My life fades. The vision dims. All that remains are memories. I remember a time of chaos… ruined dreams… this wasted land. But most of all, I remember The Road Warrior. The man we called “Max.”

indie, semi selective Max Rockatansky blog

(shoutout to havokreign for the graphics because I can’t photoshop at all)

She took the canteen back and observed him closely for a few moments. The driver was no good if her navigator was injured, but they simply couldn’t afford to stop and undo the damage. If things got worse she supposed she could lend him some of her blood, as he had done for her once. They had the necessary parts to turn her into a Blood Bag, but driving and bleeding at the same time could be tricky.

“We’ll get you back to the Citadel in time, I promise, but you cannot overexert yourself, or you will become incapacitated further.”

He already knew that, she was sure, but speaking it out loud gave her some sense of reassurance. He was going to be okay. She would not have to watch her companion bleed out in the cab of her truck.

She threw the truck into gear and began to drive back to the Citadel, moving as fast as she dared to. Nightfall was approaching fast, and this part of the desert became even more dangerous at night. It became cold, incredibly cold in contrast to the day, and a few bandits would prey on those unprepared to deal with the extreme temperatures.

He winces a little as the truck starts, pushing them off towards the horizon that was now slowly beginning to bruise with the fall of night-time, the jolting and sudden movement sending flashes of shooting pain through his side, up his spine; it almost makes his teeth rattle. He chews the inside of his cheek to avoid making any involuntary noises and chooses to focus on the wing-mirror by his door, hoping that if he can hone in on something external, anything, even the uniformity of the desert rolling behind them, he can blot out the pain, and worse, the stress of worrying that he might slow them down, or get them killed. 

His left hand is clammy, gripped tightly around the handgun, while his right struggles to keep his wound compressed, beginning to shake and quiver. Each time he feels it slip, he regroups, pushes the cloth back against the wound, not daring to pull it away and see if the bleeding has stopped. There will be time for that later, but not now. He grits his teeth, leans his head against the frame of the Rig’s window, open now so that he can feel the chill of the night on his face. The cab is hot, stuffy - beads of sweat drip from his hairline, down his temple. He takes long, deep breaths, trying to reinvigorate his body with cold air alone. 

He looks over at Furiosa, eyes focused on the road, seemingly determined on nothing more than getting them home safely. He admits then to himself that he finds some comfort in her being there - not to say that he hadn’t been in situations like this before, because he had, and almost certainly would do again. His body, were you to look at it now, is hardly the one he was born with anymore. He wonders when he’ll become more scar tissue than skin. Wonders whether it’s already happened. No, this wasn’t the first time, but with someone there, it became a lot less easy to just give up. That’s not to suggest that he would - only that it was a possibility. With Furiosa behind the wheel? No. She wouldn’t, so how could he?

He tries to laugh - it comes out more like a ragged cough. “Would you consider pulling the trigger to be ‘overexertion?’”

The Art of Mad Max: Fury Road

Lathouris also says, “It’s about a man running away from his better self, and his better self catches up to him. It’s about a man that is ‘apart from’ at the beginning; he becomes a part of at the end. […] For the character of Max we had a little slogan […] which said, ‘Engage to heal,’ which means, as you become engaged, healing can happen, emotionally and spiritually.” 

(via endlessimpossibility)

Try to seduce my Muse.

Then they will respond and rate you:

Never been less turned on | Ugh no | I’d give you a try | Yes, yes, YES | I’M READY NOW DAMMIT

hey tiny but growing mad max rp fandom!! i have a small request for you guys: could you all tag your threads that have anything to do with lack of consent or dubious consent?? while the movie centers around joe having trapped the wives we don’t actually see him treat them badly or abuse of his power over them, and it’s a rather sensitive topic for a lot of people.

this applies to everyone, though, not just joe and the wives. tagging nsfw isn’t enough if the consent isn’t clear, so if you could tag dubcon cw or noncon cw or any variations thereof (the important thing being to write nothing before the trigger itself for blacklists to catch it) i’d really super appreciate it thank u

She liked the quiet guy. He was cute, cuter than most she’d seen around these parts. Sometimes she wonders where all  the hunks left and went, but now she don’t gotta worry anymore. She’s got this little sucker to take her wherever. And he was cool, not like slick shades and a Mercedes cool, but cool nonetheless. 

