Crosby, that’s England right?

Currently writing for Top Gun (1986), Top Gun Maverick, Stranger Things, Masters of the Air, and as of now am still considering requests for Elvis (2022)! Send requests if you’d like, but no smut please! Unfortunately I can’t guarantee that I’ll write them all but I’d love to hear what y’all’d like to read.

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You’re so fixated on the picture, it takes you a moment to notice the message he sent along with it.

See you soon, mo ghrá ❤️

You type back a reply, a miss you of your own and a reminder to hydrate and wear sunscreen— you can tell by his sunburnt nose that he’s still not used to the Palermo sun— and return your attention to the picture.

One week, you tell yourself. Just one more week, and then he’s home.

The week simultaneously speeds by and seems to move slow as molasses, your impatience broken only by the seemingly never ending messages and photos from your boyfriend as his flight home approaches.

There’s the usual good morning and good night texts, the midday check ins, the selfies of him with Hero and Max and Zine and Holly, his costars sneaking silly selfies of their own to send to you when he’s not looking…

And then there’s the running pics.

There really shouldn’t be this many, there’s no way he’s managed to go on this many runs in only a week— but he’ll send one from seemingly a week or two ago, with a message about how he’d meant to send it to you before, isn’t the sunrise in the background gorgeous? Or one from a few days before, a view of the city in the background, or one of him holding your favorite drink as a post-run treat and… he has to know what it’s doing to you, inundated as you are with pictures of his dimples and flushed cheeks and curls damp with sweat.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come pick you up?”

“No, I’ll be fine, sweetheart. I’ll be getting in late anyway, I’ll see you when I get home.”

Your boyfriend’s voice is slightly fuzzy through the phone, airport announcements and distant conversations drifting in from the background.

“Alright… be safe, my love. Text me—”

“When I’m on the plane, and when we land. I know, mo ghrá.”

Despite his mock annoyance at your reminder, his voice lilts back into softness and warmth at the endearment, and your heart flutters. 

“I love you,” you say, grinning. “See you soon.”

“See you soon,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he tacks on your name at the end. There’s a few seconds of dead air, like you’re teenagers, neither of you wanting to be the first to hang up, and then the call ends.

With that, you start getting ready. 

You’re practically vibrating by the time the text from Dónal arrives telling you he just landed. He’ll be home soon, and you can’t wait.

The telltale sound of keys jangling at the front door has you sprinting towards it, pausing just as it swings open to reveal your boyfriend. 

You sweep your eyes over him, cataloging: curls a touch mussed under his trusty baseball cap, glasses the tiniest bit crooked on his nose, white shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, the barest amount of stubble scattered over his chin, and his St. Christopher pendant tucked safely under his shirt.

He blinks in surprise, though his shock quickly transforms into a grin at the sight of you.

“Hi, sweethea— mph!”

You’re flinging your arms around him before he even finishes speaking, lips crashing to his.

He blindly tugs his bags inside as you pull him over the threshold, hands flying to pull you closer the second the door is closed behind you. You’re feverishly running your hands over his arms, his chest, savoring the feeling of him here, home, finally.

He grins into the kiss, body pressed flush against your own.

“What brought this on, mo ghrá?” He murmurs against your lips, driving you positively mad because he knows exactly what brought it on— the weeks of him away, the endless stream of pictures…

His mouth moves away from yours, a series of kisses pressed to your cheek in a trail until his lips are brushing the shell of your ear. His hands are low on your hips, his body pressed against yours, and all you can feel, all you can think of is him him him as he whispers:

“Missed me that much?”

His voice has gone low and gravelly in a way that sends heat right to your core. You’re suddenly grateful for his firm grip on your hips, because your knees go weak for a moment, and you could swear you genuinely stop breathing for the barest second.

He chuckles at the soft whimper that escapes you unbidden, a dark, delicious sound.

This man is going to kill you.

“Missed you too, mo ghrá,” he murmurs against your skin, brushing kisses everywhere he can reach.

You can’t even begin to form words, your brain gone deliciously fuzzy at his touch. His lips return to cover yours in a heated, hungry, open mouthed kiss just in time for his hands to drift down to your thighs and hoist you up into his arms, the little gasp of surprise muffled by his mouth. Your hands find their way under his shirt as he carries you to the bedroom, roaming over his skin. Had he been this… broad before he left? 

