#oceans 12

[real-odark]

[airsdoodle]

oceans twelve is so stupid i love when julia roberts plays tess ocean who plays julia roberts.

[callme-hollyy]

Heyyy!! I just want to start by saying i LOVEE your writing especially for brad pitt characters!!

Saw your requests were open sooo… if it weren’t too much of a ask would you be willing to write something about rusty ryan :)))

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐫𝐲𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ˎˊ

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. three years is a long time to go without someone and plenty of time to move on. yet you and rusty do neither, and after a heist, you find yourselves drifting back to one another and wind up at the airport together, waiting to board the same flight. 𝐚/𝐧: i havent written for rusty in soooo long and ive missed him. if we want a part two to this, i have some delicious (and lowkey a lil nasty) ideas. tysm for the req and i hope you enjoy xxx

The airport lights are bright enough to make you squint behind the dim lenses of your sunglasses, a sterile white that casts the most unflattering angles on everyone and highlights the jet lag etched across the sea of faces bustling to gates. 

Duty-free perfume permeates your senses, your wrists coated with an ungodly mixture of scents you had no intention of buying but tried anyway due to the low price and your newly found income. Perhaps ‘income’ is a generous term, though you can’t think of anything that isn’t scandalous to describe stolen money. 

Your seat is uncomfortable to say the least; the hard plastic is cutting into the ridges of your spine just enough that you can no longer feel your lower back; you cast a glance at the man sprawled across a row of them, head pillowed on his bag, clearly immune to the discomfort and selfish enough to ignore the hovering family nearby. 

 “You know,” You mumble, leaning towards the occupied seat beside you. “That family looks like they could do with a seat.” 

Rusty Ryan hums noncommittally, glancing up from his half-eaten sandwich, the packaging crinkling. Sunglasses shade his face from view, and despite the unattractive lighting buzzing overhead, it seems to do very little to diminish his tanned skin, haloing the blonde buzzcut he’s somehow kept perfectly clean. It seems if the European sun picked favourites, it was certainly him.

“They could just ask.” 

You fix him with a bemused look, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Or you could offer.” 

“Then you would have to move too.” He fixes you with a knowing glance, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And we all know you’re not doing that.” 

A small laugh slips free, seraphic and loud enough that the dozing man on the bench across shifts slightly. You roll your eyes before turning back in your seat, shifting just enough to alleviate the tingling that has started to creep its way up your legs, winding around the muscles. 

“You really coming back to LA with me?” Rusty asks, finishing off the rest of the sandwich and balling up the plastic. You take it from him and slip it into your jacket pocket before he can discard it elsewhere, nodding once.

“I didn’t waste my money on a ticket for nothing. Besides, I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go.” 

He raises a brow at you, finally slumping back, one arm stretching around your shoulders to rest loosely over the back of your own seat. “What about Danny?” 

“He has Tess now.” You muse, gravitating to his side enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him. “And something tells me they’re going to want their own house to themselves without me hogging the guest room.” 

Rusty scoffs and you feel his fingers dance along the curve of your shoulder, the touch so absentminded, you’re not sure he’s even aware of it. “You’re his sister.” 

“And Tess is his wife.” 

“So?” He shrugs once, as though your intrusion on their newly formed domestic life means nothing. However, he catches the look you fix him with, entirely unamused and knowing, and something tacit passes between you both. “What? You think they’re settling?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?" You finally push your sunglasses up onto your head, blinded momentarily. You catch the way his face morphs into a grimace, like the mere thought of your brother being domesticated is one he tries to avoid, one so unnatural that it’s unnerving in itself. 

“No.” He sniffs once. “Still doesn’t mean you can’t stay with them.” 

You let out a wry laugh, leaning into him further, the action a subconscious one that neither of you seems aware of nor bothered about. “You trying to get rid of me already, Ryan?” 

He scoffs once, and you feel his arm move from the back of your seat to around your shoulders, settling there heavily and without much ceremony at all. “I just got you back.” 

The statement brings with it a gentle, if not oppressive, silence; the tacenda of just how long the two of you have spent apart is still clearly a subject neither of you is willing to touch upon. Three years is a long time, long enough to move on and go elsewhere with your lives, and yet neither of you did; instead, you hung up onto a past that would undoubtedly resurface eventually.  

“Don’t sound so smug.” You mumble, finally turning away, though there's a hint of stolidity now, the fear that if you get too comfortable, he will leave again, creeping back, unwelcome, into your system. 

