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PROMPT:

Just give me someone who has spent YEARS dirty, who couldn't imagine wasting anything except piss to clean their bodies.

Give me years of scraped off dirt with styluses and engine grease- and then they come to the Citadel.

And they are ordered/asked to get CLEAN, and they think those that lead them off will be coming at them with grease and scrapers, and it will hurt but they'll be cleaner- and then they enter the chamber with more clean clear HOT water than the person has seen in- years... decades... maybe even their entire life.

Give me sensory porn as they are soaked and scrubbed and pampered by a set of bathing attendants.

Give me the gently guiding the much relaxed person to a padded bench to be massaged and lotioned, chapped skin now moisturized from outside in.

Works fantastic for any wife being brought to the Citadel during Joe, or a supplicant to be considered for "Husband" in the large stable of volunteer healthy men the Mothers start accepting into the tower and their beds.

Maybe it's done to max, dragged in by the wives, rewarded finally for all his hard work, allowed to let down his guard.

Whatever- just give me sensory porn on a really gooood bath.

*****

AU-ish because people I liked that died are alive and well here and Max is less of a tortured soul than we’re used to.

*****

Max stumbled up to the Citadel six months after he left.

He was somewhat unrecognizable and so very, incredibly dirty.

His life was dirt and sand and salt and misery.

He had been gone for 121 days seeking to find the end of the salt flats. He’d been hoping to prove his theory wrong that there was nothing but salt.

Rain had miraculously fallen, once, when he was 40 days into the salt flat journey. It had been mildly acidic and while cleansed him slightly, and left him tingling, Max was only destined to become dirtier than ever when fierce salt and sand storms forced him to abandon his salt quest and limp back to the Citadel. There was something special about the way the salt stuck to his skin. It left white ringed ovals on his skin and water marks of salt on his clothes. It

He was living up to his madness thanks to the relentless itching. He’d given up on scratching. Salt wasn’t like dirt for some reason. Scratching at the salt on his skin only made him itchier. Nothing soothed his skin, even the motor oil he’d used in one last-ditch attempt to stop that particular madness. There was always a fine dust in the air that made breathing really difficult at times. He hadn’t yet developed the hacking cough that many of the people of Fury Road dealt with, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

By the time he had passed the Bullet Farm’s eternally black smoke stacks and reached the sentries that had been posted to newly built gate of the citadel, he was dizzy with hunger and itchy madness. His clothes were caked with salt and red clay dirt, with a fun layer of engine grease thrown on top. It was, for want of a better term, rank.

The guards called out for him to halt. He took two last stumbling steps and fell to his knees.

“Name, citizen,” the War Boy demanded.

Max tried to speak and found he was so parched nothing would come out. He licked his lips with what little saliva there was left in his mouth.

“M, Max,” he rasped out. “Max. My name is Max.”

“Max? By god, sonny. We’d given you up for dead. What were you thinking, leaving like that last time? You didn’t even get a drink of water.”

Max stared into the eyes of The Keeper of the Seeds and Motorcycle Millie aka Momo.

“Itchy,” came his reply.

She tutted and called for an escort. A War Pup came running up with a rickshaw. The Keeper of the Seeds and Momo helped him into it.

So spry for women their age, Max thought. He decided it was the arid desert and living close to the salt flats. Good for long-term…preservation.

She handed him a canteen of water and cautioned him to drink slowly. The moment the water hit his lips he felt renewed. But he was greedy and drank more. It was too much on his system and he was soon retching it up.

“There, there, Maxy boy. We’ll have you right as rain soon enough,” The Keeper said cheerfully.

The War Boys started up into the heights of the Citadel’s tallest peak at a loping run. Max swayed carelessly with the rickshaw, barely able to hold his head up at this point. Nausea had overtaken every other feeling in his body. He just wanted to lay flat on a cool floor and not move for the next century or so. And itch himself raw.

Just when he was ready to sway right out of the rickshaw, into the path, the War Boys came to an abrupt stop. The Keeper of the Seeds had a firm hand on the scruff of his collar and Momo had an arm around his waist, otherwise he would have flown straight over the dash.

“Have a care with our cargo, young’uns,” The Keeper chastised gently. The War Boys mumbled an apology, eyes downcast. Max was certain they were blushing under that white paint they still wore. He wondered if it itched.

Still barely able to raise his head and fighting unconciousness at this point, Max heard quiet voices behind him and soon felt gently hands guiding him out of his seat. His knees buckled when his feet hit the ground. Any discomfort that had been belayed by the nausea from the rickshaw came flooding back with a vengeance. “Where are we going?” he managed to rasp on his hands and knees.

“We are not going anywhere. YOU are going to the bathing pools,” Momo said pointedly.

“Bathing pools?” Max was confused. Baths did not exist in anything but stored memory.

“Why?”

The question was dumb but he was not exactly firing on all pistons.

“Because, to be frank, Max, you smell the like the farts of a vulture who’s been feasting on nothing but carrion and car engine oil, with a nice measure of briny piss.”

“Oh. Uh, okay.” He shrugged, not embarrassed. Most road warriors lost the ability to smell themselves and others after a few hot days in the desert.

Max heard the pitter patter of feet in the dirt and looked up to see the wives staring at him.

“Hey,” was all he could manage.

“Hello, Max,” the wives said at varying speeds, with varying expressions. Cheedo gave him a shy grin. Toast’s face was impassive as she chewed on a toothpick. The Dag tilted her head and took in his new appearance. Capable crouched down to get a better look.

A man the size of a mountain appeared behind the wives. Rictus.

“I am here to carry you to the bathing pools,” Rictus informed him (and all other people with hearing in the surrounding area).