You feel yourself being lowered gently, the familiar duvet over your bed hitting your back. Dónal’s lips retreat, and you try to follow, stopping short when you register your surroundings enough to take note of him stripping out of his shirt, his hat lost somewhere between the foyer and here. You swallow thickly, taking him in— it seems he’d been bulking up during his time in Italy, and you didn’t mind one bit.

Shirt discarded somewhere on the bedroom floor, he steps forward, between your spread legs, eyes dark with desire. His hands have just brushed the hem of your tank top when your own hand lifts, trailing up his broad chest, over his shoulder,  and up into his mussed curls. You drag him back to your lips, doing your best to make up for the weeks he was away. You can’t help but grin into the kiss at the strangled groan that escapes him when you tug at his curls— god, you’d missed that.

Your grin morphs into a gasp when you feel his hands slip under your shirt, the cool metal of his ring a delicious contrast to the warmth of his skin on yours. His fingers slide up your body, taking your tank top with them. As it lands somewhere on the floor, he wastes no time in pressing his lips to yours again, pressing you back against the bed. One blasphemously large hand grips your waist, fingers splayed to cover as much flesh as he can, like he needs to feel as much of you as possible, while the other is at your chest, thumb brushing over a peaked nipple and eliciting a keening whine from you.

His teeth snag on your bottom lip, tugging gently before releasing it in favor of scattering hungry, open mouthed kisses over your cheek, your jaw, your neck… his teeth graze your skin, nipping playfully at your pulse point, at the hollow of your throat, at the spot just below your ear that drags out a moan every time, his tongue coming along to soothe the ache shortly after.

You shiver at the cool metal of his pendant dragging over your skin, and find your fingers digging into his stupidly large biceps— honestly, it was ridiculous how attractive his damn arms were, absolutely unfair— as his mouth migrates south, sucking marks into your neck, your collarbone, the tops of your breasts… and then his lips wrap around your peaked nipple, his hand remaining at your other breast, his thumb rubbing the soft skin on the underside of your breast, trailing up to rub back and forth against the peak as he begins gently twisting it with his forefinger. His mouth leaves your breast with a pop, quick to soothe the other as your grip tightens.

“God,” you sigh, arching into his touch, “I missed this, missed you—”

His wide brown eyes flick up to meet yours, mouth releasing your breast in favor of pressing a line of kisses to the valley between them.

“Missed me what, sweetheart?” He murmurs, his mouth moving lower to scatter kisses over your bare stomach, “Gotta finish your sentences, love.”

On autopilot, you lift your hips so he can yank down your shorts, words utterly lost as his lips trace along your hipbone and then lower.

“F-fuck…” you gasp, his name tumbling from your lips in a whine.

“I know what I missed,” he murmurs almost conversationally, breath ghosting over your skin. “Missed seeing you like this.”

His hands nudge you, your legs spreading, and his sharp inhale at the sight of you just barely reaches your ears, a cheeky murmur of oh you did miss me, didn’t you following.

He brushes a kiss to your inner thigh, eyes flicking up to meet yours as a soft moan slips out.

“Missed hearing you.”

His lips move up your thigh, scant inches away from where you’re aching for him.

“Dónal,” you plead, threading your hands through his unruly curls. You’re seconds away from just putting him where you need him. “Baby, please.”

His breath ghosts over your core, eyes locked on yours.

“Missed tasting you.”

And then he’s devouring you, licking a thick stripe up your folds, groaning at the taste of your arousal on his tongue. Your hips rock into him as he dives deeper, whimpers escaping from your parted lips each time his nose brushes just right against your clit.

“Y’taste so fucking good, sweetheart,” you feel more than hear him say, his voice sending shivers cascading throughout your body. The little sigh he lets out turns into a deep groan when you tighten your grip on his hair and yank him closer. His mouth works feverishly against you, drifting up to clamp around your clit as his fingers trail up your leg towards your core.

“Oh my god,” you whine as he slips a finger, then two, inside you. You feel him hum against you, fingers pumping in and out at a pace just short of what you need.