“I’m not smug,” he retorts, shifting so that he can look at you properly. You don’t protest when he grasps your chin gently, turning your head and forcing you to meet his gaze. There’s something genuine behind his eyes, his brows softened enough for you to read the guilt that’s been tugging at him for months. 

“Really?” You scoff, but it’s hollow, devoid of any true humour. Rusty seems to notice. “That’s rare—” 

“Don’t do that.” The firmness catches you off guard, enough that you blink once, entirely stunned, lips parted like a fish on land, mid-gasp for air. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t release his hold on your chin. Simply watches you with all the amorousness of a besotted man who's realised his mistake too late. 

“What?” You ask, though it comes out as more of a whisper, careful not to draw too much attention from bored and prying airport guests. 

“That thing.” 

“What thing?" You prompt again. Rusty heaves a sigh.

“The thing where you shut down and act like this is all over before it’s even started.” He swallows thickly, and you realise then that this may be the most emotional you’ve ever seen him. Calm, composed, veracious Rusty Ryan suddenly looks vastly apologetic, like you’ve stabbed him once and twisted the knife. 

“Can you blame me?” You shake your head, a breathy laugh pulling from you. “You left me, Rusty. After two years. You just left.” 

“I was scared,” he admits, and the genuineness almost breaks you. He doesn’t raise his voice or shake you to emphasise his point. He just stays completely calm and entirely patient. 

“Of what?” 

“Things were serious. We were living together. You were plannin’ stuff. And I didn’t know how to handle that.” 

“I hated you.” You admit, entirely guileless. “I really hated you afterwards.” 

“I know.” He nods. “I know.” 

Silence settles once more; however, this time it feels lighter. The weight of unspoken words no longer presses down on you both, and you finally allow yourself to sag against his side once more, your remaining dregs of energy finally dispersed and replaced with the faintest glimmer of hope.

“Are you going to leave me this time?” The words are hushed, barely audible, like speaking them any louder might shatter whatever fragile bridge has built between the two of you. 

He hesitates. 

“Are you going to come back with me?” 

“Are you going to keep trying to run your shitty hotel?” 

Rusty barks a laugh, one so genuine that you can’t help but smile. He drops a kiss to the top of your head, warming your body in a way you haven’t felt in years. It’s familiar—comforting—and you find yourself tilting your head just far enough to capture his lips with your own. 

The intercom crackles overhead, announcing the final call for Italy. A few people around you rise, bustling in the general direction, and you open your mouth to make a wry comment about getting there early, when Rusty stands too.

“That’s us.” 

He bends down to pick up your bags before watching you expectantly. 

You frown, brows furrowed as you glance at the board just to make sure. “They called Italy.” 

“I’m not deaf.” He counters, holding a hand out for you like a bored mother does for their child. “C’mon or we’ll miss it.”

You rise warily, taking his hand. “We’re going to LA, Rusty.”

Yet, despite that, he continues to walk to the gate for Italy, joining the queue of eager tourists and the occasional well-dressed businessperson. He shakes his head, handing you the boarding passes—immediately you scan them with all the fervour of someone afraid their boyfriend has lost it. 

“Rusty.” You begin, glaring up at him. “These aren’t for LA.”

“Hotels probably gone under by now," He shrugs, as though that answers everything. He seems to catch on as you continue to gawp up at him before adding. “I thought you wanted somewhere nice to settle down.”

Settle down? 

“The hotel—What—You own it.”

“Not anymore.” The queue shuffles forward. “I sold it.” 

“Sold it?” You echo, stressing each syllable as though you’re trying to get through to him, trying to make sense of what exactly he’s telling you. He remains completely stoic, as though what he’s doing isn’t completely out of the ordinary. “You’re telling me you sold your hotel in LA so that you could move to Italy?” 

“We,” he corrects languidly. He hands your boarding passes and passports to the lady at the desk. “So that we could move to Italy.” 

The woman wishes you both an enjoyable flight and you can barely muster a ‘thank you’ as he drags you, and your bags, through the gate, looking every bit as smug as you’d expect. 

“Rusty, where are we going to go?” 

He glances down at you, a wry smile tugging as he lips. He bends down to press another kiss to your lips and you melt into it instinctively. 

“We’ll figure it out.” 

⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐞_𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐚 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔.

