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The Newlywed Job

Rusty Ryan x Ocean!reader - Ocean's 11

Summary: You agree to help Danny with “one simple job.” Next thing you know, you’re fake-married to Rusty Ryan, living in a penthouse suite, being doted on in front of Monaco’s richest.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, canon-style crime, light violence, swearing, fake dating/fake marriage, enemies-to-lovers tension, slow burn, mutual pining, accidental domesticity, crew teasing, one-bed situation, alcohol use, brief mentions of injury (non-graphic), highhhhh-tension, my man is POSESSIVE, kinda choking but not rlly.

A/N: ok so i know ive been mia for a while and im sorryyyy but school is just crazy idk bro i hate it too. I do genuinely have lots of drafts so they will come out, at a potentially slow but steady pace. hopefull ill be a bit quicker when i go home for christmas. anyways enjoy 9k words of hot brad pitt xxx

(also i was so tired when i edited this so pls lemme know if ive fucked something up)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS

WC: 9k (i am so sorry)

You tell yourself this is the last time.

The absolute last time you let your brother Danny talk you into one of his schemes, no matter how smooth he makes it sound or how much he insists it’s "basically risk-free." Because somehow, "basically" always ends with someone jumping out a hotel window or faking a medical emergency in Paris.

Everyone’s already here when you walk in; Basher’s dismantling something that might be a phone or a bomb (honestly, could go either way), Linus is stress-eating grapes, and Rusty’s, of course, half-reclined on the couch with a cup of espresso and an expression that says he’s been bored since birth.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Danny announces, all grin and no shame. He crosses the room and plants a kiss on your cheek like he’s not the reason you were up half the night rethinking your life choices. “You remember everyone.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, tossing your bag down and ignoring the way Rusty’s eyes flicker up from his cup.

Linus perks up. “Hey, I didn’t think you were coming this time.”

“I wasn’t,” you shoot back. “Then Danny guilt-tripped me with the whole ‘family legacy’ speech. Very moving. Brought a tear to my eye.”

Basher snorts.

Danny claps his hands once, like a teacher about to start class. “Okay, enough sentimentality. We’ve got a mark, a time window, and a very exclusive hotel to get into. Rusty?”

Rusty finally sits up a little, rolling his sleeves up like he’s about to give a TED Talk. “Target’s name’s Jean-Luc Moreau. Arms dealer, owns half of Monte Carlo, and keeps a collection of rare bearer bonds in the safe of his hotel suite. We’ve confirmed the safe’s upstairs access only, but the whole floor’s keycard restricted. Only a handful of guests, all long-term, all old money.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Which means we can’t just sneak in.”

Danny grins. “And that’s where the fun part comes in.”

There’s a pause. A heavy, Danny Ocean pause. You already don’t like it.

“What fun part?” you ask slowly.

He turns that winning smile on you, the one that usually means disaster’s coming wrapped in a nice suit. “Well, you see, the only suite available on that floor is the honeymoon suite. Which means couples only. Exclusive. Staff verifies all bookings personally.”

You blink at him. “And?”

“And...” he says, like he’s unveiling the solution to world hunger, “Rusty and you are gonna be the couple.”

Silence. Then Basher actually chokes on his drink, Linus’s eyes go wide with barely suppressed glee, and you just stare at your brother, because surely this is a joke.

“Come again?” you manage.

Danny spreads his hands. “You two pose as newlyweds, check in, get cosy, fake cosy, and we move from there. We need eyes on that floor, and you’re the most inconspicuous pair we’ve got.”

Rusty finally speaks, voice calm, smooth as glass. “Define inconspicuous.”

Danny doesn’t miss a beat. “You clean up well. She’s got charm. Nobody’s gonna question it.”

“Except me,” you say sharply. “Danny, you can’t be serious. Me and him?”

Rusty quirks a brow, barely looking at you. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. I’m not thrilled either.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because the idea of sharing a suite with you makes me want to chew glass.”

Danny steps between you like a man herding wild animals. “Okay, see, that’s perfect. You’ll be bickering, sure, but everyone bickers on their honeymoon. Authentic!”

Basher’s trying not to laugh. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Basher,” you warn.

Linus leans toward Rusty with an evil grin. “So, uh, Mr Ryan, you got a backstory for how you proposed yet?”

Rusty smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s already winning. “Haven’t had time to workshop it. Maybe I’ll improvise.”

Danny groans, rubbing his temples. “You two can figure out the details later. We check in tomorrow. Play nice, both of you.”

You glance toward Rusty again. He’s watching you now, like he’s trying to figure out which one of you is gonna break first.

“Play nice,” you echo under your breath. “Sure. Can’t wait.”

By the time you hit the lobby, it’s obvious that Danny has made a huge mistake.

He’s standing a few paces back, hands in his pockets, watching you and Rusty walk in like he’s witnessing a car crash in slow motion. You can feel the crew listening in through comms; Linus’s voice crackles quietly in your ear, already smug.

Linus: “I’m just saying, they look married.” Basher: “If married means ready to murder each other in designer clothing, yeah.” Livingston: “For the record, her body language says ‘help me,’ his says ‘I dare you.’ It's fascinating.”

You don’t need to look to know Rusty’s smirking. He’s got that perfectly-pressed suit, crisp white shirt open just enough at the collar to be illegal in some countries. Sunglasses even though you’re indoors, because why not?

And you, well, you clean up too well for your own good. Gold slip dress, hair pinned like you didn’t try too hard but totally did. The concierge actually does a double-take.

Danny sighs through the comm.

Danny: “Okay. So maybe pairing the two of you wasn’t my brightest idea.” Basher: “Too late, mate. They’re in character now.”

You slide your arm through Rusty’s, strictly for appearances. He doesn’t miss the hesitation and his smirk deepens just a little.

“Mrs Ryan,” he murmurs low enough that only you can hear, voice all velvet mockery. “You’re trembling. Didn’t know I had that effect.”

