The change that enveloped the Citadel wasn’t a subtle one. It washed through the entire mass of people, both within it’s walls and below the towers, like a wave crashing through the desert. It was a rapture of the brightest light, bringing nothing but joy to the people who heard the coming of the new leader.
Imperator Furiosa killed the Imortan.
Nobody can kill the Imortan!
Except for her--she is the new righteous.
Furiosa and the wives.
They are the Sisters.
The name had an unknown origin, but nevertheless bubbled up to the surface of everyone’s mouth who looked upon any of them as they lifted themselves onto the elevator and rose up towards the Citadel. They were no longer wives, just as much as Furiosa was no longer merely an Imperator. The name suggested she still served someone higher than she.
“I am no Importan!” She had cried, standing high on the elevator as it rose higher and higher, the sight of the wives--the sisters--standing on either side of her body. “I am no god, no lord...no ruler of your lives. I hold no power for you all to live or die--I am and will always be Furiosa!” And despite the humbleness in her words, the people regaled her from there on as their leader. She had opened the doors for all.
Furiosa had proven herself far more holy than the Imortan had ever been, and had begun to rule with a kinder, logical head than the former had ever done for but a moment of his life. She was the new Imortan in all but name, as she grimaced at the title the first time she heard someone call her that.
The people changed. The hungry, desperate masses of The Wretched morphed into people with words, ideas, and even the simplest joys in their lives within weeks. The entire Citadel above their growing settlement seemed to prosper anew, like a flower that had finally the chance to bloom after being washed in the cleansing rain.
The wives have as much power as she; and the same, if not more, influence upon all within the Citadel’s thick walls, and even beyond them over the prospering settlement of shacks and shammies from the once desperate people below.
The women who were once called ‘breeders’ were no longer property, but rulers in their own right, respected counsel and advisors to Furiosa, and the idols of a brighter future for everyone else.
Nobody knew where the term ‘Wives’ had come from, when they were not married to any man in the first place. Not even had the late Imortan taken them in such a communion, as he had seen them as nothing more than breeders, creatures of soft skin to bring him a new heir that was perfect in every way. Some say they were the wives of eachother, others say they were Furiosa’s wives, and only a few dared to suggest that they had wedded themselves to Max, who had ultimately returned to the Citadel after a week or so of wandering back and forth into the wasteland.
They were the Wives, the leaders, the new order of life that few (if any) ever argued.
By the end of the first month, life had shifted into a surreal dream that none could have ever believed to see even at the ends of their lives. There was water for everyone, rationed out, but nevertheless enough so that people didn’t tear at eachother for mere droplets of liquid.
Food was just as plentiful, and growing in even more varieties than had been before. Some of the warboys had even taking to helping in the growing gardens, which was amusing in itself to see a group of pups running around with baskets in their arms, be they empty or filled with fresh greens.
Nothing changed for the others, those who worked on the rigs and the chasers in the towers. They continued life as they always had, fixing, working, fighting, puffing out their chests in a constant struggle to show up their brothers in both a physical and mental superiority.
But they weren’t doing it for the praise of a fake god any longer in the cult of the holy V8--they were simply doing it for themselves. To prove they had their own worth, and it didn’t hinge only on a meaningful death. They were treated like people instead of worthless organic weapons, given meaning to live instead of die.
Furiosa was the catalyst of many things. The warboys, their lives and beliefs, were one of the things she seemed to influence the most.
They looked up to her as a leader, a teacher, a mentor in ways that Joe had never the ability to carry. It was because, unlike the prior leader, she had in some sense grown up with them. The boys had a respect for her that was like that of a brother-in-arms. She had fought with them, trained with them, and on plenty of occasions lived and ate with them. She was a woman they had seen since young years, and now she was their leader. They held no higher respect and adoration for anyone anymore than they did for Furiosa.
Life in the Citadel finally seemed as close to happy as it ever might. But it was still hard to get used to, trying to change an entire culture from one of war and death to one of survival and peace.
Slit was one of the boys who saw no difference in his life when the sun was high in the sky. He still worked on his vehicle, still bluffed in his strength against others, and was still covered in filth and grime at the end of the day.
Nux was being looked after by one of the new Organic Mechanics, so the brunt of repair and such of their car had been shifted solely onto him. No warboy dare touch the ride of another. It was a disrespect to the driver and lancer both if someone attempted such a thing, so Slit knew that he was the only one who’d get the car--which was no better than scraps of metal and an engine after the last run through the wasteland for supplies--back into working order.
