A/N: Some fun smut~ You can read this as a standalone fic if that's ya cup of tea, or if you're interested in a little more plot and some more sex you can follow along with the series!


All she wants is a peaceful night - she's curled up, snug and warm, tea cradled in one hand as she tries to read; only to be interrupted by a blaring electric guitar.

Fuck. There goes peaceful. Just her luck the new person next door would be a rocker or something.

It takes just over two minutes for her patience to snap, dragging her from the warm comfort of her bed, and she throws a robe on before storming over to the next flat, pounding on the door. She's met by a much older man with wild grey hair, brows furrowing as he gazes down at her, looking her over. He's much taller than her; but she stands her ground, chin lifting to meet his gaze, and- fuck. Fucking hell, he's hot.

She takes a moment, glaring. Because damn him, she's furious.

"Some people around here are trying to sleep, you know?"

"Oh yeah?" So maybe he feels a little guilty about not checking the time. But there's a challenging look in her eyes, and maybe he wants to push that, rile her up. "It's a Friday night, loosen up."

"I don't need to loosen up."

"Prove it." And he smirks, and it infuriates her. She can feel his eyes boring into her and she hates that she falters, that he's worked her into a trap where she proves it - and he wins. She doesn't? She backs down; and he still wins.

"Not going to," she answers sweetly. "But if you don't stop, I'll throw your amp out the window."

"Be my guest." He laughs, unfazed. "I won't stop unless you stop waking me up in the morning. How do you make so much noise for such a small thing?"

"What?"

"You've got the footsteps of an elephant. And I think your kitchen must be right next to my bedroom, considering how much of a racket you make in the mornings."

She stares, mouth open slightly. And in a rare turn of events, she's lost for words.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

And there's another smirk, and for the second time this evening, she snaps, hand snaking around to pull his head down, lips crashing against his. There's a carnal hunger gnawing at her, hands curling in fists around his grey t-shirt, tugging him into his flat with her. "Bed," she mutters, and that's all the permission he needs, hands sliding down her back to her thighs, lifting her. Her legs wrap around his waist, fingers still clutching his shirt. Her robe is already somewhere on the floor, forgotten, and her nightdress has ridden up dangerously, exposing her underwear - she chastises herself for not putting anything else on before leaving her room. Though the lack of clothes is helpful now, she supposes.

She's vaguely aware of the door to his bedroom shutting, followed by the feeling of her back pressed against wood, and his fingers graze her skin, tugging her nightdress off, lips pressing over her neck, fingers and lips leaving burning trails along her skin. Her hands tug at his shirt, pulling it off, nails scratching over his skin, and fuck, she feels like she could explode from pure, raw desire. Her bare feet hit the floor, fingers unbuttoning his jeans, tugging the rest of their clothing off impatiently. He laughs in amusement - she bites her lip and idly wonders if he has any idea how frustrating yet endearing his laugh is - but at least he's letting her take control, letting her push him to the bed, grinding down on him impatiently.

"You won't play your guitar after ten again, will you?" she growls, voice low and sultry, and she knows just how to roll her hips against him to elicit a sharp, needy moan.

"Bossy, aren't you?" Oh, but he loves it. "I might, if it gets you on top of me again."

"You'll never get me again if you even try."

He rolls his eyes. "Very well."

She gives in then, crying out softly as she sinks down on him, hands gripping at him as she rides him, lips parting as she gasps. His fingers dig into her hips and hers move up to grab fistfuls of surprisingly soft, silver locks, tugging and oh, he sounds so good when he moans. She keeps going, settling into a rhythm that has her moaning loudly for him, right until he spills, crying out and shuddering, and she rolls off him, collapsing down onto the bed, flushed and sweaty and—

Fuck. He's so fucking good, head nudging between her legs and Christ, she didn't even have to ask. His tongue digs against her, working at her clit diligently, and she's arching, head tipped back, toes curling. She's unapologetically loud (oh, how the tables have turned), and dangerously close to screaming by the time she releases, crying out loudly, fingers gripping his sheets until her knuckles turn white. He looks up at her, smiling - and it's a soft, boyish smile, though there's a hint of smugness tugging at the corners of his lips. He's more attractive than before, if that's possible, hair wild and unkempt in a way that just makes her want to run her fingers through his curls. So she does. She's a mess (in her opinion, at least), hair tangled, tendrils sticking to her damp skin and oh, mentally she's a bigger mess. She knows he's too old for her, and fucking hell, why is he so attractive to her? And yet, she thinks she'll do this again. Even if he continues being insufferable.

"I'm sure you'll need no help sleeping now," he remarks, and whilst she wants to be annoyed, she can't help the way her lips curl into a smile and she laughs, despite herself.

Maybe she did need to loosen up.