Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4156608.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Mad_Max_Series_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Golden_Youth/Wez
  Character:
      Golden_Youth_(Mad_Max), Wez_(Mad_Max)
  Additional Tags:
      Extremely_Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-18 Words: 3303
****** Life is a Series of Compromises. ******
by Waxwing
Summary
     Basically just the early days of Wez and Golden Youth's relationship.
     For those who don't know, Wez and Golden Youth are these_guys.
     They're probably the most memorable thing about the second Mad Max
     movie.
At night he’s kept in a box, he’s also generally kept in this box when they
move from place to place to keep him from getting damaged or running away but
they travel mostly by night so that’s neither here nor there he supposes. In
the morning he’s taken out and groomed and fed and then chained to a post in
the tent where he spends the entire day and the early evening...and then he’s
put back in the box. It’s been like this for that past three months, since his
former master sold him to a band of traveling merchants. He sometimes wonders
what sort of price he fetched but, even if they would tell him, he’s physically
incapable of asking. He doesn’t remember having ever been able to speak by he
does have faint memories of a woman teaching him how to write, he thinks she
may have been his mother.
When he’s chained to a post in his little tent during the day he’s not given
anything to do. This irks him since his old master, while not being a nice man
by any stretch of the imagination, had at least given him little chores to
occupy the time when he wasn’t using his body. Of course he was beaten savagely
if he ever got any of them even the slightest bit wrong but by now having his
teeth rattled occasionally is as much a part of life as breathing or sleeping.
It occurs to him that his lack of responsiveness to physical abuse may have
been the reason his old master got tired of him. He remembers how amusing the
man had found it when he used to cry. Now he doesn’t think he has it in him to
cry anymore.
Anyway, the boredom means that he’s actually relieved when clients are brought
in to him. His new masters (two men who he thinks are father and son) trade the
use of his body for various goods. Some clients only have a little to trade so
he only has to pleasure them with his mouth while one of his masters watches
but some have a lot to trade and get to be alone with him for an hour or more.
These encounters vary, most of the time they’re purely mechanical (he doesn’t
enjoy himself but he doesn’t suffer either), sometimes they’re absolutely
horrible and on very, very rare occasions they’re enjoyable. There’s an old
mechanic that travels with the group whose impotent but still pays at least
once a week just to spend an hour cuddling him and petting him and telling him
how pretty he is.
His new masters seem to think that because he can’t talk he must have the mind
of an animal. They often talk about him right in front of him like he’s not
there and never try to communicate with him, instead opting to lead him around
by tugging on his chains. The older one carries a wispy little switch with him
that he uses to whip him when he doesn’t move fast enough. He’s always careful,
though, not to do it hard enough to leave marks. A big part of his appeal to
customers is his skin, which his masters go to great effort to keep soft and
pale and unmarked, that’s why he so rarely gets to see the sun. They also don’t
feed him much so that he stays frail looking.
One day that’s significance only occurs to him later on he overhears his
masters talking about what an idiot Dynerous is. From what he’s gathered,
Dynerous is the leader of the caravan, he decides where they will go, when they
will go there, and how long they’ll stay. Apparently, according to his older
master, Dynerous’ woman is sick. The doctor who used to travel with the caravan
died about a month ago but Dynerous says he’s heard of a small settlement where
a doctor can likely be found and he’s eager to get his woman there as quickly
as possible. The only problem with that is that getting there quickly (meaning
in one week as opposed to one month) requires them to cut through a territory
that they usually go around. He doesn’t get to hear exactly why they usually go
around it but that night when they pull up stakes to start moving apprehension
is tangible in the air.
The next few days are hell for him. They travel both day and night so he’s
never let out of his box save when his younger master takes him out to feed him
and let him relieve himself. It’s not so uncomfortable being in the box at
night, because desert nights are cold, but during the day he feels like he’s
being roasted alive. By the third day the heat is causing him to constantly
drift in and out of consciousness. Eventually, to his surprise, his younger
master notices how haggard he’s looking (there even seems to be a hint of pity
in his eyes) and mentions it to the older one. After that he’s begrudgingly
allowed out of the box during the day but they make sure he’s securely chained
to the flatbed of their truck and keep him covered with a thin tarp to preserve
his skin. At night he’s put back into the box on the older one’s insistence
that they shouldn’t let him get used to having more freedom to move around than
he usually does. That would just make it hard on him when things went back to
normal.
From the back of the truck, looking out from underneath his tarp, he sees more
open space than he has in months. He tries not to think about how his world his
going to shrink back down once they reach the edge of the territory and instead
just focuses on enjoying the moment. The others seem worried (almost
frantically so) but if they’re not going to bother to tell him anything then
they don’t have any right to expect him to share in their concern. It has
occurred to him that anything that would kill the others would also kill him
and he’s surprised at just how little that though bothers him. It’s not that he
wants to die, it’s just that he can’t muster any genuine desire to remain
alive.
