More Tony Snark, Please I'm Dying

It had grown out over the past few months, and you’d watched with increasing fascination as it fell in soft waves that brushed past his ears and curled slightly at his neckline. The layers were perfectly imperfect, textured and tousled in that effortlessly cool way that probably took his stylist an hour to achieve but looked like he’d just run his fingers through it. Which he did. Frequently. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing to you. 

He did it again now, absently pushing the dark strands back from his forehead as he read, and you felt your breath catch.

"You're staring again."

His voice cut through your reverie, smooth and knowing. He didn't even look up from his script.

"I'm not staring," you lied, poorly. "I'm... contemplating."

"Contemplating." Now he did look up, one eyebrow arched over the rim of his glasses in that trademark expression that had launched a thousand GIFs. "Is that what we're calling it these days?"

"I'm contemplating the artistic choices in this script," you said, gesturing vaguely at the pages in your lap that you definitely hadn't been reading. "Very contemplative. Much art."

"Uh-huh." He set his own script down, removing his glasses with deliberate slowness. "So you can tell me what page you're on?"

"Page..." You glanced down. "Seven."

"Try twelve. You haven't turned a page in fifteen minutes." He leaned back against the couch, arms spreading across the back in a pose that was absolutely calculated to be devastating. "I know you find me irresistible, sweetheart, but this is getting ridiculous. Even for you."

"Your humility is truly inspiring," you shot back, but you could feel heat creeping up your neck.

"Humility is overrated. Honesty, however..." He tilted his head, and those waves shifted, catching the light. "You've been eye-fucking my hair since I got out of the shower this morning. That's what, four hours now?"

"Eye-fucking is a strong term."

"You literally stopped mid-sentence during breakfast to stare at it. I had to wave my hand in front of your face."

"I was thinking."

"You were fantasizing." He was grinning now, that sharp, knowing smile that made him look like he'd just won an argument you didn't know you were having. "Just admit it. You're obsessed. Still. After all this time."

You set the script aside, deciding that if you were going to be called out - again - you might as well own it. "Fine. Yes. Your hair is ridiculously touchable and I've been thinking about running my fingers through it for approximately..." You checked your watch. "Four hours and seventeen minutes. Happy?"

"Ecstatic." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. "Though I have to say, you usually crack around the two-hour mark. You're showing remarkable restraint today."

"Oh, fuck off," you laughed, grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at him.

He caught it easily, that infuriating grin widening. "There she is. I was starting to worry you'd been body-snatched by someone with self-control."

"Self-control is overrated."

"That's my girl." He tossed the pillow aside and stood, moving with that casual grace that seemed effortless but you knew came from years of fight choreography and the yoga you'd dragged him to last month. He crossed to where you sat, stopping just in front of you. "So what's stopping you?"

You looked up at him, heart suddenly hammering despite the familiarity. "Stopping me from what?"

"From touching it. Since you're so obsessed and self-control is overrated." He was close enough now that you could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, could smell his cologne - the one you'd bought him for his birthday. "I'm right here. Like always."

It was a challenge. Everything with Robert was a challenge, a game of verbal chess where the stakes were always higher than they appeared. Even after all these months together, he still kept you on your toes.

You stood slowly, bringing yourself nearly eye-level with him in your heels. "You sure you can handle it? Remember what happened last Tuesday?"

"Please." He scoffed, but there was something darker flickering in his expression now, something heated and familiar. "That was one time. And we were already late."

"We were an hour late. To your own premiere."

"Worth it," he said without hesitation. "Besides, we don't have anywhere to be today."

"Dangerous words," you murmured, and reached up.

The first touch of his hair against your fingers was electric, just like it always was. It was softer than it looked, the waves silky and thick as you slid your hand through the layers. You felt him inhale sharply, saw his eyes flutter closed for just a second before he caught himself.

"Still gets you every time," you said softly, voice lower now.

"Yeah." His voice had gone rough around the edges. "Yeah, it does. Keep going."

So you did. Your other hand joined the first, combing through the textured layers, feeling how they fell perfectly back into place, how the ends curled slightly around your fingers. You let your nails scrape lightly against his scalp - the way you'd learned he loved - and felt him shudder.

"Jesus," he breathed. "You know what that does to me."

"I know exactly what it does to you." You were close enough now that your breath ghosted across his lips. "That's why I do it."

Instead of answering, he kissed you.

It wasn't gentle. Robert never did gentle when he was worked up, and you'd learned months ago that your hands in his hair worked him up faster than anything else. His mouth was hot and demanding against yours, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip in that possessive way that made your knees weak.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth.

"Fuck," he gasped when you pulled back for air. "Do that again."

"This?" You wound your fingers deeper into the waves and pulled, harder this time, tilting his head back.

His eyes went dark, pupils blown wide. "You're going to be the death of me."

"You say that every time," you said, and kissed him again.

Somehow you ended up on the couch - though you both knew exactly how, this was a well-practiced dance by now. He fell back against the cushions and you followed, straddling his lap in one fluid motion that spoke of familiarity and desire in equal measure.

