
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4106176.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Mad_Max_Series_(Movies), Mad_Max:_Fury_Road
  Relationship:
      Nux/OMC
  Character:
      Nux, Immortan_Joe, The_Organic_Mechanic
  Additional Tags:
      War_Boys, Character/Cultural_Study, Homosocial_Society, warrior_culture,
      Rites_of_Passage, Patriarchy_So_Thick_You_Could_Cut_It_With_a_Knife,
      Mouth_Sewn_Shut, Scarification, Blood_Kink, Pain-Induced_Euphoria, No
      Negotiation_Whatsoever, Non-Penetrative_Sex, Frotting, Sacrilege
  Series:
      Part 2 of Growing_Up_to_War
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-09 Words: 1339
****** War Boys Grown ******
by Spitshine
Summary
     The Organic Mechanic cuts their mouths when it's time, when they
     start to muscle, but they suture and staple each other closed after.
     They all have bloody hands when they get their names, mouths half
     stitched.
Notes
     It's marked "Underage" because I assume War Boys all die before
     they're eighteen, but they're adults in the eyes of their own
     society... or at least as grown as they're ever gonna get.
See the end of the work for more notes
They've all seen it before, as pups, crowding unbidden into the shadowy corners
of the long room, eyes wide and only half-comprehending as they watched their
old mates begin their halflives.
Still, it's something new and unbelievable when it's happening to them.
The Organic Mechanic cuts their mouths when it's time, when they start to
muscle, but they suture and staple each other closed after. They all have
bloody hands when they get their names, mouths half stitched. They'll be silent
til the stitches fall out of their own accord, and by then they'll know how to
suit their names.
That's what they're told, anyway, Immortan Joe's booming voice falling down on
them from way up high, echoing through ears already buzzing with blood loss.
It's not the words they hear, anyway, it's the tone and the deep promise of
Valhalla. Shed your stitches, learn your name, be a War Boy. Be awaited.
Awaited.
They kneel in two frayed rows in the dust and grime of the Mechanic's workshop,
knee to knee with their mates, waiting with eyes locked as the Mechanic moves
down, one pair at a time. They only touch each other. They only see each other,
though they hear the rough noise of the Mechanic's blade slashing through
flesh, the harsh grunts and yells of the freshly made War Boys, the proud
screech of Immortan Joe as he bestows each new Boy with a name.
His whole attention is focused on the face across from him, hot between his
hands as he stitches the chapped lips shut tight, the sweaty fingers grabbing
his jaw, both needles plunging in time, the clod of the Mechanic's heavy tread
as he steps from one pair to the next, the voice, the voice of Immortan Joe,
the voice remaking them all. He's higher than he's even been, so focused he
barely feels the slice through his cheeks until he hears the name, his name,
crashing through the din.
“Nux!”
Nux, he thinks, me, and grins, hot blood cascading down his throat. His mate
brings the staple gun to his blazing cheek and he hears more than feels the
thick staples clang into place, three on a side. He's never felt more complete
or more alive than he does right now, his whole vision narrowed to the eyes
across from him, huge and black in the white face.
The eyes are yanked away from him as the Organic Mechanic jerks his mate's head
back. His hands shake when he holds the staple gun to his mate's face, waiting
for the blood and the word. The slice comes first, gaping white for the
smallest second before the red wells in and an immense shout rains from the
sky.
“Tooth!”
Tooth, Nux thinks, and shakes with laughter even as the stitches pull tight and
hot across his sealed mouth. He squeezes the dirty handle again, again, again,
still racked with the delirious laughter that pours up and up and up from some
deep place he'd never even guessed at having.
He notices vaguely the stapler being plucked from his hand but he doesn't care.
The big eyes are his world again and he brings one hand up to the back of
Tooth's head and shoves their foreheads together, noses smashing and blood
smearing.
They are here. Named. War Boys. Awaited.
Together.
