good enough to make your mouth water.
  "Have you done this before?" His friendly tone made you hate your thoughts, and also question if you actually had. His cheeks were flushed, as were his lips, and he swallowed hard while looking at you. You felt a bit embarrassed. "It's okay if you haven't, princess." You smiled softly, shaking your head. "A few times, but it was never good. But this time, it is." Alex understood; he didn't judge you and never would. He ran his hand through your hair, brushing it away from your face, then gently tugged at the collar of your shirt, pulling it slightly away from your skin. "Are your songs not based on your experiences?" You feared he might think that was a bad thing, but his voice didn't carry any judgment. "No..." You sighed, content with his touch and his body pressed to yours. "I don't think I've ever truly experienced love, at least not directly. But I like writing about how I'd want it to be." His eyes were a bit misty, and he nodded. He found that meaning beautiful; it was a perspective he hadn't considered before. He didn't feel so distant from that, since he wrote about things he'd witnessed. "It's beautiful. You do it really well.”
He opened the buttons, one by one, taking his time. He revealed your body to him little by little, admiring your collarbone, the curve of your breasts and stomach. His lips touched every nuance, leaving a wet trail and a bite on the flesh below your perky nipple. You writhed with a shrill noise, your legs clinging to him, ready to feel him as he brushed against your thigh. Alex also moaned every now and then, much more restrained and full-bodied, so hoarse.
He held your face to him, preventing you from turning away. The weight of his body felt good, everything about Alex felt like being enveloped in calm; even though you didn't expect calm at that moment. He opened his mouth, perhaps as thirsty as you were, his tongue on the roof of his mouth, staring at you. Slow and precise, you had your muscles soften as he got warm and tight inside you. You swallowed greedily, wet as never before, taking every inch of him.
“Good pet, good girl.” You held onto him tighter, your eyes watering. He held your head, snuggling you close to him. "You're doing great, you're such a good girl, right? Focus on how I'm inside you, filling you to the brim, can you feel me, lil’ one?” He was hoarser, unavoidable not to pay attention. His voice really calmed you down, making it work, your legs rested slowly and you noticed he was more comfortable in you; fitting better.
He held your hand on top of your head, intertwining your fingers, letting you squeeze tightly. Your body rocked on the bed with the rhythm of his hips, the movement was slow, he let his entire length come out of you like that and then pressed harder so you could accommodate him all the way into your lower tummy. It was good, warm, it made you think of more and more until you felt your belly tingle. Alex had a prominent crease, his pink lips parted and he gasped along with you every time your bones collided. Unable to hold back, he sped up, letting you whisper a painful, "Thank you," which made him release your hand, gripping your wrist violently as his forehead fell onto your shoulder. You stained the back of his neck with bruises, wanting your fist to come out the same way.
Your hot breath came in short gasps, you tried to be coherent in shyly mumbling that he could come inside you; wanting to have him fill you to the last drop until you were exhausted. Which wouldn't be a problem, you took your precautions up to date.
The intensity of his body on yours was growing, similar to the arrival of guitar solos in a chorus; you had to close your eyes, really paying attention to how your walls squeezed him inside you. Your firm thighs around him, added to the strength with which he thrusted you, caused friction on your clit and you were becoming aware of your limits. You felt Alex hug you again, delicate arms around you, wetting your shirt in soft moans as he filled you warmly. The sensation, the noise, everything connected made you relieve yourself too, in a relaxation of having both liquids mixing, ready to run out of you. He slowed down, keeping the same ritual, making you feel your thighs sticky until he realized you were getting too sensitive with tears filling your pretty eyes, and it was better to stop.
There was the familiar, comfortable silence that always settled between you two, both of you immersed in each other's presence. The embrace was gentle yet firm. He was comfy, still inside you, pulsing a bit, but good. His hand moved in meaningful circles on your back, and you mirrored the motion on his arm. His hair was a mess, and you imagined yours probably was too. His swollen lips drew in air as before, making you contemplate the way his tongue rested against the roof of his mouth.
"Can you lick me, Tur?" You asked comfortably given the situation, feeling good all over his touch.
He ran his hand over your chin, looking at you, not finding it bad. You hesitated when you asked, but it seemed inevitable. He moistened his lips, touching the tip of his tongue to your mouth, right on the lower one, holding your face firmly and doing what you said. The velvety, wet touch ran down your lip and into your mouth, which made you smile slightly, holding him for a kiss. It was good, you had imagined that. He sucked your lip to himself, in a somewhat messy act of saliva, and you wanted to do it more often.
“You good?” It was a genuine intimacy, right after a few minutes of nothing but the pure sound of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. You couldn’t help but wonder if this would affect how professional he thought you were—after all, he was your mentor—but you didn’t want to bring that up now. Similarly, feeling the way his shirt clung to your body, brushing against his skin and stealing your scent, he wondered the same thing, afraid you might truly believe you weren’t talented enough due to the internet and that this had only made things worse in your mind. Yet, he didn’t know what to say; the silence felt safe. "I’m okay, Tur. Tired, but I don’t want to think about songs, albums, or what we’ll do in an hour right now." You nestled closer to him, kissing his cheek softly, then his neck. Your voice was laced with tears, and he wasn’t sure if it was about what happened minutes ago or the issue with the paparazzi, but he understood that you were vulnerable. He felt guilty, still processing everything. "I’m not going to leave you, little one. I’ll be ‘ere, to deal with this and remind you how good you are." He whispered into your hair that smelled of peaches. You believed him, and he made you see a future in all of this.
You could have him on the cover of your album.