"Well," he said, looking up at you with that crooked smile, hands sliding up your thighs to rest on your hips. "Here we go again."

"Complaining?" you asked, already reaching for the hem of your shirt.

"Never." His hands found the hem of your shirt, helping you tug it up and over your head. "This is literally my favorite part of dating you."

"Just this part?" You pulled his t-shirt off and immediately got your hands back in his hair, using the grip to angle his head as you kissed down his jaw, his neck, feeling his pulse jump under your lips in that familiar rhythm.

"Okay, top three," he amended breathlessly as your teeth grazed his collarbone. "Top three favorite parts."

"Better." You bit down gently and pulled his hair at the same time - a combination you'd perfected over months of practice.

"Christ," he hissed. "You're getting too good at that."

"Practice makes perfect," you said against his skin. "And we've had a lot of practice."

"Not complaining about that either." His hands were working at your jeans now, popping the button with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this many times before. "Though I have to say, you're particularly enthusiastic today."

"Blame the hair. It's been taunting me all morning."

You stood just long enough to shimmy out of your jeans and underwear, and you watched his eyes go dark with that familiar hunger as he took you in. He made quick work of his own pants, and then you were back in his lap, skin against skin, and the feeling was intoxicating even though you'd felt it a hundred times before.

"Hi," he said softly, hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles on your hipbones.

"Hi yourself," you breathed, and then you were kissing again, deeper this time, slower, like you had all the time in the world. Because you did.

But patience had never been your strong suit, and Robert knew it.

You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, feeling him pulse in your palm. He groaned into your mouth, hips jerking up in that involuntary response you'd come to love.

"Eager," you teased.

"You're one to talk," he shot back, but his voice was strained. "You've been eye-fucking me for hours. Again."

"And now I'm going to actually fuck you," you said, positioning yourself over him. "Try to keep up."

"I always keep up," he said, but his breath hitched as you sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate movement.

His mouth fell open, eyes squeezing shut, and his hands tightened on your hips hard enough to bruise - just the way you both liked it.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Never gets old."

"Never," you agreed, gasping, because he felt incredible, stretching and filling you perfectly. You gave yourself a moment to adjust - though your body knew him well enough by now that it didn't take long - then started to move.

You set a hard, demanding rhythm, rising up and sinking back down, using your thighs to drive the pace. And your hands - your hands went straight back to his hair, fingers threading through those perfect waves, gripping tight.

The effect was immediate and devastating, just like always. Robert's head fell back against the couch, a broken moan escaping his throat, and his hips bucked up to meet yours with renewed urgency.

"That's it," you breathed, tugging harder, using the grip to pull his head to the side so you could bite at his neck. "You love this, don't you?"

"Yes," he hissed. "Fuck, yes, you know I do."

You did know. You'd learned every single thing that made him come undone, and this - your hands fisted in his hair while you rode him - was at the top of the list.

You rode him harder, faster, one hand fisted in his hair while the other braced against his shoulder for leverage. Every time you pulled, he thrust up harder, a feedback loop of pleasure that had you both gasping and had become your signature move.

"You look so good like this," you told him, watching the way his face contorted with pleasure, the way his hair fell across his forehead in messy waves. "Completely wrecked."

"You're one to talk," he managed, opening his eyes to look at you. The intensity in his gaze nearly undid you, even after all this time. "Riding me like you're trying to prove something."

"Maybe I am."

"What's that?" His hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping hard, helping to drive you down onto him in that perfect rhythm you'd found together.

"That I can still make you lose control," you said, punctuating it with a particularly hard pull of his hair.

He actually whimpered, and the sound went straight to your core. "Every single time. You know that."

You could feel the tension building, that delicious pressure coiling tighter and tighter. You changed the angle slightly, grinding down, and gasped when he hit that perfect spot inside you - the one he'd learned to find with unerring accuracy.

"There?" he asked, voice rough, and did it again.

"There," you confirmed, head falling back.

He took advantage of your exposed throat, leaning forward to kiss and bite at the sensitive skin, all while maintaining that perfect angle. Your grip in his hair tightened reflexively, and you felt him smile against your neck.

"You're close," he murmured. "I can always tell."

"So are you," you gasped, because you could - could feel him getting harder, his rhythm getting more erratic in that telltale way.

"Then let's make it good." One of his hands slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of precision that came from months of practice and attention.

The combination of sensations - him inside you, his thumb circling with perfect pressure, his mouth on your neck, his hair soft and thick between your fingers - was overwhelming. You felt yourself climbing higher, higher, right to the edge.

"Robert," you gasped. "I'm -"

"I know, baby. I've got you. Always."

You pulled his hair hard, probably harder than you should have, and felt him groan against your skin. That was all it took. You came with a cry, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your whole body shaking with the force of it.