“You don’t,” you whisper back, smiling sweetly for the staff. “I’m just allergic to smug.”

At the check-in desk, the receptionist looks about nineteen and immediately turns pink when she glances between you two. Her nametag reads Sophie.

“Welcome to Hôtel du Soleil,” she says in that breathy, over-practised accent. “You must be-”

Rusty flashes her a dazzling grin and slides over the documents before you can open your mouth. “Mr and Mrs Beaumont.”

You blink. Beaumont? That wasn’t the agreed name, but then again, Rusty did book the room.

Danny: “Rusty. It was supposed to be Harrison. Why are you-” Rusty: “Beaumont sounds classier.”

You resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs. “Yes,” you say through clenched teeth, “Mr and Mrs Beaumont. Honeymoon suite.”

Sophie beams. “Oh, how lovely! Congratulations on your marriage.”

You fake a bashful smile while Rusty, absolute menace that he is, slides an arm around your waist. “Thank you,” he says easily. “Still getting used to saying wife.”

Linus: “He’s enjoying this way too much.” Basher: “Yeah, but she’s about to knife him with a manicure file, so it evens out.”

Sophie hands you the keycard. “You’ll find fresh champagne waiting in your suite, Mr and Mrs Beaumont. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Rusty murmurs, because he can’t not flirt with the world.

You give him a look sharp enough to cut glass as you turn toward the elevators. “Could you not?”

“What? I’m blending in.”

He holds the elevator for you, eyes flicking briefly over your dress as you step inside. “You jealous already, Mrs Beaumont?”

You jab the penthouse button with unnecessary force. “Keep talking, and I’ll make you sleep on the balcony.” The sudden quiet between you is thick. Rusty leans back against the mirrored wall, expression unreadable.

“You really hate this, huh?”

“I hate you.”

He grins lazily. “Good. Makes it believable.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the tiniest corner of your mouth from twitching. Because of course he’s impossible, and of course part of you enjoys matching wits with him. It’s infuriating.

When the elevator dings, he gestures for you to step out first. “After you, darling.” He walks behind you, wheeling a sleek black suitcase with the easy grace of a man who’s done this a thousand times. You swear you can feel the smug radiating off him.

“Room 1203,” you mutter, checking the gold-embossed number on the keycard.

You turn the card in the slot, the door clicks open, and for a moment both of you just… stop.

The suite is obscene. White-on-white everything, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Riviera, the ocean gleaming so bright it almost hurts to look at. A bottle of champagne on ice, rose petals scattered on the bed. The whole 'newlyweds in love' fantasy.

You drop your bag on the floor. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

Rusty strolls past you like he owns the place, inspecting the minibar. “There’s no couch.”

“There’s a chaise.”

“There’s a decorative chaise.”

“Then get decorative.”

He chuckles under his breath, already pouring himself a glass of champagne. “You know, most couples enjoy this part.”

“We’re not most couples.”

You stalk toward the window, arms crossed, staring out at the ocean because it’s better than looking at him. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

Rusty leans against the counter, watching you with that infuriatingly calm expression. “You agreed because your brother asked you to.”

“Yeah, and I’m regretting it by the minute.”

He tilts his head. “Regret’s not really a good look on you.”

The comm in your ear pops alive with the sound of muffled laughter.

Linus: “Well, they’re settling in nicely.” Basher: “If by nicely you mean ready to commit homicide.” Danny: “Alright, everyone focus. They’re just getting into position.” Livingston: “Cameras are live. Suite’s clean.”

You tug the earpiece slightly, muttering, “You know we can hear you.”

Basher: “Just keeping morale up, love.”

Rusty ignores the chatter, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “So, what’s our cover story?”

You grab the hotel itinerary from the desk. “According to Danny, we’re on our honeymoon after a whirlwind romance in Florence. You’re an architect, I’m a gallery curator. We met at an exhibition. Fell madly in love.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Accurate so far.”

“Excuse me?”

“You like art. I’m easy to fall in love with.”

You glare. “You’re one glass of champagne away from testing that balcony railing.”

Before he can fire back, there’s a sharp knock on the door.

You and Rusty exchange a quick look, was this supposed to happen?

Danny: “Relax. Just a couple of the guys running secondary checks.”

Rusty sighs, opens the door, and in strolls Basher wearing a bellhop uniform that’s one size too small and holding a silver tray with a flourish.

“Complimentary chocolates for the happy couple,” he announces, straight-faced except for the twinkle in his eye.

You pinch the bridge of your nose while Rusty takes a chocolate. “Thank you, son.”

Basher grins. “My pleasure, sir.” He glances at you. “Ma’am.” Then adds, deadpan, “Congratulations on your nuptials.”

Behind him, Linus appears in an equally unconvincing waiter outfit. “Room service. Just making sure everything’s perfect for Mr and Mrs Beaumont.”

You cross your arms. “I hate all of you.”

Linus beams. “Love you too.”

Danny: “Focus people. Linus, Basher, go check the hallway security. You two, unpack and blend in.”

Rusty raises his glass toward the hidden cameras. “Blending in beautifully.”

The restaurant gleams like a jewellery box, all gold accents, white linen, and a soft jazz trio playing in the corner.

Rusty’s hand is at the small of your back as he steers you through the room.

Danny: “Okay, you two just need to be seen. Dinner, a few smiles, maybe a toast. That’s it.” Basher: “I give it ten minutes before she throws a fork.” Linus: “Five.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, smiling for the hostess. Rusty flashes his signature grin, the one that could sell snow in the Sahara. “Reservation for Mr and Mrs Beaumont.”

The hostess leads you to a table by the window. The ocean shimmers outside, lights reflecting like stars scattered on water.

You’re halfway into your seat when Rusty pulls it out for you, smooth as silk. “Careful, darling,” he murmurs, close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “Wouldn’t want you to wrinkle the dress.”

Danny: “Is he serious right now?” Linus: “Oh, he’s serious. Look at him.” Basher: “The man’s in character, Danny.”