You lift your head, mouth open to… you’re not really sure what, honestly. Beg? Plead? Order? When his fingers curl just right into that spongy spot inside you, and you’re suddenly right there at the edge.

“Fuck,” you gasp, tugging relentlessly at his hair in an attempt to bring him closer, hips rocking against him as his fingers pick up their pace, “Dónal, honey, I’m so close, fuck—”

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he speaks into your core, eyes flicking up just in time to watch your head fall back in pleasure. “Such a good girl, doing so good, love, just let go for me, come on.”

Your thighs tremble around him, your grip on his hair tightening, and your climax crashes over you. 

Dónal groans against you as he works you through your high, your hold on his hair finally loosening and he lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, mouth glistening.

“Fuck—” is all you can get out, utterly breathless, before he surges up to press his mouth to yours. You groan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, melting back into the bed. Your hands trail greedily over his torso, drifting down, down, down, until you reach his jeans, which are doing very little to hide the evidence of his arousal. You blindly scramble to unbutton them, Dónal squirming and wriggling above you in an attempt to get them off without having to pull his lips from yours, but he eventually acquiesces to standing. His jeans and boxers hit the floor, your boyfriend kicking them away as soon as they do.

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, just barely holding back an appreciative moan as you take him in. Before you know it, he’s moving to hover over you once more, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. His hips rock against you, groaning into your mouth as his generous length glides deliberately through your folds. Your breath hitches, his groan cutting off sharply as the tip of his cock snags at your entrance.

You remain like that for one breath, two. And then…

The noise Dónal makes when he presses into you is indescribable— some delicious combination of moan and groan and sigh, tuned perfectly to be released directly into your ear, caged in by your boyfriend’s limbs.

“F-fuck,” he grits out, hand tracing up and down your side, “sweetheart, you feel… fucking perfect.”

Your only reply is a keening moan, breath stuttering as you adjust to the stretch of him inside you.

He pulls back just a touch to meet your eyes, lips brushing your cheek on the way.

“Ready, mo ghrá?”

You nod feverishly, hands gripping his unfairly large biceps.

“Yes, please—”

He pulls out slightly, thrusting back into you with practiced ease, a stream of praise tumbling from his lips.

A delicious heat washes over you as he fills you over and over. Your nails are digging into his back as Dónal pistons in and out of you, face buried at the juncture of your shoulder and neck. His breath comes in short gasps and grunts, and it’s all you can do to hold on as you feel that coil low in your core wind tighter and tighter.

Your fingers digging into his flesh aren’t good enough anymore— now, your teeth come into play, biting down on his broad shoulder.

A little thrill of satisfaction travels up your spine at the sound of a groan catching in his throat when your teeth meet flesh, hips stuttering the barest bit before returning to their normal rhythm.

In what can only be revenge, teeth scrape at your neck, his hand sliding between you, thumb finding your clit and circling it in a way that has you clenching feverishly around him.

“Oh god—”

“You close, mo ghrá?” He pants, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His nose brushes yours, breaths tangled as you nod frantically, toes curling as he hits that spot again and again.

“Yes,” you gasp, fighting to keep your eyes on his— it’s taking all your strength to not let them roll back in your head. “Yes.”

His mouth crashes to yours as the wave builds and builds and then crashes over you in a rush of heat. You’re still recovering, the world a haze of light and color and him, when his hips stutter once more against yours and then he’s spilling into you with a groan.

Breathless, the two of you simply stare at each other for a moment before he dips to capture your lips in a tender kiss, muffling your whine at the loss as he slowly pulls out.

“You alright, sweetheart?” He murmurs, forehead creased as he takes you in.

You smile, giving into the urge to smooth away the concern from his skin, your thumb stroking over his forehead.

“I’m perfect.”

“Good,” he grins, pressing one last kiss to your lips before scrambling off of you. “Be right back.”

He returns with a washcloth, tenderly cleaning up the combined mess between your legs, scattering kisses everywhere he can reach as he murmurs about how much he missed you, how happy he is to be home.

Soon enough, you’re snuggled up in bed, legs tangled, you wearing his t-shirt, surrounded by the scent of something clean and fresh and entirely him.

“Hey,” you murmur, lifting your face from where you're resting on his chest. 

“Hm?”

You lean up, lips brushing his jaw.

“Welcome home.”