Robert followed seconds later, your name a broken prayer on his lips as he thrust up one final time and spilled inside you. You felt him pulse, felt his hands grip you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both trying to remember how breathing worked. The living room was quiet except for your ragged gasps and the distant sound of waves from the beach below - a soundtrack that had become familiar over the months you'd been together.

Finally, you lifted your head from where it had fallen against his shoulder. His hair was completely destroyed, waves sticking up in every direction from your grip, and he looked thoroughly debauched.

"So," he said eventually, voice hoarse. "That happened. Again."

You laughed, the sound breathless and a little giddy. "Your powers of observation are truly astounding."

"I'm a little brain-dead at the moment. You fucked the wit right out of me. As usual."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should." His hands were tracing lazy patterns on your back now, gentle and soothing in that post-coital tenderness you'd come to crave. "That was... yeah. Top five, easily."

"Top five?" You pulled back to look at him, eyebrow raised. "Only top five?"

"Top three," he amended with a grin. "Don't get greedy."

"I'm always greedy when it comes to you."

"I've noticed." But he was smiling, that soft, genuine smile that he didn't show often, the one that made him look younger and less guarded. The one he saved just for you.

You reached up, gently smoothing his hair back from his forehead, trying to restore some order to the chaos you'd created. He leaned into the touch, eyes closing, a contented hum rumbling in his chest.

"You really do love my hair," he said, amused. "I mean, I knew that. But it never stops being entertaining."

"It's a very nice hair," you said seriously. "Ten out of ten. Would recommend."

"Would recommend my hair?"

"Would recommend pulling your hair during sex. The reviews continue to be excellent. Five stars on Yelp. Consistently."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"I really do," he said, and there was something in his voice that made your heart skip. Something softer than the banter, more real. "I love you."

You pulled back slightly to look at him, warmth flooding your chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture achingly tender. "In case that wasn't clear from the mind-blowing sex we just had on my couch. Again."

"It was pretty mind-blowing," you agreed. "Though I think we might have traumatized your couch at this point."

"The couch has seen things," he said solemnly. "It's a veteran. It can handle it."

"I'm not sure I want to know what else it's witnessed."

"Probably not." He was quiet for a moment, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "You know you're stuck with me now, right? This hair obsession of yours has locked you in."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely. I'm growing it out specifically to keep you around. It's a trap."

"A very effective trap," you admitted.

"The most effective." He grinned. "Plus, I'm pretty sure if I cut it, you'd actually leave me."

"I would," you said seriously. "Immediately. No discussion."

"See? Trapped by my own follicles."

"You could do worse."

"I really couldn't." His expression softened. "Seriously, though. You know I love this, right? The hair thing. The way you can't keep your hands off me. All of it."

"Even when it makes us an hour late to your premieres?"

"Especially then." He pulled you down for a kiss, this one slow and sweet and full of affection. "You're lucky I'm as into this as you are."

"We're both lucky," you murmured against his lips.

"True." He was quiet for a moment, just holding you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your spine. "So, what do you want to do for the rest of the day? Besides mess up my hair some more."

"Is that an option?"

"It's always an option with you. I've accepted my fate."

You pretended to think about it. "Well, we never finished reading those scripts."

"We both know we're not finishing those scripts today."

"Probably not," you admitted. "We could order food. Watch a movie. Engage in more naked wrestling."

"Naked wrestling," he repeated, deadpan. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"It's a very athletic activity. Requires stamina. Flexibility."

"And apparently a lot of hair-pulling."

"That's just my signature move."

He laughed, pulling you closer. "I love your signature move. Have I mentioned that?"

"Once or twice. But I don't mind hearing it again."

"I love your signature move," he said obediently, then added, "I love you."

"I love you too," you said, settling against his chest, his arms wrapping around you. "Even without the hair."

"Liar."

"Okay, mostly with the hair. But the man attached to it is pretty great too."

"I'll take it." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "So, food and a movie?"

"And more naked wrestling?"

"Obviously. I have a reputation to maintain."

"What reputation is that?"

"Best boyfriend with great hair," he said seriously. "It's a very specific niche."

You laughed, fingers already threading back through those perfect waves. "You're definitely winning in that category."

"Damn right I am." He stood, somehow managing to lift you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist in a move you'd perfected over months of practice. "Come on. Let's take this to the bedroom. The couch deserves a break."

"The bedroom is good," you agreed. "Though I have to say, the couch has been a real MVP today."

"We have a lot of furniture," he said thoughtfully, carrying you down the hallway. "And apparently infinite stamina when your hands are in my hair."

"It's a gift."

"It's something," he agreed, shouldering open the bedroom door. "But I'm not complaining."

"You never do."

"Because I'm smart." He laid you down on the bed, following you down, his hair falling forward to frame his face. "And because I love you. And your weird hair obsession."

"It's not weird, it's romantic."

"It's both," he said, and kissed you again.

You pulled him closer, fingers tangling in his hair once more, and thought that maybe, just maybe, this obsession with his hair was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

Well, that and the man attached to it.

But mostly the man.

(Okay, it was definitely the man.)