Rusty settles across from you, setting his napkin in his lap with all the poise of a man born rich. He takes the menu from your hands before you can even open it.

“I’ll order,” he says easily.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Can’t have you overthinking it. You’ll ruin the illusion.”

“I can order my own food, thanks.”

He smiles faintly. “Of course you can. But why waste that energy when I already know what you like?”

You narrow your eyes. “Do you now.”

He glances up, eyes glinting. “Champagne over wine. Anything with truffle. And you’ll pretend you don’t want dessert until I order it anyway.”

Danny: “This is painful.” Basher: “No this is amazing.”

The waiter appears, Linus, wearing a fake moustache that’s criminal in itself. He barely holds in a laugh as Rusty gives him the order. “We’ll start with oysters, then the sea bass for my wife, and the filet for me. Medium rare. Two glasses of your best champagne.”

You don’t miss the way Linus bites his lip to keep from cracking up. “Very good, sir.”

When he leaves, you lean in. “You realise you sound like every pompous husband in every bad movie ever, right?”

Rusty takes a sip of water, unfazed. “Exactly. Authenticity.”

You huff a laugh, but your pulse is traitorous, you're far too aware of him across from you, how effortlessly he plays the part.

A few minutes later, Linus brings the plates, somehow without tripping, and Rusty’s performance escalates.

He cuts into your fish before you can touch it, sets the perfect bite on your fork, and holds it out.

“Open,” he says smoothly.

You stare. “You’re joking.”

He arches a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Danny: “Oh, for the love of- he’s feeding her?”

You can feel your brother’s blood pressure rising over comms, which makes it that much sweeter when you lock eyes with Rusty, lean forward, and take the bite.

He grins slow. “See? You love it.”

You chew with exaggerated grace. “I’m tolerating it.”

“Oh, I’ll take tolerating. It’s a start.”

When the champagne arrives Rusty raises his glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, voice soft but carrying just enough warmth that for a split second it doesn’t sound like an act.

You clink glasses because what else can you do.

Danny: “You’re enjoying this way too much.” Rusty: “That’s the point of a honeymoon, Danny.” Danny: “You’re dead when we get home.”

Rusty just smirks, watching you over the rim of his glass.

The restaurant doors open straight into the hotel bar, a low-lit wonderland of glass and gold.

You feel Rusty’s hand settle on the small of your back again, guiding you through the crowd. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the smug amusement radiating off him like a heat source.

Danny: “Alright, play it up. Be the happy couple. We’ve got eyes on Moreau. He's in the corner seat, navy jacket, surrounded by sycophants.” Basher: “Copy that. And might I say, the newlyweds are lookin’ disgustingly in love.” Livingston: “Camera feeds are perfect. Keep smiling.”

“Smile,” Rusty murmurs, voice low enough that it brushes your ear.

You angle your face toward him, your expression all teeth. “I am smiling.”

Still, when you reach the bar, you let him pull you in close, practically caging you between him and the counter.

Basher, now wearing the world’s most obvious bartender disguise, leans forward, grinning. “What can I get the honeymooners tonight?”

Rusty doesn’t miss a beat. “Something sweet for the lady, something stronger for me. Surprise us.”

He slips a ridiculous tip across the counter and Basher winks, moving to mix the drinks while pretending to wipe down a glass.

“You’re really leaning into this,” you mutter, eyes scanning the room for Moreau.

Rusty smiles like he’s got all night. “That’s the job, sweetheart.”

“I thought the job was getting close to the mark.”

He nods toward Moreau without even turning his head. “And what do you think he’s watching right now?”

You risk a glance. Sure enough, Moreau’s gaze flickers your way, interested.

Rusty senses it immediately. He slides an arm around your waist, pulls you in until you’re practically in his lap, and murmurs something against your hair that sounds far too real.

Danny: “Okay, that’s enough. Don’t overdo it.” Basher: “They’re doing great, boss. Leave ‘em be.”

Basher sets down two drinks, a glowing pink cocktail and a neat whiskey, and retreats. Rusty picks up the cocktail, holds it out to you.

“Try this. It suits you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Because it’s pretty or because it’s lethal?”

He smirks. “Yes.”

You take a sip anyway. For the next half hour, you mingle. Hand in hand, touching shoulders, laughing too loudly at things that aren’t funny. Rusty plays it flawlessly; devoted, charming, slightly possessive in a way that makes half the women at the bar sigh.

And you meet him beat for beat.

At one point he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and you tilt your chin up just enough to make it look natural. The move feels choreographed, practiced. It isn’t.

Danny: “Alright, you’ve got Moreau’s attention. He’s signalling his guy to approach. Get ready.” Linus: “You two are scarily good at this.” Livingston: “I think Danny’s about to combust.”

You spot Moreau before Rusty, he's the kind of man who radiates arrogance. Perfectly tailored suit, a ring that probably costs more than a house, posture that says the world answers to him. He’s surrounded by two business associates, one of whom is already half-drunk and laughing too loudly.

Rusty follows your gaze. “That’s him,” he murmurs, tone too casual.

“Yeah, I gathered,” you say, adjusting the strap of your dress.

Danny: “Okay, keep it smooth. Just introductions tonight. We don’t need a pitch yet.” Basher: “And for the love of God, don’t antagonise him.” Linus: “Or flirt back.” You: “Oh my God, can you all stop?”

Rusty hides a grin behind his glass. “They worry about you.” You start toward Moreau, glass in hand.

Rusty keeps pace easily, sliding a hand around your waist again just as Moreau turns and spots you. The man’s smile widens.

“Ah,” he says in accented English, “you must be the newlyweds. Everyone at the hotel has been talking about you. Quite the entrance.”

Rusty chuckles, the picture of warmth. “Word travels fast in Monaco.”

“It does when a couple looks like that.” Moreau’s gaze lingers on you a moment too long.

You return the smile, polite, bright, controlled. “We didn’t realise we were the entertainment.”

Rusty’s hand tightens almost unnoticeably on your hip. “She never does,” he says lightly. “I keep telling her she doesn’t blend in well.”