After a full 8 hours and a whole army of vicious, half-coherent colorful words of hate later, and the young warboy had barely made any recognizable progress on his rig. About the most he was able to accomplish was buffing out some of the cracking rust around most of the frame--and that was a lot of appearance shit. It made it a little easier to get the back lancer’s seat mounted again, and maybe minutely helped the steering, but in the end Slit felt like he had wasted most of his efforts.
He left the tower feeling useless--Nux was always the better mechanic than him. He knew the engine better, memorized almost every little piece and how they fit together. Slit wasn’t a rev-head, his specialty lay instead in using a car as a tool, keeping his aim sharp and straight with a variety of weapons while he sat atop the back. That was simply his lot in life, what he’d trained to do since he was a little warpup--and it was also why a lancer was utterly useless when their driver was an idiot and managed to get his arm broken on a trip over to Gas Town.
Damn fucking Nux.
Most of the other warboys were gone by the time Slit decided to call it a night, staring at the vehicle for a moment to take in what little he’d done in all--but at least it looked a little more shiny. Better than nothing at all.
He packed away his tools into his personal trunk off in the corner of his area, making sure to lock it before leaving. He was still grumbling in obvious distaste for the lack of progress even after he left the tower, not a man to enjoy not finishing a task he put so much of his precious time and attention into. The anger came from himself of course, since there were fewer consequences in the new order of the Citadel than there used to be--Furiousa didn’t seem to think ailing warboys were failures in her eyes. But it was hard for Slit to see himself as anything other when he was a lancer without his driver. Nux wouldn’t even be out of the Organic’s sight for a week or two, and forbidden to drive for longer than that.
At least he was alive.
Noise came to Slit’s ears as he crossed the bridge into the adjoined, secondary tower. It wasn’t the noise of fighting and rage, but instead the cheerful sound of laughter. It still made him flinch, made him look on in disbelief whenever he saw people with smiles on their faces. Some were former Wretched, others were warboys themselves, no longer slaves to their own V8 engines, but doing things that even the most crazed could barely have dreamed. Clothed, and narry a speck of white powder they were so used to adorning themselves with. Some even managed to start growing their hair out in a scruffy little mane.
This was dinnertime for all of them; or at least the ones that wanted to partake in something so inherently foreign to what they had grown up with for as long as many could remember. It was something that the Sisters had put into place, seeing that they had enough food to spare for everyone. That alone was a foreign subject, even to those who weren’t rev-heads, lancers, or servants to the once Immortan Joe. Food was given only to those who deserved it, to those who worked for it--the idea that such a lifeblood item could be handed out on mere generocity alone was….unthinkable.
And yet the Sisters did.
Slit found himself in one of the largest rooms in the main tower, on the lowest level where the entrance opened up into the new haven of the Citadel.
Before, it had held much of the rigs, the weapons; all the warpower that any man could want to hold what was his. And now, it was the hall of feasts. Every week, food rations were handed out to all who desired them. They were meager rations of cheese and bread--sometimes even meat--but the gesture in itself was so inspiring and pure that one couldn’t help find hope in seeing people willingly hand out food at all.
Slit wasn’t a man who liked to concern himself in such emotional matters, especially when he had grown up a boy of anger, rage, and selfishness. He grew up in a culture that only took, and saw power in the taking. Weakness meant death. But when he took a moment to stand in the grand hall, looking at all the warboys, the once Wretched, and all others who had come for sanctuary in the middle of hell--he saw what some might call hope. Maybe even happiness.
He fell in one of the lines with some others, choosing to stand in silence than partake in the various conversations around him. It wasn’t that he was trying to be standoffish (maybe a little bit, honestly). Slit just felt….awkward. He was used to threats of force, intimidation--hell, he was used to fighting for every single scrap of food that ever trickled down to the level of a mere warboy that was more than just rats and insects.
Socializing without tumbling into a fight wasn’t exactly one of Slit’s strengths in life.
He carried on in that mute fashion for a while, merely shuffling forward as the line continued, his eyes cast down to the ground until they finally came close enough to see the people handing out the rations in small cloth bags. It wasn’t enough to get a person entirely through a week on the rations alone, but it helped ease much of the agony for those who had no other way of getting it.
Slit didn’t care so much for the food as he did about one of the people helping give it out. Among the warboys and ex-servants, she seemed like the essence of a dream. Her appearance seemed to mirror the opposite of everything that the warboy had grown up understanding in life. Where he’d known dirt and filth, she was soft and clean. Her skin was smooth, and as pure as the white cotton wrapped around her hips and chest. Slit couldn’t ever push the thought out of his head of how much he wanted to touch her shoulder, if only to feel for himself if such smoothness was even possible on a person without the wasteland scarring them up.