                                       —
Nux's vision blackens and doesn't clear til much later when the sound of the
skylights closing grates against his ears and wakes him. His podmate—Tooth, he
thinks, Tooth now—clearly hauled him down here, Nux can see the trail of blood
dotting the way to their bunk in the last of the light. War Boys have a bend in
the tunnels where they belong, a space that was given on purpose rather than in
negligence. War Boys grown get bunks that are theirs, theirs to share, driver
and lancer.
Still, Nux knows, the teams of two will be halved and joined and halved again,
but that is not now. That is not for a moon or two yet, depending on the tides
of healing and skirmishes, and right now it's just him and Tooth. Him and Tooth
and their new bunk in the soft, familiar blackness of the deep underground.
His old podmate, soon to be his lancer—Tooth, he reminds himself again, firmly,
they are named, they are Boys grown, they are awaited—this is what he'd hoped
for. Their pod had been together nine fat moons, the longest he'd been with any
pup he can remember. He remembers being pinned to the dusty tunnel floors,
sweat smudging their paint, turning clay and dirt to mud, and wondering if that
meant they'd be War Boys grown soon.
It had. This is the beginning of his halflife. He tries to form his own name
with his stapled lips, lost in the wonder of having so much his, a name and a
bed and a lancer, soon a wheel too. The “nnn” he can manage, the “uuu” fills
his mouth with blood, the “kkss” a hopeless mumble. He swells with pride
anyway, briefly, before the blood runs and Tooth reaches down to smear it
across his chin.
Tooth doesn't say anything, of course, but he brings Nux's hand up to his own
mouth and they sit like that, breathing raggedly through their noses, shaking
fingers tracing the new topography of each other's faces.
Nux wishes, sudden and deep and desperate, that he could taste the blood on his
own hands, on Tooth's smooth face. He moves his hands, soft and slow, to the
back of Tooth's head and brings their mouths together. He doesn't know why. He
can't bite like this.
But it feels right, rubbing their faces together, sutured lips and stapled
cheeks and panting noses. This is the most delicate he's ever been with another
pup—Boy—anyone—the kind of thing they can't ever mention aloud, can't ever do
in the light of day. They'd never live it down. They'd be cast out into the
salt flats, left to perish without the hope of Valhalla.
Here and now, in the enveloping darkness, Nux lets his fingers trail up and
down Tooth's knobbly spine, doesn't protest when Tooth touches him just as soft
and tender. Their hands reach waistbands at the same time and somehow their
touches still don't turn harsh and unyielding. They unbutton, unbuckle, wriggle
free until their pants get caught up in their boots.
Nux, fuck, he can barely stand the thought of not having all that skin pressed
up together but he makes himself squirm down the bed, unlace and pull the heavy
steel-toed boots from Tooth's feet, his own feet, before surging back up the
narrow bunk, and now he's getting clumsy and frenzied, but he just can't bring
himself to care. Not when their pants are finally shoved free, not when he lets
Tooth turn him onto his back, not when Tooth is burying his sealed mouth in the
crook of his shoulder and smearing blood everywhere. Not when nothing has ever
felt more right than this, the hot hard lines of their cocks pressing together,
hands gripping hips and grinding them impossibly closer with every thrust.
Even now, frantic with need, there's something soft about the way they touch
each other, the way Nux spreads his legs unbidden and wraps his thighs tight
around Tooth's scrawny hips, invites the other Boy's cock between his ass
cheeks, slick with sweat and precome.
Their bodies squeeze so tight together that even their concave bellies touch,
crushing Nux's throbbing dick between their rocking torsos. He arches up into
that all-over touch, canting his hips, needing more, needing. He feels the hot
spill of spunk underneath him and is suddenly complete, inside and out, comes
hard between them with a muffled shout that strains the sutures to their
limits.
Shiny, he thinks, sweaty and sticky and sated. Chrome, and doesn't care if
Immortan Joe smites him down in his bed for his desecration of the holy words.
End Notes
     Kudos are great, concrit is better.
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