Moreau laughs. “I imagine not. What brings you here? Honeymoon, yes?”

You open your mouth, but Rusty beats you to it. “Honeymoon and a little business,” he says, tone perfectly balanced. “Architecture, art curation, we find ways to blend the two.”

Moreau perks up at business. “Ah, fascinating. And you, madame, you curate art? I’ve quite the collection myself. Perhaps you could give me your opinion.” Rusty’s smile doesn’t falter, but you can tell he’s watching every microexpression.

Linus: “Oof, he’s definitely flirting.” Basher: “I’d say he’s two compliments away from inviting her to see his etchings.” Danny: “Rusty, stay cool. Don’t blow the cover.”

Rusty laughs softly, leaning in closer to you, his hand sliding from your hip to your lower back in an almost possessive gesture that feels a little too natural. “Careful, you’ll have her analysing your decor before dessert.”

Moreau raises his glass. “Then perhaps she’ll find a piece worth taking home.”

You smile through it. “We’ll see.”

Rusty reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “She’s already taken home the most valuable thing in the room.”

Linus: “Man’s about to throw hands in a suit.”

You shoot Rusty a look that says tone it down and one that probably also says thank you, but you’re not unpacking that right now.

Moreau shifts topics, asking about your travels, your supposed villa in Tuscany and your shared love for 'beautiful things.' Rusty keeps his smile, but his answers start getting shorter, drier, as if the man’s every word grates a little deeper.

When Moreau finally excuses himself, murmuring something about meeting again for drinks tomorrow, you and Rusty keep the act running just long enough to watch him leave the room.

Danny: “Ok, all done, nice work guys.” Basher: “And Rusty only looked like he wanted to deck him twice. Progress.”

You exhale, taking a long sip of champagne. “Well,” you mutter, “that went well.”

Rusty tilts his head, that unreadable half-smile back in place. “I don’t like him.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“I mean, I really don’t like him.”

Linus: “Okay, that’s enough romance for one mission.” Danny: “Get back upstairs before one of you actually commits to the bit.”

You set your glass down and turn toward the elevators, your smile sharp as ever. “Come on, husband. Let’s go plan the rest of our fake marriage.”

Rusty follows, still smirking. “Sure, sweeheart. That's exactly what I want to do with an evening in Monaco."

When you reach the suite, the battle for the bed continues. "You'd think that a hotel this expensive would have options in terms of sleeping arrangements. Ideally two."

Rusty looks at you, "We're meant to be married." He tilts his head, studying the bed. “And, to be honest… this might count as two. Or three.”

You follow his gaze. It’s massive. You’ve seen smaller stages.

Rusty steps closer to it, frowning thoughtfully. “California King?”

You cross your arms. “No, California Kings are half normal. This thing is not normal.”

“Could be custom.”

“You think they commissioned a bed?”

He shrugs, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable assumption. “We are in Monaco. People commission weirder things.”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, name one weirder thing.”

He turns, deadpan. “Danny’s decision to make us pretend to be married.”

Danny: “I heard that.” Basher: “He’s not wrong, though.” Linus: “I’m just impressed they haven’t strangled or kissed each other yet.”

You roll your eyes and yank the earpiece out, tossing it onto the dresser. “That’s enough of the peanut gallery.”

Rusty does the same, setting his down beside yours. “Peace and quiet at last.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you mutter, dropping your bag near the chaise.

For a few beats, there’s just silence and that faint, expensive hum of central air conditioning. You both end up staring at the bed again, like it’s the enemy.

“So,” you say slowly. “We do need to figure out the sleeping situation.”

He raises a brow. “Do we?”

“Yes, Rusty. We do. Unless you plan on sleeping standing up like some kind of suave vampire.” He chuckles.

You glare, but it’s half-hearted. “I’m taking that side.” You point.

“Fine.” He moves to the other side immediately, dropping his jacket onto a chair. “Just don’t cross the equator.”

“The what now?”

He gestures lazily across the middle of the bed. “That imaginary border that keeps us far enough apart.”

You can’t help it, you laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re the one arguing about bed borders,” he says, kicking off his shoes.

You sit on the edge of the mattress experimentally and sink about three inches. “Oh my god, it’s so soft.”

He glances over, curious, then sits down beside you. The bed dips slightly under his weight, pulling you half an inch closer. “Huh. It’s like sleeping on air.”

You both test the bounce at the same time and accidentally knock shoulders, freezing. "Rusty, go back to your half."

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

You groan. “Don’t start that again.”

"The pet names? They’re part of the act.” You throw a pillow at him, hard.

You finally stand, grabbing your bag and heading toward the bathroom. “I’m locking the door.”

As you disappear behind the door, you catch him murmuring to himself, voice just low enough that you almost miss it.

“Definitely custom.”

You bite back a smile. Damn him.

You come out of the bathroom ready to pretend the day never happened. Silk nightie donned and emotionally detached. The only issue threatening your peace of mind is Rusty Ryan having decided to exist on your side of the galaxy like a magazine spread.

He’s shed the dress shirt for a plain white tee and sweatpants, sleeves rolled, gold watch still on because apparently he sleeps in style.

You blink. “What are you, auditioning for a sleepwear commercial?”

He glances up from the TV remote. “Just trying to make the brand believable.”

You crawl into the bed, your half of the bed, and sweep the blankets over you. “The border is somewhere down there,” you say. “Don't trespass.”

Rusty reclines with the ease of a man who has never once respected a boundary but absolutely knows how to pretend. “Now, why would I trespass, sweetheart? ”

The room settles into a warm gold hush. For a moment, it’s comfortable.

Then Rusty shifts, barely, just a subtle adjustment of hips and shoulders, and the bed gives a low creak.

You glance over instinctively. His eyes flick toward yours, amused.

You turn back to your pillow.

A second movement and another creak, this one softer.

Then-

Danny’s voice explodes from the dresser like a grenade going off in a monastery.

Danny: “What was that?”