Her name was September, the beautiful.
She had arrived at the Citadel shortly after Furiosa took to power, coming in on a new wave of people into the Citadel with much to offer--it was how they managed to start raising actual animals. Slit didn’t know the politics of it, if there were any to be had, in how she came to the same level as the original wives. However, he knew that if it was by beauty alone--then surely there was no better to outshine her. He had, despite all efforts against it to stay to himself, become infatuated with her.
He knew it wasn’t the same infatuation he once had the dead Immortan. Though he enjoyed to see her smile, Slit felt no shame in admitting to himself that he felt selfish. He wanted that smile all to himself--her happiness only for him, coming from his kindness or attention.
When Slit came to the front of the line, he made a beeline so that he could stand in front of the goddess. He looked a little stiff, but that came only as a side-effect from never having much interaction with a woman before. He had grown up being taught they were breeders, but he had learned they were so much more graceful than that. The mere idea of making one of the sisters round with a child came as a clear, heated fantasy to most of the warboys--and Slit wasn’t excluded from the bunch.
“Hello,” The sister said, eyes gently glancing towards Slit as she put together a small bag of rations, bits of meat and cheese. “It looks like a little warboy like you has been up to something pretty hard today. Fixing up your rig?”
“Y-Yeah,” Slit said, his voice feeling in pieces as he tried to speak.
She narrowed her eyes at him for barely a moment, but it was long enough that Slit’s heart stopped, frozen as he could only fear what she might be thinking about him. Did he say something wrong? Did he not give her the proper respect? Slit began to berate himself for such a stupidity he thought only a young pup might make.
“Where is your driver?”
“You mean N-Nux?” Slit found himself in awe that the sister knew enough to recognize that he was a Lancer, and more than that, he was Nux’s Lancer and friend. There were thousands of warboys and even more warpups, so for September to know them by name or face was amazing enough that Slit silently reveled at her even harder. “He’s….he injured his arm in a run to Gas Town and is just...recovering.”
“Oh,” She said, though she merely sounded as though her curiosity had been sated, not disappointed as Slit had worried. He bristled over the thought of the sister having been more excited to see his young partner than himself. Call him cruel or mean, but Slit knew very well that his stupid possessiveness was without merit to the sweet sister’s attention.
But her smile never faded, and instead lifted up the young man’s heart when she tilted her head just right and her soft hair fell over one of her shoulders. It made him shiver. It looked so soft, so inviting, he often found himself imagining what it might be like to run his fingers through those beautiful locks.
Slit was so wrapped up in his own fantastical thoughts, he barely noticed that the goddess of a woman was handing his share of rations. Her voice of worry was what broke him from the trance.
“Slit?” She asked. The sound of his name, his actual name on her lips, left the warboy frozen to the floor and wordlessly taking the rations. “Are you alright or have the rig fumes gone to your head?”
The warboy shook his head, completely lost for words at that point. Well. Mostly lost for words, at least the smart kind.
“You’re just beautiful, sister,” The boy blurted out in a blunted, hazardous attempt at communicating his thoughts and feelings. It was too late to regret it, too late to take it back. The wife blinked at him in what looked like shock. Slit prayed that she didn’t feel annoyance or disgust that someone as low as he would harbor feelings for her. “I wish for more than I would be allowed with you.”
“Oh?” She sounded--and looked--more interested than Slit would have otherwise assumed. “What kind of things would a sweet warboy like you even wish for?”
Slit fought with his own tongue for an answer. The sweet September was asking HIM what he often thought of her? What his deepest secrets were? Of course, the warboy was aflush with heat in his belly and face at the attention, but he was downright terrified of saying such things out in the open. She was looking at him, as if she almost expected to get something from him, but all Slit could do was make noises that didn’t at all sound like words.
She seemed to sense his distress, and ushered him gently behind the table of food and rations.
“It’s alright,” She cooed to him, offering a smile so beautiful it both calmed his heart and sent it rumbling like a V8 engine. The beautiful September looked behind slit for but a moment, speaking to someone behind him. “Alzair, Could you watch this section for me too?” She barely got a response before taking hold of Slits hand and leading him elsewhere.
Deep, deep into the caverns of the upper sanctuary did she lead him, farther than Slit himself had ever been too. Soon they were beyond the reaches that most warboys dared to go, into the private area that the sweet sisters relaxed and watched over their practical kingdom flourish.
