We’re a pretty niche fandom - and we’re lucky enough to have awesome actors (and their families!) that view our content. Many of us - myself included - have communicated with the actors and creators who have brought us Mad Max, Stone, and other films. These people value what we say, and that’s a huge honor. Like, how cool is it to hear that Richard Carter or Paul Johnstone likes your drawing, or that Hugh Keays-Byrne thinks your cosplay is on point? Or that George Miller himself is open to our headcanons? They’re paying attention! To us! Isn’t that awesome?
So when discussing these real, living people that bring us our favorite characters, let’s keep the discussion clean, civil, and tasteful. They should be able to come here and feel celebrated, not violated, insulted, or stalked. They’ve poured their lives into perfecting their craft, and they’ve worked so hard to bring us the content we love. Let’s do our best to make them feel like part of the family!
Dear George Miller,
Please read my collab-fanfic about the demolition derby competition War Boys go through to earn their titles as Drivers. ;3;
That said, I actually got to meet Wez’s (Road Warrior) actor and he was super sweet! <3 And one of the actresses who played one of the Milk Mothers from Fury Road contacted me once to gush about my Milk Mother headcanons and just…that was amazing??
It’s a shame this fandom is so quiet, but I guess the trade-off is we get to have a more intimate connection with the people responsible for creating the content we love.
“I don’t know! Not here! Your group wants to trade, we’ll trade, but I don’t need your group terrorizing the Wretched. They’ve got nothing for you, so leave them be.”
He felt cheated slightly, something in the way he stiffens and looks down as though trying to perform mental arthritic portrays his betrayal. They never belonged to each other. People didn’t belong to each other. But they were confidants, they’d spent so many nights crammed together in the barracks or in hallways in private moments. It was mostly talking that had brought them closer together, she was stubborn but he was spunky.
There were so many unspoken laws between them, mutual agreements to find each other when they wanted to and drift apart for weeks on end. It was comfortable, it was routine. He understood she was busy and kept his distance.
Now she didn’t want him around, did she? He could understand why, he was deadweight. She was sick of him.
Goose guesses he can leave, it’s an angry stormy thought. Maybe he’ll just leave and dive back into the wasteland. There were still people out there, that man she’d called Max was there. Maybe just maybe it was his Max. Maybe somewhere else there was something lush and if he drove a motorcycle long enough he’d get back to the coast. He wasn’t tethered to the citadel anymore, it was a democracy and he could come and go as he pleased. The Immortan has nothing on him anymore.
But he can’t go. Goose knows he won’t make it out there, not half-blind and all scalded. He can’t make himself tell her he’d do whatever she wanted, that though the promise of shiny rings and domestic bliss were no longer important, his loyalties were always to her. He supposes he could get down on one knee, the one that worked, and say something. But he couldn’t make himself. Commitment was difficult from a man who’d been scorched by everyone he reached out to.
Still, he’s too sweet to say something biting and he’s too nullified to to consider every little connotation and calculate a good response.
Instead, he exhales the breath he’d been holding in and rubs at his blind eye.
❝Don’t give me space. Say what you want me to do and I’ll do it.❞ it’s really a nonresponse, but somewhere in there in the little boy who could never decide if he wanted to be right or wrong or if anyone would miss him if he was dead. It’s from a place of sensitivity, not apathy. ❝You’re the boss, applesauce.❞
That took Furiosa off guard, and earned him a second look as she turned away from the door. Instinct told her she ought to leave, to simply affirm that she’d heard him and see to the needs of the Citadel, to let this conversation percolate in the back of her head. Neither of them were talented with their emotions. He made a joke out of things, while she mostly excelled at yelling, or shutting down, closing herself off from everything but physical labor.
Still, dysfunctional as they were, she’d found herself wishing he was in her bed more often. Not just to fuck, or work off tension, but…for more. The kind of more she’d almost had with Max, the kind of more that drove him out into the wastes, convinced he could never have that kind of life again. Maybe that he didn’t deserve to have it ever again.
She hadn’t expected to want so much from anyone else again. To let herself need anyone so intimately again.
Furi turned around again, and pushed open the door. “Come to my room after the fires are lit tonight. We’ll talk.”
Knots in her stomach, the Imperator left him and grabbed a War Boy to accompany her to the garages.
jobassaschild asked: "“don’t do this here.”"