Rusty freezes, though he looks deeply entertained.

Basher: “Uh… sounded like movement.” Linus: “Movement? No. No no no no-” Danny: “If you two are in that bed-”

You clap a hand over your face. “Danny. We’re literally just lying here.”

Rusty speaks up, voice perfectly calm, “Dude, the bed squeaked. That’s all.”

Danny: “Beds don’t squeak twice unless something is-”

Your head thunks back against the pillow, “Would you please stop talking, Danny?”

Danny: “I swear if he even brushed your shoulder-”

“Oh my god, he breathed okay? It's not our fault the bed has opinions.”

You groan. The bed creaks again. Danny gasps like a Victorian maiden.

Linus: “Oh my God.” Basher: “I ain’t sayin’ anything.”

Rusty, sighing, “Guys, go to sleep”

Danny: “I heard a sound.” You: “Congratulations, you have ears.” Basher: “This is better than cable.” Danny: “Everyone just shut up.”

Rusty exhales softly. “You realise if we move too much, Danny’s going to assume we’re eloping mid-mission.”

“Then stop breathing so loud,” you shoot back.

Danny: “Seriously. Sleep.”

You both snicker like kids caught whispering past curfew, turn away from each other, and eventually the room goes still again.

You surface from sleep slowly, the kind of groggy where everything feels warm and soft and oddly comfortable. For a second you can’t remember what day it is, where you are, or why your pillow seems to have a pulse.

Then the pillow moves.

You freeze.

Your head is on Rusty’s chest. His arm is curved loosely around your shoulders, hand resting at the small of your back like it’s been there for hours. His heartbeat thuds steady beneath your ear.

Oh no.

You shift slightly, trying to slide away without waking him, but the movement just makes him murmur something half-asleep and pull you in closer.

He smells like coffee and expensive soap.

Click.

The door opens.

“Alright, rise and shine, lovebirds. We’ve got-” Danny freezes.

Linus gasps, “Oh my God.”

“Morning, honeymooners.” Livingston seems completely unbothered.

You jolt upright so fast you nearly catapult off the bed, grabbing at the sheet like that’ll restore your dignity. Rusty blinks awake beside you, eyes narrowing at the crowd now standing in the doorway.

“…Why are you in our room?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Because this-” Danny gestures at the two of you “is not the debrief setting I pictured.”

You’re still tangled in the blanket. “We were sleeping.”

Basher grins. “Looked cosy, though.” Rusty runs a hand down his face, sighing. “You people are unbelievable.”

Linus points, “You’re the one cuddling your fake wife.”

“I was asleep!”

Danny looks like he’s ageing in real time. “Can we focus? Moreau’s moving tonight, we need to-”

Basher interrupts, deadpan. “No, no, I think we should unpack the emotional subtext first.”

Rusty shoots him a look that could curdle milk. “Basher.”

“Alright, alright. Debrief.” Then Linus smirks, “But for the record, that was adorable.”

You bury your face in your hands.

About 10 minutes later everyone is recovered, mostly. Danny’s already at the table, papers spread out, mid-rant. “We need focus today. No distractions. We’re professionals-”

He stops mid-sentence as you walk past him in a half-buttoned shirt, hair still damp, eyes sharp. You’re adjusting an earring with one hand while scrolling through security feeds on your phone.

Rusty’s behind you, jacket slung over one shoulder, cufflinks in hand, sipping coffee like it’s a performance art piece.

Basher leans toward Linus. “I swear, they’re a magazine spread waiting to happen.” Linus nods, “They look like they’ve been married for years.”

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

Danny exhales through his nose. “Nothing. Just sit. Please.”

You nod, but pause halfway to grab a small bottle from the dresser. You hand it wordlessly to Rusty.

“Forgot this.” He accepts it without looking.

Danny stares, blinking slowly, like he’s buffering.

You ignore him and turn back to the mirror. “Can we go over the plan again? I want to make sure I’ve got Moreau’s schedule right.”

Rusty comes up behind you, holding your necklace. “Here.”

You start to protest, “Rusty, go away I can do it”, but he’s already clasping it, fingers brushing the back of your neck.

You freeze for half a second, mostly because you can feel everyone watching.

Basher whistles under his breath. “That’s domestic, mate.”

Danny rubs his temples. “Can we not narrate every move they make?”

You finally take a seat at the table, flipping open the laptop. Rusty sits beside you, calm as ever, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose around his neck.

Basher murmurs to Linus, “Bet you ten bucks they’re holding hands by lunch.”

Linus, grinning, “Double if they don’t even notice.”

Danny slams the folder shut. “I can hear you.”

You hide your smile behind a sip of coffee. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

Danny groans. “The plan is I somehow get through it without committing a homicide.”

Rusty leans back, smirking. “Ambitious, but I believe in you.”

Basher snorts into his drink.

That evening the Monte Carlo Grand Gala looks like money had a baby with fireworks and named it excess. Crystal chandeliers, a live orchestra, champagne that probably has its own security detail.

Danny’s voice crackles in your ear.

Danny: “Alright, team, positions. Basher, Livingston, you’re in the control room. Linus, you’re floor service. Rusty, keep the mark entertained until we’ve got the vault bypassed.” Rusty: “Yep." Danny: “And someone make sure my sister doesn’t kill anyone.”

You’re still upstairs in the mezzanine, final touch-ups under glittering light. Your gown catches the gold and throws it back. It's simple, black silk that flows perfectly, as if it were stitched directly onto your body.

Rusty waits at the base of the grand staircase, suit crisp, cufflinks catching the light. He’s mid-conversation with Moreau when something shifts in the air. He looks up.

And freezes.

For once, Rusty Ryan has nothing to say.

Basher: “Ohh boy, he’s gone.” Linus: “Is he breathing?” Danny: “I swear to God, if he-”

Rusty exhales a quiet laugh, the kind that doesn’t quite hide the stunned look in his eyes. “You clean up well,” he says softly when you reach him.