[slutty-darling-creature]

The oceans trilogy is all about love. yes i will go into great detail if asked

[callme-holly]

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐫𝐲𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ˎˊ

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. in which you and rusty are married for a job and instead of a free vacation, you end up confessing your love hatred for one another 𝐚/𝐧: im in love with this trope so expect more like this. i wanted it to be longer but got hit with the worst migraine ever and havent had the chance or the energy to so please enjoy xxx 𝐰.𝐜. 1.6k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. enemies to lovers, light smut, sexual insinuations, alcohol consumption & confessing hatred for each other before kissing

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ♤ ♡ ♧ ♢ ✧ ׅ ۫ ׅ ⊱

The suite is beyond lavish, the kind you expect to stay in if you were a millionaire, a well-known celebrity in a world of John and Jane Does. The windows are floor-to-ceiling, polished glass that you can see your reflection in when the sun refracts just right, overlooking the landscape of Lake Como, the finest place Italy has to offer you. 

It’s everything you could dream of and more: a walk-in wardrobe, room service at your beck and call, and a king-sized bed with goose-down quilts and pillows. 

One king-sized bed with goose-down quilts and pillows. 

And, had you been alone, the suite would be perfect, a little recluse just for you. However, things don’t always seem to work in your favour, and when Danny Ocean calls you on a job, offering you a free trip to Italy, you should have known better than to expect a vacation.

Still, you didn’t think he’d marry you off to Rusty Ryan. 

The door slams shut behind you as you breeze into the room, heels clicking against the rich oak of the floorboards, your presence seeming to bring an air of discomfort to a place of ease and prosperity. Rusty follows behind you without so much as blinking, calm in a way that infuriates you, that makes your blood boil beyond belief. 

“This is ridiculous!” You huff, sitting down on the futon with such force that the feet scrape the ground. You tug at the buckle on your heels with more force than necessary, anger bleeding through. “This job is entirely stupid!” 

Rusty—to his credit—doesn’t pay you much mind. He wanders over to the bar in the corner, inspecting the mini fridge before pouring himself a generous glass of whisky. 

You rattle on, not caring for an audience, not when you’re trapped on the top floor of a prestigious building with a man so intolerable that it makes you want to strangle him with the silk tie of the robe hanging on the door. 

“I am not your wife.” You say it so sharply that the words crack through the room, silencing everything. Italy seems to slow for a moment, taking in the words, frightened to upset you any further. 

Rusty glances up, leaning against the bar counter, and nods once. “For the next seventy-two hours, you are.” 

A low growl leaves you when the buckle of your heel gets caught for the third time, and you pull it so tight it cuts into your skin before standing abruptly, fixing him with a look that could kill. “Someone congratulated me on our anniversary!” 

“Yeah. Happy third anniversary.” 

“You didn’t correct them!” You all but explode, arms flailing dramatically, your eyes burning, and your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as though you’d just run a marathon in the extreme heat. 

Rusty scoffs, knocking back the rest of his drink and setting the glass down with a clink that resounds through the otherwise deathly silent room. He levels your gaze. “Why would I? That’s the job.” 

“Screw the job!” You cry out, storming towards him, dress fanning behind you like the feathers of a ruffled swan, looking impossibly perfect despite the boorish attitude radiating from you. “Screw you!” You jab a perfectly manicured finger into his chest, ignoring the ring that sparkles on your left hand, catching the sunlight easily. 

“You planned all of this! You wanted to ruin this for me—” 

“Ruin what? You were called here on a job, sweetheart.” 

And he isn’t wrong. That’s what infuriates you; he’s always got to be right, always got to be factual in calling you out. You knew this was professional, that this trip wasn’t for your own self-indulgence, wasn’t for you to sunbathe until you tanned or lounge around like a languid cat. 

“Danny should have warned me.” You mutter.

Rusty raises a brow, and you try to ignore what it does to you, the heat that spreads through your chest and lingers. “You would’ve said no.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Then we’d both be unemployed.” 

The words hang between you both for a beat, the reality behind them tacit. It feeds the starved ttension andfuels the quiet as hatred burns between you both like fire on dry wood, the flames licking at the bark until it finds some semblance of moisture or mineral to put it all to an end. 

“I hate you,” you say suddenly, spitting the words like they’re poison. Rusty remains unfazed, looking down at you like you’re just another thing in the way of something great. “I hate how smug you are. I hate that you don’t explain anything because you like watching people scramble.”

Rusty scoffs, tilting his head just slightly, the light reflecting in those stupidly gorgeous blue eyes. “I hate that you always think you can interrupt people.” 

“You’re condescending.”

“You’re dramatic.” 

“You’re smug.” 

“You’re predictable.” 

“You don’t ever listen!” 

“You don’t ever stop talking.” 

You freeze, gasping for air like you're being suffocated, cheeks flushed whether from embarrassment or downright exasperation. Your eyes search his face, looking for any limina of humour; he's being entirely serious, as are you, and it's clear then that whatever is burning between you both goes far beyond resentment. 

