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papa-rhys · 4 years

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Shared Empires (Rhys X Reader)

Note: Wow it’s literally been like over a year and a half since I wrote/posted fanfic, how do I even format this shit? I legit can’t remember so here goes

Warnings: none

Word count: 2131

Category: fluff

It’s been seven years since the fiasco with Handsome Jack and Hyperion, but you still can’t shake that blasted gaudy yellow colour from your mind’s eye whenever you see Rhys.

It’s hardly fair to keep associating him with the limp-dicked prick that awakened the Warrior - Rhys is the opposite of Jack in every way, except for the zeros in his bank account and the need to have an office with ceilings that are far too high (how are you supposed to kill spiders when they’re that high up?) Rhys is bumbly and friendly and harmless enough. And he’s better-looking, too. But that yellow colour is seared into your retinas for an eternity and there’s a tiny part of your unreasonable lizard brain that feels the need to point out Rhys’ involvement in what Hyperion did every time you come a little too close to enjoying yourself in his presence.

Still, he’s paying your wages as of right now and a deal is a deal; help him win this war against Maliwan and he’ll make sure you never struggle for a meal again. And if there’s anything at all that you’re good at, it’s killing corporations dead in the water.

“How you diddling, Mr Hyperion?” you ask, striding into Rhys office and feeling mighty proud of the frown you pull from him. This kind of tingle could only come from irking Rhys, you think. Or from finding the juicy photos Moxxi keeps stashed on her echo device.

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” Rhys says, handing you a gun as you cross the floor of his office and reach him where he stands.

“You did,” you chirp, cheerfully, “I just didn’t listen. What’s this for?”

Rhys straightens his back, puffs his chest out a little; all the hallmarks of a man who’s ever-so-proud of himself. He stands with his hands on his hips and his chin held high and you’re itching to throw out another teasing insult, just to bring him down a peg. It’s not fair to tease him so often and you know it, but lord is it fun to see him blush. And you’re, like, ninety percent certain he enjoys it, too.

“That is the finest Atlas weapon on the market,” he informs you. “It’s a reward… for killing that nutjob with the miniguns... You’re welcome.”

You look the gun over and shrug with one shoulder, then you stash it in your backpack and shrug the bag off, lobbing it onto one of the too-big sofas in the lavish seating area of the office. There’s no way in any reality that Rhys reads enough books to justify the size of those bookshelves, but you suppose rich people have to spend their money on something.

“What’s next on the to-do list, then, boss?” you ask, hopping up and sitting on the back of the sofa, swinging your legs back and forth.

“Okay, I could really get used to you calling me boss,” Rhys says. “It’s... actually kind of a turn on, so let’s not talk about that anymore. Nothing is the answer to your question.” You pull your head back against the barrage of words that just flitted your way, but there’s no time to process them. Rhys is talking again. It seems he does that often. “There’s nothing on the to-do list,” he continues. “For once, we have a break in the chaos. Can’t tell you the last time that happened, I’m actually kinda miffed about it. I’m very accustomed to fearing for my life. But we’re off the clock for a while, so relish in the quiet for a while. You earned it!”

You let yourself slip backwards onto the sofa, laying upside down and stretching your arms out each side of you. He’s not the only one who’s used to living a fast-paced life. Quiet is the exact opposite of your job description. Shooting, murdering, setting things on fire - all things that you’re far more suited to.

“Whatever will I do with all of this free time?” you ask, gazing up at the ceiling and watching a spider making the trek from one side to the other. Maybe Rhys has a step ladder he uses to kill them?

Rhys meddles with something out of view and music begins playing on a record player at the edge of the room - the soft, sweet kind that couples dance to; not the tedious wub-wubs that claptrap tortures you all with. Rhys comes back into view again when he leans over the back of the sofa, resting on his elbows. “We could try some dancing?” He says the words like he’s asking a question, wincing slightly as he tests the waters.

This is one of those moments that lizard brain ruins; reminding you of Rhys’ past and what it meant to you seven years ago. The fighting and the taunting and the constant cat and mouse. The people you lost, the ones you couldn’t save. Jack’s barrage of insults and moonshots; spat at you in equal measure. Rhys could have pushed the button on any one of those moonshots, your lizard brain suggests. He was complicit.

But that was then, wasn’t it? And this is now. He learned lessons from Jack. He’s different. And there’s no point in fighting for the future if you still spend all of your time in the past. It’s okay to enjoy a little taste of what you’re fighting for.