You arch a brow. “You look surprised.”

“I am.” He offers his arm, voice steadying. “Shall we, Mrs Beaumont?”

You slide your hand into the crook of his elbow, a forced smile tugging at your mouth. “Lead the way, dear.”

The descent feels choreographed, every step deliberate. Cameras flash, waiters pause, Moreau forgets to sip his drink.

Linus: “She’s got half the room staring.” Danny: “Everyone focus, please. Eyes on the job.” Livingston: “Rusty’s eyes are very much not on the job.”

Rusty mutters under his breath, “Tell them to turn off the mics.”

You fight a smile as you reach the ballroom floor, the two of you slotting into the rhythm like you’ve done this a hundred times, his hand finding your back, your fingers brushing his sleeve. Perfectly choreographed affection.

Moreau recovers enough to greet you both. “Ah, Mr and Mrs Beaumont! You’re the talk of the evening.”

Rusty grins, charm on autopilot. “That tends to happen when she walks into a room.”

Basher: “Danny, you still alive?” Danny: “Barely.”

You turn your attention to Moreau, slipping easily into small talk while Rusty orders the drinks. A whiskey for him, champagne for you. The conversation glides effortlessly, like a dance choreographed around secrets.

Livingston: “Vault access in sixty seconds.” Basher: “Copy. Keep the mark busy.” Danny: “No pressure.”

Moreau leans in slightly, all smiles. “You two are… quite the couple. How long have you been married?”

Rusty’s eyes meet yours, the tiniest glint of mischief. “Feels like forever.”

You match it. “And somehow not long enough.”

The orchestra swells.

Danny: “Just… don’t let it get weird.” Basher: “Define ‘weird.’” Linus: “Too late.”

You can feel the tension humming through your comm like static.

Basher and Livingston are in your ear, talking fast. Danny’s trying to keep control, but his voice has that very specific edge that means something’s about to go sideways.

Basher: “We’re ninety seconds from lock override, wait, no, forty-five.” Livingston: “He’s wrapping up early.” Danny: “What? He can’t- someone stall him!”

Rusty’s hand tightens slightly at your waist, jaw ticking. He’s already calculating. Then he mutters, low enough that only you can hear, “We need a distraction.”

“Okay, like what? I can’t fake faint, I did that in Prague.”

His lips twitch. “Then we improvise.”

“Rusty,” you warn.

“Trust me.” He leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up. His voice drops, steady and soft, annoyingly sure of itself.

“I’m gonna kiss you. Just go with it.”

You blink, heartbeat tripping over itself. "What? Rusty, stop messing around. We need to be serious."

He exhales, tension melting into a slow, practised grin. “I am being serious.”

You take his arm when he pulls you toward the dance floor, deciding to just go with it after all. Moreau glances your way again.

Danny: “Rusty. Don’t you dare.” Basher: “Oh, he’s gonna dare.” Linus: “This is either genius or HR violation level seven.”

Rusty guides you effortlessly into the rhythm. The crowd sees as you spin and laugh like you’ve never done anything so easy in your life.

He’s saying nothing now. Just looking at you. The way his thumb traces the small of your back says everything words would ruin.

Then, perfectly timed to the final rise of the music, he dips you clean and kisses you, slow. He pulls back a fraction, lips still brushing yours, "Well, we've got their attention."

Every conversation around you fades into a single heartbeat. Moreau’s attention is locked. The crew’s comm line goes dead silent.

Danny: “...I’m gonna kill him.” Basher: “Vault’s open!” Livingston: “Transfer complete!” Linus: “Well. That worked.”

Rusty pulls back carefully, still holding you there, breath ghosting against your lips. “For the record,” he murmurs, voice steady, “that was strictly professional.”

You manage a smirk despite your pulse jumping. “Oh, totally. Just business.”

He straightens, helping you up, hand lingering at your back because apparently professionalism has elastic boundaries.

Danny: “Get the drive and get out.” Basher: “Copy that, boss. Romeo and Juliet are moving.”

You and Rusty make your exit through the glittering chaos, champagne glasses clinking and half the room still applauding the impromptu “newlywed moment.”

Neither of you say a word until you’re clear of the crowd, halfway down a quiet marble hallway.

The suite door swings open, and you stumble in first, heels dangling from one hand, gown half-unzipped. Rusty trails behind, loosening his tie like someone who’s just successfully robbed a billionaire and kissed his fake wife in front of Monaco’s elite.

He tosses his jacket onto the couch. “Well,” he says casually, “that went smoothly.”

You shoot him a look. “Smoothly? We almost got caught, Danny’s probably having a coronary, and you decided to add a live audience kiss to the plan.”

He just smirks. “It worked, didn’t it?”

The smirk sticks, unfairly attractive and absolutely illegal in three countries. You drop your heels onto the floor with a thud. “You can’t just-just do that.”

Rusty steps further into the suite, hands in his pockets like he isn’t the reason your pulse is tap-dancing in your throat.

“Which part?” he asks, feigning innocence. “The kiss? Or the part where it worked?”

“You know exactly which part.”

“Mm,” he hums. “The kiss, then.”

You open your mouth. Something snappy is supposed to come out. Some sharp, indignant, classic-you retort.

But nothing shows up. Your brain short-circuits at the memory, his hand at your waist, his mouth on yours, the way he didn’t kiss you like it was strategy so much as something he’d been holding back from doing for way too long.

He watches you falter, and his smirk softens into something warmer. Something that should not, under any circumstances, make your knees feel weird.

Rusty takes a slow step toward you.

You try to glare, but it’s weak, embarrassingly so. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” he asks quietly.

Another step. He’s close enough now that you can smell the cologne he only wears on jobs, clean, sharp, expensive trouble.

“Because,” you say, and it’s supposed to sound firm but comes out like you’re trying to remember how sentences work.

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s mapping out every reason you’re lying.

“That why your hands are shaking?”

You immediately hide them behind your back. “They’re not.”