He’s lying in his box one night, thinking about how he’s heard that they’re
only two days from the border with a sinking feeling in his stomach, when
there’s what sounds like an explosion from outside. The way the truck shakes
and then rumbles to a stop tells him that it must have hit something and gotten
damaged. Usually when this happens the entire caravan stops but it doesn’t
sound like anyone else is stopping.
“Come back you cowards!” He hears his older master yell, confirming his
suspicion. He hears some clanking from the tire where he’d heard the explosion
and then hears his younger master yell something about the axle being broken,
sounding on the verge of full fledged panic. There’s some clanking and scraping
that he assumes is the sound of them trying to perform makeshift repairs on the
axle but then everything goes oddly quiet. The quiet is soon replaced by the
rumbling of multiple approaching engines, it sounds like...motorcycles? There
are no motorcycles in the caravan.
The bed of the truck bounces as if under the weight of someone jumping onto it.
He hears two gunshots after that (the old man keeps a shotgun under the seat of
the truck) then more thudding and scraping. His younger master starts to scream
something that sounds like “get off of him” but gets cut off mid sentence.
There’s a long silence and then...laughter...unfamiliar laughter.
“Think he’ll be mad that we only got one?” An unfamiliar voice asks from the
far end of the truck bed.
“Nah.” Another one says from just outside his box and he feels his heart jump.
“Still a good haul, went down easy too.”
“Yeah.” More boisterous laughter. “I’ll ride back and tell ‘em where to find it
yeah?”
“Yeah.” He hears the sound of someone sitting down on top of his box. “Don’t be
long.”
He hears one motor cycle retreat into the distance. The following silence is
agonizing but he misses it when he hears the man who stayed behind start to
move around. The truck bed groans under his weight as he stands and then
there’s the sound of him rummaging through the cargo. All he can do is wait and
listen to the footsteps move closer and closer. The rattling of the lock on his
box is too close and too loud.
All he can do is lie in the dark and hold his breath as he listens to the man
outside fumble with the lock and then start to search for the key. He hears
more rummaging around and then the soft thud of a body hitting the sand and
then heavy footsteps returning to just outside the box.When the lid opens the
full moon seems bright compared to the dense blackness of the inside of the
box.
“What we got here?” The dark figure looming over him says in an amused tone as
he’s hauled out of the box by his hair. He tries to stand up but the other man
forces him to his knees and it’s more than a little frightening that he only
requires one hand to do that. That big, rough hand remains firmly planted on
the back of his neck, keeping him from looking up, as the man examines his
general set up. Another hand takes ahold of the chain at his neck and tugs it,
noting how it’s attached to a D ring inside the box and the man makes a soft
humming noise of comprehension in his throat.
“They put ya’ in there?” The man asks, finally letting him raise his head. He
looks up but stays on his knees and nods.
“Guess you’ll be thanking me for that then.” The other man points to where the
bodies of his...former masters lie in a heap on the ground. He looks over at
them and keeps his features carefully blank, it’s not hard since the site of
their corpses doesn’t make him feel much of anything. While he’s still looking
at the bodies, the other man jumps off the other side of of the flat bed. The
other man is out of site so long that he starts to get nervous and crawls over
to the side of the flat bed that he had jumped off of.
“Did I tell you to move?” The slight edge in the other man’s voice sends him
scrambling back to where he’d been kneeling. Eventually light from the
headlight of the other man’s motorcycle floods the flatbed and he hears the
clamoring of the other man climbing back on. He keeps his eyes carefully
trained on his own hands as the other man crouches in front of him. Out of the
corner of his eyes he sees the other man set down a pair of bolt cutters and
feels a little tingling of hope in his chest.
A big hand cups the back of his skull, tilting his face up so that the other
man can examine him. With the aid of the light, he’s able to examine the other
man too. His hair is shaved into a mohawk and colored an unnatural shade of
red, his jawline is strong and his eyes are a cold, sharp shade of blue. Even
if his size weren’t being exaggerated by his bulky armor, he’d still be HUGE.
Just then he realizes that he’s making eye contact and quickly looks away. The
other man chuckles.
“How old are you kid?”
Panic flaring up in his gut at the prospect of his inability to answer being
misinterpreted as insolence, he raises his hand slowly (so that it can’t be
seen as a threatening gesture), touches his throat and shakes his head. Luckily
the other man seems to take his meaning. Again with frightening ease, the other
man reaches up and pries his mouth open to examine his teeth. Suddenly the
situation is all too familiar, he remembers undergoing a similar examination
before his now dead masters bought him. Nex those big rough hands run down his
sides, feeling along his rib cage, then they rip away the muslin loincloth that
had been his only clothing for the past few months. The other man paws at his
genitals, carefully feeling for open sores. He gives his balls a slight squeeze
(smirking at the way he jumps) and then finally withdraws his hand.
For a long time the other man just regards him thoughtfully, as though mulling
something over in his head. Then suddenly the other man’s mouth is on his, it’s
something between a kiss and a bite. Despite his surprise he manages to keep
himself from pulling away and tries to reciprocate, eager to show that he’s
willing to comply without being forced. Though he knows well enough that if the
other man WANTS to force him it won't matter how compliant he is. The other man
seems pleased by his apparent willingness and starts pawing eagerly at his
body, savoring the texture of his skin. At the approaching rumble of engines
the other man growls in irritation.
