HIATUS NOTICE: I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my blogs and where I want to focus my attention. Whether or not I’m enjoying myself or just writing a muse out of a sense of obligation to my writing partners. I have a limited amount of time, working 50+ hours most weeks, and I just want to write what I feel inspired to write. That being said, I’m putting this blog on hiatus. If you’re interested i’m currently using loyalwclf as my main and writing low-activity at razcrback. I’m also going to be putting a book-based blog together soon, which I’ve never done and i’m excited about. Please forgive any dropped threads, I really enjoy writing with all of you and I hope we can write/plot together in the future wherever the wind may blow us. xoxo
“ time takes it all whether you want it to or not, TIME TAKES IT ALL. time bares it away, and in the end there is only ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇss. sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again.
The War Boys call him “lucky,” to be favored by the Imperator.
The Sisters call him her “support/partner.”
Furiosa calls him “reliable.”
Max thinks the correct term they’re looking for is “furniture.”
But all things considered, he’s been used for worse before. He doesn’t mind being of use to Furiosa.
—
I said I wanted to draw a series of doodles of Furiosa using Max as various forms of furniture mostly to lean upon…and him making bemused grumpy faces.
The Throne is especially for bonehandledknife
MY FAVOURITE trope is the
“leave all your weapons” *takes out far more weapons than expected (or logically able to carry)*
and then
“i said ALL of them”
*takes out a dozen more weapons from increasingly improbable locations*
CURRENT MUSE LIST (ALL ARE PRIVATE/SELECTIVE):
beautifulintense: clarke griffin. main. high activity.
terminalcrazy: max rockatansky. secondary. moderate activity.
loyalwclf: derek hale. S1-S3 only. low activity/highly selective.
apcthetic: zach mitchell. low activity
razcrback: ben mason. new muse. currently S1-S3. low activity.
a drabble helen did not ask for xoxo
It’s the rolling HIGH after a fight that keeps them wired well past the time the rest of the Shatterdome will have quieted down for the early morning hours. The place is always functioning on some level though ; there’s no telling what hour a kaiju will claw its way out of the Breach, and they need to be ready. Maybe it’s that livewire edge they all live on that gives them the strength to carry on when others might falter. They could all use eighteen hours of sleep and a meal that had actual BREAD AND BUTTER. ( She can’t remember the last time the scrambled eggs weren’t powdered, when the greens didn’t come out of a CAN. ) But after fighting a kaiju? They can rest easy for the night, knowing it’ll be at least a couple of months before the next attack. A couple of months to rest, to lick wounds sustained in battle. The Shatterdome is quiet outside the repair bay, and even in there the pace has shifted from rabid breakneck to steady, sustainable. THEY HAVE TIME. THEY CAN REST. THEY CAN SLEEP.
But Max and Furiosa don’t sleep. She can still feel him at the frayed edges of her mind, notices that any time his left fingers twitch she gets a ghost itch from her missing limb, that their heads swivel in time to the sudden clap of metal against metal, something aching in her bones that trembles between them. Sleeping is out of the question ; when they’re this connected the mess of their nightmares in combination make sleeping hellish. So they wander, talk sometimes, in muffled voices, rough and soft. Usually they end up leaning against the railings in front of the repair bay and watch sparks cascade down the front of her their War Rig.
They’ve since moved to sitting, backs pressed against metal grating, shoulders bumping. It helps, the physical act of having a piece of her pressed against him after a fight, when the battle still swells in their veins. It’s grounding, in a way that being surrounded by hundreds of tons of grinding metal isn’t. Fingers that no longer exist reach and stretch, and she sees his left hand moving on his other side.
“Can you scratch the back of your left hand?” She doesn’t look at him when she asks, green eyes half hooded fixed on a tear in the War Rig’s hull that she can still feel against their her ribs. He grunts, complies, and there it is, the strange sense of relief she only ever gets from shoving a sharp object between the pylons of her prosthesis or sitting down with a mirror. “Thanks.”
“Mhm.” He runs the pad of his thumb down the length of his forearm, pressing against scars, against veins that stand on end. He splays his fingers, curls them. Sometimes it feels like they’re not there anymore, but that’s only her mind, only the ghost drift. “You know Russian?”
The corner of her mouth lifts in a dry smile. “Yeah, a little. Why?”