A smile spreads slowly across your lips and you cock an eyebrow. “You? Dancing? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“You’ve never seen my dancing,” he says accusingly, though there’s an upwards slant to one side of his mouth. “I have moves like no one else.”

“No doubt about that,” you tease, letting him help you up off the sofa.

The music tinkles and hums in the background as the two of you head for the centre of the office, surrounded by nothing but empty space. You shake out your hands and feet, warming up like you’re gearing for battle, and Rhys shakes his head with a smile.

“You really don’t know how to be graceful, do you?” he asks.

“Don’t get paid to be graceful, Rhysie boy,” you reply, rolling your neck until it cracks softly. “I get paid to kill stuff.”

“Well, let’s hang fire on that for now, shall we?” Rhys holds out his hands and you take them, letting him guide you. He’s better at dancing than you thought he’d be, but only slightly. Better - [quotation marks] - meaning he hasn’t yet tripped over his feet. But the night is still young, so you’ll not rule that out just yet.

He spins you and dips you and you both mutter a wealth of light-hearted insults between the pair of you. His bright smile could almost trick you into thinking he’s good at this. That he’s not a bumbling idiot with a too-big office and two left feet. A part of him is actually quite suave... in his own way.

“Am I impressing you?” he asks.

“Give me a minute and I’ll decide,” you smile as he spins you around on the spot.

“Oh, come on, I’m impressing you. Admit it, I’m great at this.”

He pulls a laugh from you, and against your better judgement, you allow it. There’s no way he’ll ever let you forget it if you compliment him on his dancing skills, so you opt for something with a little more self-preservation. A safe middle ground.

“You’re making a good effort,” you offer.

“Pfft,” comes the reply. He twirls you outwards and pulls you back in again.

“Okay then, hotshot,” you say, landing against his chest with a soft oof, the breath catching in your chest. “You’re a lot better than I expected you’d be. How’s that?”

He grins widely, the smile reaching his eyes. One of them is blue, the other a hazel colour that looks almost as electronically enhanced as the other. Do eyes naturally come in colours that bright? There’s a moment that seems to stretch for an extraordinarily long length of time, where you find yourself questioning the bizarre and totally irrational urge to do something weird, like kissing him or something. What madness that would be, right? Crazy.

You’ve both slowed down, now, the dancing mostly forgotten. All that’s left is a gentle sway as he speaks. “I wanna ask you something,” he says. “But I’m a little bit terrified of you.”

“A little bit terrified?” you echo. “No need to be scared of me unless you’re thinking about cutting my wages.”

He gives a nervous laugh that fades off as quickly as it’d had appeared. “Your wages are safe with me,” he says. “But that’s kind of along the lines of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Go on…”

Rhys spins you around to face the window behind his desk, the entire city visible beyond it in all its glowing glory. The neon lights paint a million different colours on the floor of the office and the sky is speckled with explosions that almost look pretty if you imagine that they’re not a product of war. The whole office is flooded by the view, buildings visible through every window.

“I wanna share this with you,” Rhys says. “All of it.”

“What do you mean?” you ask him, the light flooding your eyes, overloading you with input.

“I don’t want all this to myself,” he explains. “It’s too much. Kingdoms are meant to be shared, right? Well, I wanna share this one with you. If you’d want that, obviously.”

“You mean, like, business partners?”

He laughs, nervous again. “If business partners are in love with each other, then yeah, I guess.”

You turn to face him and look up at him with your eyebrows raised. Now it’s your turn to blush; not an easy task for someone to accomplish. Touche, Mr Hyperion.

“I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” he asks, watching you as you look up at him, slightly dumbfounded. Then he seems to cave in on himself a little, shoulders slumping. “I know you’re only here because I’m paying you to be here and I know you’re waaaaay too cool to ever feel that way about an idiot like me, but I figured I’d give it a try anyway, you know? And see if maybe you’d - “

You push up onto your toes and press a kiss to his lips, cursing him for being lanky enough to make you put effort into kissing him. If he were any taller, you’d need a harness and those stabby things that rock climbers jab into cliff faces.

He holds onto your waist as you kiss and for all his bumbling and lack of self-assurance, he soon takes to it, cupping your jaw with one hand and leaning down to meet you halfway.

Your own hands take hold of the collar of his vest, gripping fabric on either side and using it to pull him towards you. With shuffling steps, the two of you are edging towards the desk as one, all stumbling and heavy breathing, carefully making your way up the shallow steps, until you hit the edge of the desk.