“Stay.” He says firmly as he stands to greet his comrades and at that moment
the boy finds himself grateful for the first time in his life that he cannot
speak. If he could speak he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to say ‘like I
have a choice’ and point out that he’s still chained up. The other men are
exuberant. Apparently more of their “booby traps” have caught other vehicles
from the convoy further up the road, among them a truck that was carrying tanks
of guzzoline. A little voice in his head points out to him that they’re most
likely talking about the old mechanic’s truck and he finds himself hoping that
they at least killed the old man quickly. That’s the most though he can spare
for him.
“What’s that?” He hears another member of the gang ask and realizes that it’s
in reference to him.
“Mine’s what it’s is.” The man with the red mohawk says in a tone that leaves
no room for questions or challenges. While the others get to work stripping the
vehicle, the man with the red mohawk crouches down and uses the bolt cutters to
break the D ring. For a second the urge to flee is nearly overwhelming but then
he remembers that even if he did manage to outrun all these men on their
motorcycles (unlikely) there would still be several days worth of dessert for
him to cross alone, on foot...naked before he reached civilization of any kind.
Once he reached that civilization they’d likely notice that he had the brand of
a pleasure slave on his lower back and then he’d just wind up chained up in
another box. Luckily none of what he’s feeling shows on his face (it never
does) and he’s able to shove his despair down into the pit of his stomach by
the time the man with the red mohawk talks to him again.
“Cm’on.” Is all he bothers to say before sauntering over to the side of the
flat bed and jumping off. The boy appreciates not being lead along like a dog
but can’t help but bristle a little at how certain the other man is that he
wont run away...even if that certainty is well founded. He gets to the edge of
the flatbed and turns to climb down but before he makes it to the ground the
man with the red mohawk grabs him around the waist and sets him on his feet.
When they get to the motorcycle the other man attaches his chains to the back
of it. He understands the reason for this immediately, if he tries to jump off
he’ll be dragged behind the bike by his neck.
Sitting on back of the bike isn’t exactly comfortable, given that he isn’t
wearing any clothes, but it’s considerably more comfortable than the offered
alternative. As the bike picks up speed, he finds himself involuntarily
wrapping his arms around the larger man. It occurs to him that that might anger
him, they haven’t exactly discussed the terms of the “arrangement” yet, but
fear makes him lock up and he can’t let go. The feeling of the cold night air
whipping his body as they speed over the sand dunes is both terrifying and
exhilerating. They arrive a large encampment that seems mostly empty at
present. He takes this to mean that they’ve caught the rest of the caravan and
are out collecting their spoils.
Once the man with the red mohawk detaches his chain from the back of the bike
he begins dragging him along by it. It’s seems to have more to do with hurry
than with concern that he won't follow. The whole while the larger man keeps
darting glances around the encampment, as though expecting to be ambushed. He
leads him over to a small tent and pushes him inside. There’s not much inside,
it’s the sort of setup that’s meant to be picked up and moved at a moments
notice.
There is a sleeping matt, though, and he’s shoved down onto it so suddenly it
knocks the breath out of him. The other man is on him immediately, without even
bothering to take off his armor, grinding against him and plundering his mouth
with his tongue. His mouth tastes like copper and he tries not to think about
why that might be. Despite being terrified, he also tries to give as good as
he’s getting without seeming aggressive. He’s fairly certain that these are the
sort of people who'll roast you on a spit and eat you if they don’t believe
you're worth something to them alive.
In what feels to him like a herculean act of bravery, he reaches up and
caresses the peach fuzz on the back of the other man's head. He intends it to
be soothing but it seems to have the opposite effect. The kiss becomes even
more desperate and hungry, broken up by the occasional colliding of teeth.
“Wez!” A sudden call from from outside has the other man freezing in a way
people usually do when their names are unexpectedly called.
“Shit!” The other man (Wez?) hisses before reluctantly climbing off of him and
trudging to the tent’s exit. Before leaving he turns back and, again, instructs
him to “stay.” He nods in response and is then left alone in the tent’s dark
interior. He hears two men talking outside in urgent tones but can’t make out
what they’re saying. Eventually Wez comes back in carry a length of rope in his
left hand. He crouches next to the matt.
“Put your hands together.” He commands and the boy moves quickly to comply
because Wez seems irritated and he DOES NOT want that irritation directed at
him.Wex ties his wrists together and then moves down the matt to do the same to
his ankles. Once he’s bound Wez grabs the chain around his neck and hauls him
into a sitting position.
“Listen,” He says firmly. “If the others get back before I do, you make sure
they don't see you, understood?”
The boy nodds.
“Good.” Wez shoves him down onto his back. “Rest up, you're gonna’ need your
strength for when I get back.”
With a devilish smirk his new master turned to leave, abandoning him to his
anxious anticipation.
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