Spectrum
Title: Spectrum
Author: jamie_dakin
Fandom: Ocean’s 11 (and 12).
Pairing: Rusty/Danny, Rusty/Linus
Rating: PG (PG-13 if you live in Iran).
A/N: For contrelamontre’s “Gay On The Range” challenge. Inspired by this cover Done in 53 minutes. I tried, I tried. xposted to oceanfic
Disclaimer: Don’t own. Wouldn’t be able to pick from between them if I did. Don’t sue.
Spectrum
It’s taken Rusty this long to assert that Danny Ocean fucks like he cons.
Hazy smoke and shiny mirrors and Rusty thinks to himself that it’s all so very Hollywood.
That he and Danny are, at times, so very Hollywood.
That’s the way Rusty keeps these things, in mental files with neat labels just like he keeps the rest of his life.
Rusty’s Danny file reminds him of blurry edged big studio films; of well dressed lead actors meeting/ and cut to perfect lips perfectly fitting other perfect lips on a backdrop of swooning orchestra symphonies/ and cut to a choreographed fall to bed and fade to an orange filtered, script worthy banter decorated morning after.
Rusty can’t remember much of anything except movie shots with Danny.
Danny waiting for him in a dark corner of a hotel room, half drunk glass filled with something appropriately amber colored in hand.
Danny pushing his head down on a bed littered with carefully counted bills.
Danny’s hands and Danny’s mouth and Danny’s cock - around him and inside of him and Rusty would be lying if he said that all their glossy criminal Technicolor glory didn’t sometimes make him feel exhausted.
Exhausted by the sheer effort of keeping up with the performance standard that Danny sets.
But Danny Ocean fucks like he cons.
And for so long a time Rusty had been content with it.
With Danny.
With Danny and her.
Content to live and end his life as the dramatic supporting role.
And here at the other end of the Rusty’s spectrum is Linus.
And if Danny is big studio Hollywood then Linus is independent European.
Because when Rusty thinks of Linus he thinks of subtitles.
Because there are too many times when Rusty cannot understand this boy, this man. This antonym of Saul’s
word for Danny that Rusty has adopted to write on the label of his file of Danny memories.
Rusty hasn’t got a word for Linus yet, but he does have a file now.
Insufficient bluish florescent lighting and mismatched props and sometimes the sheer monochromatic nature of his existence with Linus makes Rusty feel like reaching for his phone and calling the first
name under “D”.
Danny who is Bogart and Stuart and Dean.
Danny who will take you out for a two week long heist and almost get the both of you killed and who will smell of adrenaline and of something appropriately amber colored when he pushes you onto pricey starched
linens.
Linus Caldwell is only ever Linus Caldwell.
With sheets that could use a thorough washing and skin that never carries the scent of anything much except soap and dirt and maybe peppermint.
Linus who he sometimes thinks gets more excited over lifting some old wallet than he ever was robbing Benedict.
Linus who kisses too hard and who all too often conducts ten-minute pauses just when it gets interesting to make emergency lube runs to the pharmacy and who still smiles in that little triumphant way every time he makes Rusty come first and too soon.
Linus Caldwell who now, when they’re fighting, calls Rusty his boyfriend and who doesn’t fully understand later when Rusty breathes something that sounds vaguely like “yours” against Linus’ mouth as he’s coming.
Because Linus is now in possession of something that he doesn’t yet know that he’s in possession of.
Danny Ocean may fuck like he cons, but you can only con a con man for so long.
Or so Rusty tells Linus on the blue filtered morning-after when he can’t for the life of him find something glib or remotely Dannyish to say.
And Linus nods somberly, and presses his lips to Rusty’s shoulder because maybe this boy understands a lot more than Rusty thinks.
And as Linus moves to softly press his teeth to Rusty’s neck, maybe Rusty finally decides on a word for him.
Author: jamie_dakin
Fandom: Ocean’s 11 (and 12).
Pairing: Rusty/Danny, Rusty/Linus
Rating: PG (PG-13 if you live in Iran).
A/N: For contrelamontre’s “Gay On The Range” challenge. Inspired by this cover Done in 53 minutes. I tried, I tried. xposted to oceanfic
Disclaimer: Don’t own. Wouldn’t be able to pick from between them if I did. Don’t sue.
Spectrum
It’s taken Rusty this long to assert that Danny Ocean fucks like he cons.
Hazy smoke and shiny mirrors and Rusty thinks to himself that it’s all so very Hollywood.
That he and Danny are, at times, so very Hollywood.
That’s the way Rusty keeps these things, in mental files with neat labels just like he keeps the rest of his life.
Rusty’s Danny file reminds him of blurry edged big studio films; of well dressed lead actors meeting/ and cut to perfect lips perfectly fitting other perfect lips on a backdrop of swooning orchestra symphonies/ and cut to a choreographed fall to bed and fade to an orange filtered, script worthy banter decorated morning after.
Rusty can’t remember much of anything except movie shots with Danny.
Danny waiting for him in a dark corner of a hotel room, half drunk glass filled with something appropriately amber colored in hand.
Danny pushing his head down on a bed littered with carefully counted bills.
Danny’s hands and Danny’s mouth and Danny’s cock - around him and inside of him and Rusty would be lying if he said that all their glossy criminal Technicolor glory didn’t sometimes make him feel exhausted.
Exhausted by the sheer effort of keeping up with the performance standard that Danny sets.
But Danny Ocean fucks like he cons.
And for so long a time Rusty had been content with it.
With Danny.
With Danny and her.
Content to live and end his life as the dramatic supporting role.
And here at the other end of the Rusty’s spectrum is Linus.
And if Danny is big studio Hollywood then Linus is independent European.
Because when Rusty thinks of Linus he thinks of subtitles.
Because there are too many times when Rusty cannot understand this boy, this man. This antonym of Saul’s
word for Danny that Rusty has adopted to write on the label of his file of Danny memories.
Rusty hasn’t got a word for Linus yet, but he does have a file now.
Insufficient bluish florescent lighting and mismatched props and sometimes the sheer monochromatic nature of his existence with Linus makes Rusty feel like reaching for his phone and calling the first
name under “D”.
Danny who is Bogart and Stuart and Dean.
Danny who will take you out for a two week long heist and almost get the both of you killed and who will smell of adrenaline and of something appropriately amber colored when he pushes you onto pricey starched
linens.
Linus Caldwell is only ever Linus Caldwell.
With sheets that could use a thorough washing and skin that never carries the scent of anything much except soap and dirt and maybe peppermint.
Linus who he sometimes thinks gets more excited over lifting some old wallet than he ever was robbing Benedict.
Linus who kisses too hard and who all too often conducts ten-minute pauses just when it gets interesting to make emergency lube runs to the pharmacy and who still smiles in that little triumphant way every time he makes Rusty come first and too soon.
Linus Caldwell who now, when they’re fighting, calls Rusty his boyfriend and who doesn’t fully understand later when Rusty breathes something that sounds vaguely like “yours” against Linus’ mouth as he’s coming.
Because Linus is now in possession of something that he doesn’t yet know that he’s in possession of.
Danny Ocean may fuck like he cons, but you can only con a con man for so long.
Or so Rusty tells Linus on the blue filtered morning-after when he can’t for the life of him find something glib or remotely Dannyish to say.
And Linus nods somberly, and presses his lips to Rusty’s shoulder because maybe this boy understands a lot more than Rusty thinks.
And as Linus moves to softly press his teeth to Rusty’s neck, maybe Rusty finally decides on a word for him.