The Wife September brought Slit to the gardens. Few warboys ever came there, and the ones that did were only helpers during the season of harvest, when the foods were ripe and succulent. Slit had often wondered at it’s beginning if the sisters would keep the fruit for themselves, so that they may be nourished. He still felt awed and honored knowing that all of the food they grew in the gardens was food they shared to all of them in whatever way they could.
Suffice to say, when Sep stopped in the gardens, Slit was confused. He didn’t understand why she had brought him there, but felt too fearful to ask. She, ever so perfect and knowing, seemed to feel his confusion.
“I wish for you to bed me,” She said abruptly, both answering all of Slit’s questions and simultaneously creating even more. She kept a hold on his hand, and her fingers felt softer than anything Slit had ever felt before. Her voice was an angel, her smile like gold.
“What?” Slit asked, his voice and mind dumb. “Bed...you?”
“Yes,” She encouraged, pulling his hand--and by extension him--closer. They were close enough that Slit could see the details in her eyes. The flecks of gold that hid within her honey-gold orbs, a betrayal to the celestial being she must have been to look so beautiful. “I’ve wanted you to bed me for some time, Slit. You are allowed whatever you like with me.”
Her words were like miracles upon Slit’s ears. He could hardly believe what he was hearing, but he didn’t at all fight the growing, heated need to take what she offered him. It was an opportunity he knew he’d never get again. Slit wasn’t a warboy who felt shame, self-consciousness, or hesitation. The traits were only out of absolute respect for the sisters--they were the only ones who would bring such things out of a normally stubborn and hot-headed warboy.
When he finally got confirmation--no, a request--that his filthy feelings for such a pure woman were mutual, he couldn’t contain his need and desire anymore. Slit couldn’t stop the hurdling feelings of possession that overtook him, forcing him forward so that he stole the sisterr’s soft lips against his own.
He was taller than her by just a bit, a couple inches that was more than enough to make her feel sweet and small against him. His hips found her hands warily, as the warboy drove on only stories and rumors for how a woman desired touch and attention. Companionship with the other warboys were rough. They were like animals, fighting for pleasure and heat on nights when it was cold enough to see one’s breath. They could take pain, violence, it had been their entire way of life.
September was different. She was soft and curved where the other warboys were jutting and sharp. She was warm, small, and seemed to melt into his attentions. She sought no dominance like Slit had been used to fighting against with his brothers, and it excited him to know that she not only had no desire to dominate, but she yearned for him to do so. She wanted his power, his need. Her moans were so sweet, and her hands did little more than daintily press against his bare chest.
Slit pressed harder against her, like an animal let out of its cage. “My mother,” he said softly, voice little more than a rumble against her lips. “Beautiful Mother September.” Mother, sister, wife, goddess. They all swirled around Slit’s mind as he tasted her supple lips, words of admiration and fondness and desire. He wanted to claim her in ways a warboy should never feel entitled to, her mate and lover both.
“You want me?” She goaded gently, waiting until the two of them parted to speak. Their lips hovered inches apart, eyes staring deep into the other’s. The heat in Slit’s heart and belly wasn’t something he could merely ignore anymore. He nodded to her question, hips pressing forward so she could feel the shape of his knee against the space between her soft thighs. The sister let out a gasp, pleasured and soft. “Am I yours? Do you want to claim me, warboy?”
She must have known what effect she had on Slit. His heart raced at the challenge like a rig would just before bursting from the gates.
“Yes.” His answer was a growl, a snarl, a declaration of want and need to her question that she couldn’t at all hold against him--she was the one who had asked it. “Mine. All mine, September, I want you all for myself.” He rutted against her like he was in heat, cock pressing between her thighs. What did a woman look like bare? Slit knew only stories and verbal descriptions of their softness, and he fantasized so often on what the sweet sister September might look like bare and exposed to him.
Her whimper was enough, Slit couldn’t take the thought anymore. “Sister,” he whispered, barely enough restraint to speak as his fingers neared the edges of her simple wrappings, keeping her body hidden from his needy gaze. “May I?”
“Yes,” She all but hissed. “Please, Slit--bed me, I need you.”
The words were the only thing that echoed somewhere in the heat of Slit’s mind and body as he all but ripped the wrappings from her body, leaving the soft white cloth in pieces at their feet. Oh god. She was so soft.
Slit amazed himself at his ability to pull back, just a little bit, to gaze up and down at the naked body of September the Beautiful. She was soft in places that warboys were firm, voluptuous in others that he was flat. Everything about her, from her chest to her hips, her face, arms, legs--all of it excited Slit. He wanted to kiss her all over, taste her soft skin until she shivered and cried with pleasure.
