Drabbletag 7 (Mad Max: Fury Road, The Dag/Furiosa - teeth)
Title: Guzzoline and Flowers
Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road
Pairing: The Dag/Furiosa
Rating: R
Prompt: Drabbletag6, Mad Max: Fury Road, The Dag/Furiosa - teeth
Word count: 250
Summary: Furiosa and the Dag understand each other well.
Note: mild violence
When Furiosa first saw the Dag, bound and bruised, the War Boy that caught her was rubbing at the torn skin where half his earlobe had been.
"Careful," he'd said, grinning. "This one bites."
She remembers how the Dag spat blood at his feet, his or hers, and the knife-edge of respect slicing through her own indifference.
The Dag has changed since then, but something of that tangle-haired desert girl remains - quick, cagey, never tamed. She braids beads and flowers in her hair, inks peace on her skin, and it's easy for Furiosa to imagine blood between her teeth. But she's no different, she supposes, the Old Citadel's white clay and guzzoline worked into her bones. Both of them understand violence.
Both of them understand more.
The Dag comes to her door in the evenings when the air is cool, and steps inside uninvited, unafraid. She lets Furiosa undo those braids, white hair slipping through her fingers like water, and follow the ink on her hands with lips and tongue. She nips at Furiosa's shoulders when they fall into bed, the line of her throat and the shell of her ears. It's playful, no true pain, and it's a reminder: you don't own me. If you try, I'll make you bleed. Furiosa cradles the Dag's bony hips with rough hands as she moves, hot against Furiosa's thigh, and she remembers guzzoline and flowers, feeling the edge of teeth against skin.
I don't own you, she thinks. I won't try.
Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road
Pairing: The Dag/Furiosa
Rating: R
Prompt: Drabbletag6, Mad Max: Fury Road, The Dag/Furiosa - teeth
Word count: 250
Summary: Furiosa and the Dag understand each other well.
Note: mild violence
When Furiosa first saw the Dag, bound and bruised, the War Boy that caught her was rubbing at the torn skin where half his earlobe had been.
"Careful," he'd said, grinning. "This one bites."
She remembers how the Dag spat blood at his feet, his or hers, and the knife-edge of respect slicing through her own indifference.
The Dag has changed since then, but something of that tangle-haired desert girl remains - quick, cagey, never tamed. She braids beads and flowers in her hair, inks peace on her skin, and it's easy for Furiosa to imagine blood between her teeth. But she's no different, she supposes, the Old Citadel's white clay and guzzoline worked into her bones. Both of them understand violence.
Both of them understand more.
The Dag comes to her door in the evenings when the air is cool, and steps inside uninvited, unafraid. She lets Furiosa undo those braids, white hair slipping through her fingers like water, and follow the ink on her hands with lips and tongue. She nips at Furiosa's shoulders when they fall into bed, the line of her throat and the shell of her ears. It's playful, no true pain, and it's a reminder: you don't own me. If you try, I'll make you bleed. Furiosa cradles the Dag's bony hips with rough hands as she moves, hot against Furiosa's thigh, and she remembers guzzoline and flowers, feeling the edge of teeth against skin.
I don't own you, she thinks. I won't try.