He chuckles, soft, low, not mocking. More like he can’t help it. “Sure,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

He reaches out, slow enough to give you the chance to pull away. You don’t.

His fingers brush your jaw first, barely anything. Just enough to make your breath catch.

Your gaze flicks to his mouth. Too fast. Too obvious.

He notices. Because of course he does.

The air between you tightens, heat curling through the quiet like it’s learning your name.

Rusty’s thumb sweeps once along your cheek. “You know,” he says, voice dropping, “you didn’t seem this mad when I kissed you the first time.”

“That was for the job,” you whisper.

“Oh?” His mouth grazes close to yours, not touching, just near. “And now?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your body answers for you, leaning in, breath mingling with his, your hand finding the front of his shirt without even remembering to be dramatic about it.

He exhales, it ghosts across your lips.

“Tell me to stop,” Rusty says, but he already knows you won’t.

You shake your head once.

And he closes the distance.

His lips are warm, steady, confident in that infuriating Rusty way. Your fingers curl tighter in the front of his shirt without meaning to, pulling him closer. He answers instantly, his free hand sliding to the back of your neck, guiding you in with a softness that makes your knees consider quitting their job altogether.

The kiss deepens slowly, naturally. More pressure, more heat, more of that devastating sense that he’s kissing you like he knows exactly how you’ve imagined it and is meeting every unspoken expectation.

You feel him smile slightly against your mouth, and the worst part is it ruins you a little.

You hover close, foreheads brushing, breaths mixing. Rusty looks at you like he’s trying to memorise the moment, catalogue it, pocket it for later.

Then, as if he’s checking whether the universe changed its mind, he murmurs, “Still mad at me?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Shut up.”

He grins and before you can overthink anything, he cups your waist and pulls you back in.

This kiss hits different.

He kisses you like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want you.

Like he’s relieved.

Like the whole stupid enemies-to-lovers dance finally fell into place.

Your hands slip up his shoulders, anchoring yourself as he draws you closer, closer than the job, the pretence, the arguments ever allowed.

You feel his breath catch at the contact.

He recovers quickly, now laughing into it, low and wrecked and warm, lifting you just enough that your toes leave the ground, carrying you across the room.

The bed is right behind your knees now.

He pauses. Lets his forehead rest against yours. Breathes you in like he’s trying to calm himself down.

“Baby,” he whispers, the warning in his voice useless, “you’re killing me.”

You kiss him again anyway.

He drops you onto the absurdly large bed, following down and caging you against the mattress. He's bracing himself on his forearms so he’s hovering just above your face, that stupidly hot smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You know,” he says, kissing the side of your jaw, "I got them to change the key card on the door."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, no interruptions tonight." You kiss him again at the thought.

He inhales sharply, then chases you like he’s starving.

His hand cups your waist, tugging you closer until you slot perfectly against him. The strap of your dress falls off your shoulder, and he makes a low sound into your mouth.

Your fingers curl into the waistband of his trousers, dragging him forward. "You're wearing too many clothes." He drags his mouth away, smirking softly as he stands.

His jacket slips off his shoulders first, in one smooth push. Next he reaches for the tie, loosens the knot with a practised tug, pulling it free. The dress shirt is next. He works through the buttons quickly, holding eye contact the whole time. The room’s quiet except for the small click each button makes, then the shirt comes off in one easy shrug, drifting to the floor.

Your eyes drag over him, the ridges of his abs and the muscles in his shoulders.

When he gets to the belt, he slows down. Just a little. The buckle slides open with a soft metallic snap. Your breath shifts, and he smirks, definitely on purpose, and pushes his trousers down with one confident sweep. They drop around his ankles.

Now he’s standing there in the soft lamplight, suit scattered all around him on the carpet and various pieces of furniture.

You try to act normal, like him stripping down in front of you wasn’t causing a mini heart attack, and he lifts his eyebrows.

"Your turn, sweetheart. Need a hand?” he asks, already stepping closer again.

He kneels on the bed behind you, one big hand guides your body into a slightly more upright position. He brushes your hair over your shoulder, gentle enough that it sends a shiver skimming down your spine.

Then his hand finds the zipper.

The first touch is light, fingertips grazing the edge as he feels for it, and you swear he does it just to see your breath hitch.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

He slides the zipper down slowly, like he’s checking every tooth of it. The silk loosens around you, slipping away from your shoulders. You look up, trying to calm your breathing, but he’s already watching you in the mirror across the room.

Your breathing does anything but slow down when you meet his eyes.

When he's done, he rounds the bed, standing in front of you again. Then he drops onto the mattress, which dips under his weight, settling against the headboard while he gestures for you to come closer.

"Now its your turn to raise an eyebrow, "What about my heels?" He smirks, "I say we leave them on."

You open your mouth to protest, but get pulled into his lap before you can, like it’s nothing. Like it’s habit.

You push yourself up, straddling him, his big hands hauling you closer by your hips.

He whispers against your mouth, voice wrecked.

“Tell me to stop.”

You kiss him instead.

He groans, devastatingly, and flips you gently onto your back like he’s done it a thousand times.

His forehead is pressed to yours, breaths tangled.

“Please don't make me wait anymore,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

You pull him down again because you’re done pretending.

One kiss turns into two.

Into five.

His hands are everywhere. Your waist, your arms, tucking hair behind your ear before finally snaking around your back and undoing the clasp of your bra. When he tugs it away he leans back slightly, taking everything in. His pupils are blown, darting back and forth between you eyes, lips, and... well.

He dives back in again, mouth dragging along your jaw, your neck, and he’s whispering your name like it’s a prayer he’s trying not to say too loud.

Finally, he reaches for the last piece of lace on your body, literally ripping it off, leaving you completely bare beneath him. At the same time your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers again, giving it a sharp tug and letting it slap back against his abs.

"Patience darlin', they'll come off too don't worry."

And they do, in fact, come off too.

He's beautiful, every part of him.

Your fingers slide down to his jaw, and he watches them move like he’s hypnotised. “Rusty.”