He wanted to worship her.
Slit returned to his fervent, hungry kisses of the woman’s mouth as his hands pressed against the swellings of her chest. He knew only vaguely what they were, but had never seen them so large and round before on anyone but the milk mothers. On September, they were perfect. He groped them needily, wondering if they too were big enough to yield milk, but they didn’t feel like they were with the touch of his insistent hands, and Slit couldn’t bare pull his lips away from her skin long enough to check anyway.
He moved down her body as the two of them slowly moved to lay down on the grass of the garden. It was a good idea--Slit wanted all the time and space to worship the goddess of a woman properly.
“Slit…” She moaned, needily reaching for his face. Slit gave it to her, feeling her palms pressing on either of his cheeks. He melted against her touch, even if his twitching cock wanted nothing more than heat and pleasure more. “I want to see you as well.”
See him…? Slit didn’t understand at first, staring at her stupidly. But then he understood. He striped himself with a fury and gusto that almost left his head dizzy, since it seemed that all of the blood had pooled elsewhere in his body.
The sweet sister coaxed him against her, legs parted and wrapped around his waist.
“Claim me,” she cooed, face red and body warm as Slit found himself flush against her. His chest, his hands, his cock--he could feel every inch of her against every inch of him. “Mate me. Make me yours, warboy, your mate.” Slit could have sobbed in pleasure and happiness that came from her words alone, but instead he snarled in white-hot need when he only realized what pleasures her body could give him too. Between her legs was a softness, a mound of heat and wet that he had only scarcely heard about in stories from the older warboys, the ones who had the miracle of laying with a woman once before in their lives.
It was a flower of heat between her soft, milky thighs. When he reached a hand down and spread apart her lips, it blossomed in a beautiful shade of wet pink--and her moan was enough to tell Slit he was doing something good.
“You are mine,” he growled lowly, watching as his instinct and memory of the stories helped guide the head of his cock to the entrance of her sex. “My goddess, my wife, my September.” He pressed inside of her with one sharp, hard thrust, unsure if she needed a similar sort of slowness that some of his brother’s did.
She certainly didn’t. She let out a pleasured cry when Slit thrust inside of her. Slit’s mind went haywire in pleasure himself, and all he could do after figuring out she was okay was continue thrusting, harder and harder. He had laid with one of his brother’s before, but her heat was unlike anything he had felt before. It was so wet and soft, gripping his cock like what he had equated her sex to be like before--a flower. It felt so right, exactly as his instincts had wanted of him.
He was claiming her the way he’d fantasized over.
“Mineminemine,” Was all he could chant in a low growl, thrusting over and over again so that her entire body bounced from the motion. “All mine, my mate, so soft and perfect oh god.”
She mewled with need and grabbed him, holding Slit close against her so that their lips crashed together again. He could feel her moans with every thrust, feel her shaking and shivering that propelled him closer and closer to the edge of his pleasure. But it was her words that ended him completely.
“Fill me with pups,” September pleaded, her voice thick with need against his lips. “Fill me up Slit, I want to have your pups, please!”
Something about it--or rather everything about it--completely broke him. Slit felt his body burst with heat and need, and he could only barely push himself harder inside of her to sate the growing fire in his belly. Deeper, have to be deeper, his instincts practically commanded it.
The warboy spilled deep inside the sister with a cry of pleasure, his hips still moving until she came around him as well. Her body milked Slit up, wave after wave of tightness gripping the entirety of his cock, drinking up all of the sticky white liquid that he had to give to her, filling up her belly with what might lead to pups inside of her and god, the notion left him dreamy and warm. She might grow laden with his pups.
The euphoria of their joined pleasure was more than Slit had ever experienced. As it all began to die down, still spilling inside of her eager body, the warboy leaned down and peppered her face with kisses.
“Thank you,” He mumbled. “Thank you, sweet sister, thank you.” He kissed her cheeks, her mouth, her neck. It was all Slit could do but worship her all over to thank her for the amount of ungodly pleasure he had ever felt. September smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. She didn’t release his hips with her legs, keeping the two of them close and joined as they lay in the grass together.
“Slit….” She murmured, gaining the warboy’s attention away from his worship. His eyes fell on her curiously, and his heart stopped when one of her palms fell softly to his cheek. “My warboy.” It was all he needed to feel that crashing, hot emotion in his chest. He never learned how to express fondness or emotion in his life. Everything that had been precious to him were hard, harsh machines or harsher brothers who equally didn’t understand how to express a sense of love.
But in her eyes and in her touch, Slit had found it.
And god, did he love her.