“I don’t think this is an appropriate way to act with your employees,” you breathe.

“Then you’re fired,” Rhys says. “There; now you’re not an employee.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, pulse thrumming in your ears to match the beat. Wobbly legs and and a woozy light-headedness tell you that your body is pumping adrenaline through you at record pace. It’s different than the feeling you get on the battlefield; you feel so much more out of your depth here. Out there, you have a rhythm - motions to go through. Routine. But here, you’re just going with the flow, not quite knowing what you’re doing. A new partner means a new rhythm. A new pattern to be learned. What makes Rhys tick? What does he like and dislike? What does he -

“Oh!”

The two of you break apart at the sound of the voice coming from the doorway. Surprise in both of your faces matches the surprise in Lorelei’s voice. She watches you with her arms folded across her chest and her hip jutted out to one side as you and Rhys gather yourselves up.

“If I had a dollar for every time I’d walked in on you in a compromising position, I’d be able to buy you out,” she tells Rhys. He smiles uncomfortably and fixes his tie. “But this takes the bloody cake,” she adds.

“We were celebrating,” you offer.

Lorelei hums. “I’ll bet,” she says, looking amused. “But you were celebrating prematurely. Maliwan just showed up at the front door and they’re not bothering to ring the doorbell. Need you outside, Vault Hunter.”

Rhys sighs heavy and turns to you, the last traces of his pant visible in the way his chest moves with each breath. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“Yeah,” you agree, sighing. You smooth out your hair and make your way over to the seating area to collect your backpack, crossing the room on shaky legs. Hauling your bag onto your shoulders, you pick out your favourite gun and check that it’s loaded. “Alright,” you muse, nodding to Rhys and then to Lorelei, “back to work, then.”

#I've been fantasising about this scenario for days #rhys strongfork #borderlands 3 #borderlands fanfiction #rhys the company man #tftbl #tales from the borderlands #my writing #writing: rhys strongfork

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mynameisdreartblog · 5 years

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Romantic Composers 3

Libra: Antonín Dvořák. Nightclubbing, nightclubbing; we walk through town. We learn new dances. We… Oh, I didn’t see you there. "Oh? How about: Oh, Libi, you know that it’s really late and you should be going home? This place doesn’t need your maintenance all the time to stay afloat." Right, but I gave up the nightclubbing style a long time ago: Is it not fair to expect me to set the mood correctly and make my choices where they need to be? Can I commit to something for once in my life, or are you that incessant? "It doesn’t matter, you look so tired from a day of elevating and descending the staircases. Think of what I’m doing as a merciful reminder." [,] I’d be offended if you weren’t my own, but I’ll stop the "nightclubbing" if it appeases you. <A echo occurs upon the moment Libi says "nightclubbing."> While I’m at it, you can stop being so authoritative and demanding in your speech: It’s clear informality isn’t your strong suit. […] "Then what is it? At least I can go to sleep at a reasonable hour." …Am I appealing enough on the surface? Is that your issue with me? I mean, all the lore can come later; what we should care about now is whether or not I’m memetic enough to plaster on shirts. "In my opinion, I think you’d look lovely on a graphic T-shirt." That’s the most agreeable opinion you’ve had all night… "Nightclubbing, nightclubbing; we walk through town, we learn new dances." [,] It’s a good song, isn’t it? I’ m an admirer of Grace Jones’ work. "Yeah, I could tell; you’ve been playing her over the speakers of this place every so often." Do you like how I try to select a track for the mood you’re likely to experience? "That’s rather creepy; I’d rather it be on coincidence than on purpose." Well, you give some, you take some: I give fitting ambiance and I take a sense of privacy… "Libi?" Yes? "Are you trying to stall for something?" What? I’ve no concept of stalling: I spend every waking moment of my time on earth doing something worthwhile, you just need to redefine what you perceive as such. "You’re stalling right now, Libi. Are you waiting for something to end, like your shift perhaps?"[…] I need to stop talking to myself.