Whatever this is, it is a personal matter. One that neither of you is willing to confess nor admit to. 

“You think you’re better than everyone else here but you’re not.” You hiss, and Rusty shifts slightly, leaning closer to you. 

“I think I’m better than you.” 

“That’s not true.” You sniff indignantly. He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. 

“Then why does it bother you so much?” 

The silence returns, heavier than before, carrying with it the weight of something else. It’s a weight that’s far too heavy for you to carry without stumbling, a pressure upon your shoulders that seems to restrict breathing and compresses your lungs until each breath feels like a chore. 

You realise then just how close you’re both standing; you’ve somehow migrated to the centre of the room, standing toe-to-toe, him looking down on you, you looking up, neither of you obliging enough to step away, too stubborn to accept defeat. There’s a heat in the room, one that doesn’t originate from the sun, impossible for the airconditioning to diminish. 

“You done?” Rusty’s voice had dropped impossibly low, barely audible now, and there’s something almost intimate and solemn about it. It catches you off guard; your next hurl of insults instead comes out as a strangled gasp of air, caught somewhere in your throat and promptly forgotten once more.

“Not even close.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves, both stuck in the limbo of dancing around one another, the same way dogs do, waiting to lash out, to grab the other by the neck, and shake them until they surrender. The room feels smaller, almost claustrophobic, like the air's been pulled thin between you both. 

Rusty exhales sharply through his nose—a quiet, disbelieving sound—stepping forward at the same time you do. 

The kiss is rough, all teeth and frustration, hands grappling to take purchase anywhere they can, yours on his face, his resting on your hips, pulling the other as close as humanly possible. It’s all passion, months of anger and resentment bleeding through into something more, like the rug has finally been pulled out from under both of you and you’ve been left to fall, forced to grab onto each other in order to survive the landing. 

“Tell me to stop.” He whispers against your mouth, breath hot against your lips. His eyes search yours, and it would be so easy to shove him away, slap him, and board the next plane home. 

You kiss him again. 

His forehead rests against yours, sa smilegracing his features. “This complicates things.” 

You roll your eyes, huffing a laugh. “I think it makes it more convincing.” 

Your expression shifts then, suddenly serious, and the irony of it makes Rusty laugh. “This doesn’t leave the room.” 

“Of course it does,” he replies, raising a brow. “We’re married.” 

You can’t help but smile, watching as he glances towards the bed. That stupid king-sized bed with goose-down quilts and pillows. 

“You still mad?” 

You follow his gaze, heat running through you, voice dropping lower. “Ask me in the morning.” 

He grins and your knees go weak, your heart rate spiking. His hands tighten on your waist as you both stumble towards the bed, your body hitting the mattress with a dull thud, him hovering over you, eyes searching yours.

There's no anger behind them now, instead replaced by something softer, and you swallow heavily, cheeks flushing a deep shade of fuchsia.  

“This is a bad idea.” He whispers.

Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers scratching the hair at the nape of his neck; your lips brush once more, and it’s hard to tell when his breath starts and yours ends. Perhaps you're both breathing the same air, finally content to share the same oxygen. 

“You keep saying that.” 

His hands trail lower, slower, steady, still searching your expression for any sign that you want him to stop. Instead, you give him a nod, your approval entirely tacit, no words needed. He dips his head lower, catching your mouth in a kiss that’s far more passionate that the last, and you exhale into, nails clawing at the fabric of his shirt desperately, desire taking over entirely. 

Each word exchanged is hushed, each touch amourouse, each smile serpahic, as you both fall into a state of complete serendipity. 

And afterwards—when he’s collapsed ontop of you, your hand smoothing over his freshly marred back, your bodies covered in a sheen of sweat—you glance down at him, eyes tender. His reticence makes you brush the pads of your fingers over his jaw, and he looks up briefly. 

“This doesn’t change anything.” You whisper, and Rusty laughs, the sound languid and warm. 

“Wouldn’t expect it to.” 

You roll your eyes, eyes catching the way the wedding band glints in the setting sun, pressing cool against his honey skin. 

⋆.˚ taglist || @jamesdeanbby ⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐞_𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐚 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔.

[be-oceans-be-gay]

More Ocean's meme bc this fandom needs a revival part 4

[dearvoidgoodnight]

Apparently they’re going to make Ocean’s 14. Supposedly “everyone” is coming back. (Well, you know, everyone who is living.)

But I’m not watching it unless EVERYONE is there including Debbie. I need to see George Clooney and Sandra Bullock together as siblings.

Give me this, and I’ll give you my money.

[bluewritinghood]