“Think I know some now.”
She twists her head to look at him, is surprised to see a faint smile tugging at his lips too. A soft snort escapes her, eyes shutting to slits, head tipping back to rest against the grating behind them. Her mind might be moving a hundred kilometers an hour but her body aches from the battle they’d won. When he leans his head against her shoulder, she doesn’t budge. And when she presses her cheek against the top of his head, neither does he. Between her lashes, everything is a blur of blues and purples and flashes of orange and red, and the sound of metal moving reminds her of the low roll of thunder in the desert. “My step-sister says she’s gonna send us some oranges,” she murmurs, can feel the echo of her words inside of his skull, mixing with a host of dim voices that grow dimmer when she talks, dimmer the closer they get. We’re haunting each other, she thinks dispassionately, but we were already being haunted.
He grunts in response and she knows him well enough already to know he’s looking forward to it, to fresh fruit after months upon months of dry rations. Her eyes shut fully, and despite the discomfort of metal against her spine, she feels herself drift a bit into a haze of darkness. Whether it’s minutes or hours that pass she’s not sure, but when she opens her eyes again, his head is in her lap, his body half curled, his left hand resting above her kneecap.
They can sleep in turns, she decides, fingers stained with grease gently smoothing back his hair. I can watch out for his other ghosts. I can wake him when the haunting gets too bad.
furiiosa replied to your post:"If you weren't half dead, I would kick your ass."
what th e fuc kk h ??? i was just minding my own business—
a likely story.
"If you weren't half dead, I would kick your ass."
>> daredevil sentences [x] selectively accepting.
he wants to laugh. he would if just breathing wasn’t causing him so much pain. an amused snort is what he ends up getting close to, close enough she’d know that her reprimand had done little more than amuse him. throwing himself between her & danger seemed to be his full time occupation since he took this ranger assignment. he didn’t have any regrets, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. there was NO DOUBT they could win the WAR without him - he was cannon fodder for the cause, but her? she was important. everything about her screamed determination. she was skill & focus, a WEAPON. after jessie died he’d become nothing, a dull & dark blade. furiosa sharpened him, he was somehow lethal again in her hands, so there was never a choice. (me or her?) it was ALWAYS her, would always be her.
"You do not want to test me."
>> daredevil sentences [x] selectively accepting.
it was a line of truth the likes max hadn’t heard in a while, a line in the sand, drawn by a man that, by appearance alone, didn’t look like one to be CROSSED. yet, he was rooted firmly between the thin scrapings of purpose max had managed to grasp as of late & max himself. a sigh curled up his throat in an uncomfortable way, getting lodged behind his TEETH as he mulled over his options. going around wasn’t going to cut it, going back wasn’t an option. “you’re right, I don’t.” max shifts under the scrutiny of the one man blockade. “but, this is the only passable road for miles & right now i’m running LOW on time.”
"On occasion some dickery may leak out, but doesn't mean I'm wrong." xoxo
>> daredevil sentences [x] selectively accepting.
max cracks an eye open & glances over at the walking MIRAGE. of all the things his mind had conjured, this talking tin can had the best sense of humor. it had been several days since ultron (it called itself) had saved him from a human buzzard nested in the wastes. & so far he’d learned that it liked to talk & that a lot of what it had to say wasn’t very nice. especially in regards to the apparent FLAWS of humanity. a sardonic smile twitches at the corners of max’s mouth. “you’re not wrong. we DID make a mess of things. but, it’s nap time. can we save the, I told you so, for later?”
"Facts have no moral judgment. They merely state what is. Not what we think of them, not what we feel."
>> daredevil sentences [x] selectively accepting.
it was always an interesting thing. the way the world looks through the eyes of someone with... less miles on the tread of their tires. YOUTH was something colored black & white, too willing to push aside the gray the world was made up of. max remembered those days, hand guided by justice, sure & STEADY to it’s purpose. now he wandered, a man very much akin to those he used to hunt. it was funny how facts had a way of changing. “be easy if facts were good & solid like that. water’s wet, a mile is five-thousand some odd feet, ACTUALITY & REALITY being what they are. simple. but, a man with a gun pointed at your head says a mile is ten feet & water is dry as the sand? gotta whole new reality, whole new set of facts. it’s NOT about being right or wrong out here. it’s about staying alive.”