I M P E R A T O R

babeimgonnaleaveu:

Fury Road Mad Max Interceptor

1974 XB Ford Falcon Coupe

furiosa Tjones by SpicerColor

Zevran gave a long pause as he swirled the contents of his cup again, leaning far back in his chair until the first two legs lifted from the floor, leaving him balanced precariously as he glanced back to her.

“A contract, cugina,” he echoed before taking a long drink. He wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand before he continued. “A contract related to your Talon, you imply. Molto intrigante, Furiosa Bassa. Consider me titillated.”

He held up his cup to the bartender, an indication of its near emptiness, before he drained the cup in full and set it down. “I am willing to hear your proposal. But I hope you are prepared for my own in turn.”

Furiosa looked him full in the face, searchingly. It was a short list, the list of things he could possibly want of her. They were designated rivals, and in truth, her approach should have warranted a blade to her throat, with how unconscionable a move it was. 

But he was magnanious or foolish or both. At least he was willing to entertain her proposal. To what end, she couldn’t be sure. But she had to find out.

“As you know the House Bassa is famous for its particular style of brutality. You’d think they were warriors, they way they bash their way through contracts, without any of the delicate maneuverings rogues are known for. in ogni caso, you will also be familiar with the strange fact that the House Bassa is populated only by men. Rumored all to be the sons of the Grandmaster Jozef himself. I cannot confirm this, but it’s always explained that girls amongst his compradi have never been strong enough to withstand the pressures of the gauntlets. I always accepted that as true, in spite of my own successes in the guild.

“There were five girls. All Rivaini. The country of my birth. I took to them, as you can imagine. One by one, they were taken away, presumed to have died. One month ago, I discovered a hutch. Meant for animals. All five of them within, crouched in the dirt like chattel. One pregnant. So you see, time is of the essence for them. And for me. 

“I can’t do it alone. My company cannot know what I am planning.  They are loyal to the Talon. My loyalties cannot lie with what is not right. You are renown for your ingenuity and your prowess. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” 

trigger warnings apply! ( mental illness, drugs and alcohol use, self-destructive behaviours, and vomiting )

send me a word and a character/series/pairing and i will write a drabble

Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you

It is an inevitability that Max moves himself into Furiosa’s bed. He asks no permission, and she makes no protest. The girls pull knowing faces, brows raised in aporetic concern,  but it’s tacit knowledge that he belongs by her side.

The first night, Furiosa slips her mechanical arm off and hangs it up by her bedside. It’s all she removes in preparation for bed. He is similarly attired, in his shirt and pants covered in a fine, friable coating of sand and dust. Only their feet are bare. Smirking, he touches his toes to hers, and she flinches only because she expects warmth where there are five phalanges like icicles at the bridge of her foot. But he makes a habit of tucking his feet behind him, to keep them away from her when they sleep.

The next night she at least removes her cincher. He removes nothing else.

Sometimes he curls into her at night, his forehead planted against her shoulder, and she lets him stay there, no matter how uncomfortable his sweat-slicked brow becomes, no matter how hot and clammy and unpleasant, because it’s more pleasant to have him there than not.

Sometimes he curls away from her, so tightly into himself that his back looks like a great boulder. Sometimes she wants to wind an arm around his waist and pull him to her chest and feel his heart beat against her. Sometimes she does. Sometimes, when she’s sure he’s sleeping, she runs her hand down the vale of his spine and presses her fingertips into the constellation of scars obscured by his shirt. Sometimes he scoots back and jams his ass into her hip, and she laughs and curls around him like a proprietary animal, her cheek pressed to the nape of his neck, her breath warming his skin.

“Her handmaiden, cugina?” Zevran echoed with a click of his tongue. “That is scandalous, is it not?” He took a brief drink. “A poison too potent would have been easier, you see, but also too obvious. There was an event going on, as you may have heard, and thus delicacy was required. It was not the first time, or the last, that I have disappointed two women in bed.”

There was a twisting in his stomach, something he thought he had quashed and buried, at the mention of the large human. He took another quick drink to hide the reflexive tightening of his jaw, but his voice was easy as ever when it came again.

“He always did have an admirable flair for savagery,” Zevran remarked, light and airy. “A talent, truly. I myself am fond of the Nevarran smile,” he added with a demonstrative slide of a finger along his cheek. “But that is more effective on the living, no? Tell me, Furiosa Bassa, how does your Talon treat you?”

“I knew a man with a remarkable Nevarran smile,” she recalled, an almost perverse smile on her lips. “Never quite healed right. They called him Slit, as though that were any clever appellation. Never could drink properly again. And for a man who enjoyed being half in his cups by breakfast, you can imagine was a tragedy that was.” 

She finished off the last of her ale. “And your third? The girl. Does she have any preferred mutilation? I hear she prefers poisons now. Is that your influence?”

“Bassa,” Zevran echoed, short and clipped, but not unkind. “Furiosa Bassa. Like music, cugina, the way it rolls so prettily off your tongue. And doubly daring, I think, for Bassa and Arainai to share drinks and stories. What a pretty pair we make.”

He slid the drink in front of him, slims fingers playing up the side of the cup as he swirled the contents, absently checking for powder on the rim or oil reflecting in the liquid. A brief smell later, he was tipping the drink down his throat.

“I weighed the pros and cons,” he said finally. “If I accepted credit, I would also accept the scrutiny and competition that came with it. If Lupana should have friends or allies or outstanding contracts, I would have been the next head on the platter, no? And there are worse things than to have your master in your pocket, cugina. I decided that the best course of action lay in allowing him to take the credit, and allowing me to have a secret over his head. Secrets are worth more than gold, as you know.”

“Certamente,” Furiosa agreed, with that sympathetic Antivan tone that was almost like pity. “A volte, that is one’s only security. Blackmail. Isn’t that crude?”

He was artful in his speech. To be expected of one in his particular specialization. Furiosa herself had had to dig deep to affect that easy Antivan lilt, where she was always a woman of few, succinct words. But she could appreciate the facility.

“Are you checking to see if I’ve poisoned you?” she asked blankly, a hint of amusement in the crinkle of her eyes. “If it puts you at ease, I do not dabble in poisons. I prefer direct approaches.” She turned her arm to show the inside of her sleeve, where a dagger lay nestled in her gauntlet. “I don’t even carry those little smoke screen pouches.”