Cancer: Edvard Grieg. «I’ve hypothesized who could eventually be my greatest villain, and I once thought that it might be someone so stuck in certain instances of time, and can only present them to an exterior through aesthetic presentations, and a supernatural ability to alter the surrounding environment and attitudes to match whatever suits the hauntological current…» Cool, but I’m in a bad spot right now and I’m waiting for a lane to open up. I could just go right now and ignore everyone else, but courtesy is my policy. «Courtesy? Anyone who has ever driven a vehicle here has no understanding of the concept of courtesy. Now, get in the damn right lane before somebody clamors over us.» Jeez, what’s gotten into you? «Aside from a couple of pathogens, it’s the fact that I wasn’t given my required smoking break today. And those cigarettes are necessary for someone like me, otherwise I’d crack under the pressure.» I know you Springe… <Boitatá adequately changes lanes, angering the person behind her.> …and I know you can handle a little bit of shit before you have to puff another one. <Springe remarks in their head how Boitatá manages to be a better driver than Gonçalo: The one who owns the damn truck.> Well, it’s not a high hurdle: Anyone who survives under a terrible workplace long enough will be able to survive under it better than the rookie. Er, that’s what you’re talking about, right? <The truck stops at a very askew stop-sign.> «Yeah, but once you’re in it long enough, you wonder whenever the expiration is coming. Absolutely nobody talks about it because it’s taboo, but eventually we have to wonder when the work will be done. Like, there’s no reason for this hospital to exist anymore…» [,] Uh, there’s plenty of reasons for it to exist, like the fact that people still get sick and still need medical check-ups to make sure they’re healthy. I get where you’re going, but maybe a better example could’ve been used, like retail. There’s no point to the work of retail anymore, is there? «Yeah, but I get to listen in on all the drama of it. Plus, I just like the comfort of a gas-station, you know? Nowhere to go but again throughout the store’s hallways.» <Springe continues to babble about the "vibes" of a retail workspace for an uncomfortable length of time.> …Wow, you’ve never worked in retail, huh? <A loud thud can be heard from the side of the truck, indicating that some sorta postage was hit.> «I mean, no, but I imagine it’s fairly nice in comparison to hard labor doing construction or agricultural work.» <An omnipotent force decides that this conversation has no defined point, and needs to be disrupted with a mildly traumatic moment so that interest can be reimbued.> Holy shit, I’m in the wrong lane! Let me try and make a turn here. <Boitatá forgets to make the three-point turn a three-point turn, and the rest ensues.> [,] «Oh, goddammit, you got the truck stuck in a ditch!» A three-point turn was too risky, but yes, you can call me a clown if it helps. «You know what, you’re such a clown that I can think of the depth of how clownlike you are. There are people driving buy laughing, well, they don’t really care, but they oughta be laughing.» […] «Now that I think of it, we may one day meet someone driving a similar vehicle in the same ditch, who’s as much a clown as you!»

Virgo: Pyotr Tchaikovsky. «Bluma, your little nieces and nephews are here!» Oh cool, I love meeting them; I just hope I don’t have to tell them stories again: That’s a pretty exhausting thing for me even if they all love it. «Oh, I’m sure they won’t be as needy this time as they were last time.» <Multiple hours pass through the afternoon where Bluma sits on the couch, disassociating at the little dust particles dancing on her walls. There’s no Internet where she is and neither is there a close-by hangout spot. She finds herself so desperate for entertainment to look upon old photobooks: She remembers how much of an ugly child she was. Seriously, she had like, three puffs of hair coming out of her scalp, looking like a big claw: It was awful. [,] Bluma puts up the photobook, and she decides to lay down again, thinking about all the tasty food she could be eating but is being reserved for her piranhas of nephews. She has conductive thoughts about how this distribution method should be reformed to benefit her and her nephews whenever they’re here, but it fades away because she knows her ability to change things quite well. [,] Twenty minutes pass and Bluma lays on the couch thinking about the things her nephews are interested in: She remarks that their favorite toys tend to match the colors they wear. Either that was a choice by their parents or a choice by themselves. Regardless, it didn’t do much when Bluma was hit in the leg by one of them abruptly: Not hard enough to cause minor bruising but enough to hurt.> Ugh, thank God they’re only gonna be around for two more days. <The brutality of that attack reminded Bluma of the fact that she brought a collection of graphic novels with her. Well, the truth is that she always knew they were there and brought them with the purpose of finishing them, but the dysfunction settled in and she lets the itch decay until she forgets why they were brought in the first place. The same thing happened when she had to read old literature for the summer, and it’ll unfortunately happen again for something she expressed interest in.> […] «Bluma, it’s getting late and your nephews are heading off to bed. I think it’d be nice if-» How many of them are going to bed? <Bluma’s mother hops back a bit.> «Only two.» That means I’ll only tell two-thirds of the bedtime story. […] Ah, so we’re getting ready for bedtime here? <One of her nephews shakes their head in a pattern of remarkably strict obedience, the other is half-awake and barely responds.> Alright, here’s a special one that I only tell to people I really care about. <Bluma pinches the cheek of the nephew half-asleep.> [,] I’m the gymnast who performed as Mickey Mouse, and I was the best damn Mickey Mouse there was. They needed someone acrobatic to perform in that hot costume, and I was the only one willing: I was desperate for money back then, and I was a limber enough body to perform. <A loud crash is heard from the room on the opposite end of the house, and Bluma has the instinct to know that it was the third nephew. She turns her head towards the noise and raises herself from the kneeled position.> Guess you’ll never hear the end of that story.