And she’s babbling of course. She always did that. But he didn’t  seem to mind. Actually, he seemed quite alright with it. And she’s  fumbling with her hands as she wait for him to speak, subconsciously checking to make sure she has all her weapons intact. There’s a gun at her hip, shoulder, and a blade around her boot. If this man was gonna try anything on her, she’d be prepared. More than prepared.

And it wasn’t like she wasn’t a fighter. Hell, she was. She’d bite  and slap like she were on a Sunday morning cartoon show, and she’d put a sharp blade into his skull if he had an wondering ideas. 

At his question, she perks up, her grin growing even wider than before.  “ No where, really! I’m kinda a drifter, y’see. A lone coyote. Never really had a place to call home. “ 

Brilliant. So neither of them had any real place to go. He thinks now, for a minute, about what he's left behind - water tumbling down from monoliths of stone, a new life. Hope. Safety. But that's the point - he left it behind, and why? Because he doesn't think he deserves it? Because he doesn't think he's capable of operating within that sort of society? Because he's too dangerous? He stops thinking, then, because the swirl of different conflicting reasons is becoming too much, especially mixed in with the voice coming from the passenger seat. Not to mention, there's that last reason, creeping in from the edges, one that he constantly thinks of, one that he prays isn't true.

He didn't stay because that isn't the life he wants. He doesn't want to believe that out here among the mad he learned to enjoy being one of them.

The road is straight, sun beginning to dip below the horizon. Nights here were dangerous, but he hadn't seen anyone within a hundred miles. Doesn't mean they were safe, but it did mean he wasn't paying as much attention to his wing mirrors. He takes a minute to actually look at his new passenger - pale, painted face. She reminds him a little bit of a boy he once knew. It gives him a little comfort. With her here, it helps him remember him as he wants to - brave, smiling. Not broken.

He raises an eyebrow, turning his eyes back towards the road. "Don't really know what passes for home out here anyway."

It was just her luck that she saw him first. She came up from beside him and pressed the knife against his neck. “Who are you?”

It doesn't take much to spook him, when he's on his own. Loud noises, sudden movements. Cold steel pressed against his neck? That's enough to snap him in seconds, but his movements aren't smart; it's nothing but primal instinct, rage and panic, his breathing heavy and ragged. His hand snaps up to grip the owner of the blade, filthy nails digging into her wrist. He could probably overpower her, if he thought about it. He's not thinking. Not yet. He feels the metal biting in, tries to focus on that, and through it, formulate a plan. He digs his heels into the sand, not seeing his assailant. Slowly, he forces the animal that's screaming inside his chest to form words. "Nobody. You?"

Okay, but, im pretty sure Toast never called Max dad. All the other wives just take to it, starts off as a joke but then they’re pretty serious about it. This is the guy that helped Furiosa help them escape. Helped make sute they survived. Fought for them.

But Toast never called Max dad. He was always dude or Max. But then one day they’re doing something, and he grunts and shes just like: “Okay, use your words, dad.”

And Max is just like.

@ my mutuals im in love with u all

She squeaks like a mad mouse and  hops into the seat of the car. She’s bouncing now, like a coked up rabbit, and she looks up at him with wide blue orbs as she fumbles to find a seat belt. Safety first.

“ Gee, thanks, Bud. I really appreciate it! Ya wouldn’t believe how many suckers passed me. I mean, a cutie like me in a place like this? How silly can ya be? “

She’s smiling up at him now with a wide grin, and she can’t seem to find a seat belt so she stops searching.  Whatever.

She seems a little weird, but he's lived a long time, and he's met weirder. Just a kid, really. Maybe that's why he stopped - there's light in her eyes, and it's clear to anybody. What's got that light switched on, he's not sure. Hope? Maybe she's just as mad as anybody out here, but the light's on. Sometimes that's enough.

He's kicking the machine into gear, and she's talking, and he catches some of what she says, and he thinks:

Maybe you're lucky they didn't stop.

Things haven't changed that much yet.

The car probably did have seatbelts at some point. Back when that mattered - when the most you had to worry about when you got in a car was wrapping the front end around a lamppost, or getting rear-ended by some asshole.

Simpler times.

Dust spirals up behind the vehicle as it roars off into the desert, and suddenly he realizes, he has no idea where he's going. He didn't before, and he doesn't now, except there's some kid fidgeting in his passenger seat. Reflexes kick in and he's remembering where he's hidden each gun in the car (door compartment, under the seat, behind the headrest of my seat, under the glovebox...), because even now, you never know. The girl's looking at him expectantly, like he needs to say something.

"Where you headed?"