“Mhm”

"Please..," He leans back a little, looking at you.

"You ok? What-" You kiss him before he can finish. He inhales sharply and then chases you like he’s starving. Your hand finds his cock, already hard and straining. You give a couple pumps, sliding your thumb over the head. He shudders, full body, his own hand snapping to yours and holding your wrist tight.

"Alright, enough of that." Then he takes both of your hands in one of his and pins them above your head. Your legs fall open under him while his hand slides up the inside of your thigh.

His fingers find exactly where you need them. You’re soaked already.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

He drags one finger through your slit, and your hips buck against his hand. “Easy,” he shushes you. “We’re not rushing.”

You’re panting now, fully boneless beneath him, and he hasn’t even really started.

Then, one finger presses inside. Thick, slow, stretching you. You gasp, and he moves his hand from yours to curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady.

Your whole body jolts.

He curls the finger inside you, slow and deep, dragging over that spot with perfect precision. Your thighs start to shake.

“Feel good?” he murmurs.

You nod frantically, whimpering as he adds another.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he grits. “Taking me so well.”

He picks up the pace just enough. The wet sounds are obscene, your body clenching already. You moan into his shoulder, trying to quiet yourself, and he laughs softly against your ear.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispers. “Let me hear you.”

Your walls flutter around him and he groans again, curling his fingers harder this time. You cry out, head falling back.

“Come on,” he commands. “Right now. All over my fingers. I want to feel you.”

You shatter on the next curl.

It’s white-hot, instant, and loud, your moan echoing through the room as your hips grind down onto his hand. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He works you through it, watching you the whole time.

When you finally still, twitchy, he presses a kiss to your temple.

Then? He lifts his fingers to his mouth. Sucks them clean. You watch, dazed, and he just smirks.

“You alright, baby?” he asks, voice low and hoarse against your temple.

You nod. Barely.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze is so intent, so focused, it knocks the air from your lungs all over again.

“Still with me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

His smirk returns. “Good. Because I’m not done.” He settles between your legs, the wetness between them suffocating. You’re trembling under his gaze, too overwhelmed by the tension in your body to form a coherent thought.

His eyes narrow, his lips curving into that smug, self-assured grin that you’ve come to recognise so well.

The moment his hands return to your waist, you feel the heat of him as he adjusts his position, settling deeper between your legs. You feel his breath on your skin, and then without warning, he thrusts into you, the sudden movement drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

Your breath catches. Every inch stretches you open, your body already overstimulated.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, pinning you down with his body. “It's ok.”

His rhythm is slow but unforgiving, pushing in deep, pulling out just enough to make you ache, but not enough to let you come undone. He’s not interested in giving you what you want, not yet anyways.

He’s in control, it’s almost like he’s savouring the power.

You fight to keep quiet, to maintain some semblance of composure. But the more you try, the more desperate your body becomes, your thighs trembling as he continues to fill you, again and again. Every movement of his is measured, deliberate. He’s testing you, pushing you to your limits, and you know, deep down, that he’s not about to stop.

He shifts again, and before you know it, one of his hands slides down to your throat, his fingers pressing gently against your pulse. It’s not a choke, not exactly. It’s more of a reminder, a subtle dominance that makes your head spin.

“Just relax for me, baby,” Rusty whispers in your ear, his voice rough, like he’s barely holding himself back. “You’re doing so well. I’ll take care of you."

You try to follow his instructions, biting your lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out. His thrusts grow harder, faster, and you swear the world is spinning around you. Every inch of you is filled with him, and you can’t stop the way your body reacts. Your hips instinctively rise to meet his, desperate for more.

But he’s not giving you an inch. Not yet.

“Rusty... please,” you breathe, not caring if your voice is barely above a whisper, barely audible.

“Please what?” he asks, his pace not faltering. The smugness in his voice makes you want to scream in frustration. But you can’t.

“Please... let me...,” you plead, your voice shaking.

Rusty chuckles darkly, the sound low. He looks down at you, still pulling back and thrusting in a rhythm that’s slowly breaking you apart.

“You’ll get there, baby,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “When I say so.”

You feel yourself getting closer, but it’s as though your body is at war with your mind, the tension between your legs building, tightening like a coil, ready to snap.

"Alright sweetheart, come for me." All you can do is hold on and ride the waves of pleasure, clinging to whatever semblance of control you have left.

He knows. He knows what he’s doing. And he’s not stopping until you’re shattered beneath him.

You’re on the brink of losing it, on the brink of breaking apart, but he doesn’t give you any relief. Instead, he pulls out and flips you onto your stomach, his hands pinning you down as he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice thick. “You’ll always be mine.”

As Rusty's movements grow more intense, you feel that final coil inside you snap. He’s been relentless, unyielding, and now, he’s driving you to the very edge of what your body can handle. Your breath hitches, your pulse thunders in your ears, and before you know it, your body betrays you. Spasming, trembling, completely undone by him.

Rusty doesn’t stop. Not even for a second.

He pushes into you with a deep, controlled thrust, and just like that, he lets go, filling you completely. The force of his release is enough to make your entire body feel weightless, as if the air around you has disappeared.

He holds himself inside of you for a moment, staying still as his breath quickens, his chest pressing against your back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs in your ear, his voice softer now. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers gentle as they trace the lines of your jaw. “You did so well.”

You just lie there, panting.

“You good?” he asks, his voice a little rougher than before, but there’s that concern there. A side of him you don’t often see, it catches you off guard.

You nod, still too dazed to speak. It’s only after a minute or so that Rusty finally pulls out, his movements slow and careful as he does. He pulls you close again, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tightly against him.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he murmurs, his hand running through your hair, massaging your scalp. He sounds so casual, but you can feel the weight of his words, the care in them.

You lean into him, letting your head rest against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, and you try to match it with your own.

Eventually, you doze off like that, in the arms of your fake husband, no longer caring about any bed-tresspassing.

hope you guys liked it, ik it was long but i feel like i owed it to you lol.