Sagittarius: Ludwig Van Beethoven. «The "horrible disaster in pitch darkness lit momentarily by camera flash" mood in these paintings is incredible. <The pompous gallery-viewer steps back to grasp a better taste of the wine they just drank.> Yes, that was the je-ne-sais-quoi I was looking for. <The gallery-viewer swivels their glass of wine for an emote.>» Thanks, that theme was intentional. «I must say, was there any major works that inspired such a marvelous piece, or was this entirely a product of your evergreen imagination?» I’m not familiar with a lot of artwork: I barely saw it throughout my life except what I’d see as remnants of a scalded village. «Oh dear!» Yes, I’ve lived a very hard and traumatic life, and I feel like these works best represent that in a bite-sized, visual form. «Color me impressed!» Now, it’s not as much a concern for me because I’ve vented my emotions through my art so much that they’re more material than they are chemical. So, it’s fair to say that it’s far more uncomfortable to approach my work than it is to approach me. «I wouldn’t say you’re an uncomfortable person. In fact, you’re the warmest person I’ve met so far: Better than the previous exhibitionists, that’s for sure.» I’d say I’m more real than you, for sure. «I’d be inclined to agree, and reasonably, anyone can- wait, what did you say?» <The hint of a vignette starts to appear in the corner of the viewer’s vision.> Oh, it was nothing personal, but it’s just that my sense of cutting to the feeling has been finetuned over the years, and I feel like what you’re doing is a persona. There’s nothing more to it than that, and I’m not sorry. «Um, there has to be more to your critique that that. No, I’m sorry: If you’re one to create such work as this, then you can communicate a poetic assertion of what’s wrong with me.» <Rossouw grabs her temple and pinches it.> I just told you I’m a woman of few words: I thought the paintings told you that. «You’re more lucrative than I ever thought. I just might pay you for the service I’m getting!» <Rossouw releases the pinch and shows a more noble smile. She looks over to her friend, playing the same act as her but being far more successful with it.> I’m not a prestigious artist, but I like to pretend I’m an art connoisseur that tells rich folks how to develop good taste. «Yes, you’re right: I had absolutely no refined taste in what I liked before; that was until I saw your amazing artwork. From there, I knew all that I needed to know about your style, your movement, and your followers.» I’m, uh, glad I managed to change you so radically. <Rossouw turns back to her friend, having a conversation with a normal viewer that looks pleasant and filled with firm convictions.> <Rossouw’s viewer has their vignette slowly overtake their vision, now covering a good quarter of it.> «You get to the point so quickly! You know me so well! I’m practically a new person now that I’m exposed to your work. Consider me a disciple! You are more real than I could imagine: To you, I’m nothing but a barrier to destroy.» Yeah, how much are you willing to pay me? «Oh, so confrontational! You don’t dance around anything!» <Rossouw thinks to herself.> Are they really trying to rub something in? <Suddenly, her friend winks at her, and then she snaps.> What the fuck is going on? Why is this happening? Who is this man? «Artist divine, I will tear down all works that oppose your straightforwardness!» <With their eyes now pitch-black, Rossouw’s viewer begins launching himself at other exhibits, clawing at them with their hands, attempting to desecrate them.> <Rossouw’s friend walks towards her, pats her on the shoulder and says: Don’t worry, this happens more often than you think, especially with a personality like yours.> <«Rossouw turns back.»> He didn’t pay me. Why the fuck did he promise what he didn’t deliver? […] «I created an art-piece in your honor!» <Rossouw’s viewer pans her view towards a destructive piece that looks someone like the text following this.> <«--»>

#Zodiaccupuncture #Zodipunc #Libra #Cancer #Virgo #Sagittarius

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