“Ah…”

Max was secretly glad of the help. He was still on his knees and knew he hadn’t the strength to get himself up. Rictus hoisted him to his feet with one arm around Max’s waist and held Max securely against his side. “Good to see you, brother,” Rictus whispered in a Rictus whisper (which meant that the small crowd around him heard perfectly).

“Yeah, same,” Max was surprised to find himself whispering back (actually whispering).

“Take good care of him, girls, Rictus,” the Keeper instructed. “Precious cargo and all that.”

Max managed a half-hearted glare in her direction at that comment. The Keeper caught his eye and winked. She nodded Rictus and the wives to proceed.

“You poor thing,” one voice said.

“You can barely stand,” said another.

“You’re simply covered in sand and dirt.”

Look at the trail he’s leaving!”

“A regular Hansel if there ever was one.”

All the while they guided him down a narrow passageway lit with torches. His nose picked up an unfamiliar scent and he raised his head to sniff.

Max must have looked confused, well, more confused than usual.

“Roses,” a voice answered his unasked question.

“We grow them for the soap. Furiosa likes the scent.”

Max stumbled when he heard her name. He heard soft giggles, but nothing from Rictus. Rictus never lost his grip on Max whom he was basically carrying at this point.

They led him into a wide-open space, sunlight streaming through windows carved out of one side of the cave. The windows looked out over one of the many new greenhouses that had been built after the usurping of Immortan Joe. But Max wasn’t concerned with the view of the gardens.

“How?”

“If you’d actually stick around for more than a few days, you’d know…” Toast grumbled. She was silenced with an elbow in her ribs by Capable.

“Once the Citadel was reclaimed, Furiosa and the rest of us set about making sure water was available to everyone in large quantities. People are healthier when they’re clean,” she explained patiently to Max.

His legs officially gave out at this point and Rictus loosened his grip so that Max could kneel. Max landed on his right knee with a grunt, quickly collapsing onto his side stopped by Rictus’ tree trunk of a leg. “Water. So much…” He was inches from a pool of the clearest water he had ever seen in his entire life. Steam rose gently and lazily from the surface. He found he could breathe easily, thanks to the moisture in the air.

The wives thanked Rictus who wandered off to do whatever Rictuses do. Wait for a vuvalini or another woman to tell him what to do, most likely.

Capable took Rictus’ place as Max’s support. She was perched on her knees allowed him to lean back against her.

“We’ll just get his clothes off and slide him into the water, yeah?” Max felt gentle hands begin to remove his clothing.

“His clothing’s not going to come off without a fight.”

“Let me start on his hair and face.”

“Um, does someone want to get a knife?”

“And a hacksaw,” another voice shouted with a laugh. The wives wrestled off his boots, tugged off his socks. They removed his jacket, “careful with that,” he mumbled. His shirt, his jeans. They came to the issue of his underoos. Cheedo hesitated. “Oh, for god’s sake, Cheedo,” Dag said exasperatedly, it’s not like you’ve never seen a dick before.”

“I know but…it’s Max,” she said softly.

“I don’t think Max is in a position to care at this point,” Capable said. Max waved his hand in acknowledgement. He was so tired Immortan Joe could have been the one trying to get his drawers off and he would have assented.

Toast pulled at the waistband of his tighty-never-been-whities, which were so rotted they actually just tore off of him.

“Well, that saves us some labor,” The Dag muttered and flung them haphazardly behind her.

“Good thing, too,” Toast said. “Can you imagine if his pubes had been crusty? We would have given him a landing strip and he’d be none the wiser,” Toast remarked, with a nod at Max who was falling in and out of a doze.

“All right, Max. Think you can manage to get yourself in the pool if we give you a shove?” Capable asked.

“Huh, wuh?” he startled awake. “Oh, yeah, yeah, sure.”

“One, two three, here we go.”

The Dag gently pulled on his legs and then his hips as he slid into the warm water. Cheedo behind him to make sure he didn’t hit his head. When he was fully in the water, Max realized quickly he liked the weightlessness and let himself sink into the water. He found himself in the unique position of staring up at the ceiling from below the water. Not the sort of thing he experienced with any regularity.

Or, you know, ever.

He was holding his breath but that didn’t stop Cheedo from freaking out.

‘For god’s sake, Toast,” she shrieked. “He’s going to drown.”

“Relax, he’s fine, see?” Dag was in the pool behind him and hoisted him up from below by his armpits.

“You’re a lot stronger than I remember,” Max said with a frown.

“You’re a lot slower on the uptake than I remember,” came her reply. He gazed at her quizzically and smiled when the pieces came together.

“Ahh, clever girl.”

Dag grinned and floated him back to the ledge in the pool. “Sit, stay,” she ordered. Max nodded wearily, exhausted but curious to see what they were planning on doing. He was clean at this moment by his standards. Judging by the arsenal of products Cheedo had returned with, he was in for something else. The Dag walked over to the edge of the pools room and grabbed a pitcher of water and a glass. She brought them to Max. “Here, drink.”

He drank it less hastily this time.

“It’s good. Tastes like those roses smell though.”

“Rose water. Helps you smell good inside and out,” she giggled in that slightly odd way of hers.

He managed a small smile but was distracted by the bubbles that had resulted from Cheedo pouring an entire bottle of bath gel into the pool. Max resisted the temptation to gather up the bubbles in the bath and then blow them into the air.

“Right-o, let’s get to scrubbing.” She held out horse brushes to The Dag and Toast and picked up what looked like a shell for herself. “Okay, Max, this might not be extremely comfortable but unless you want to soak for three hours, and you’re more than welcome as long as you don’t mind a gaggle of naked War Boys joining you, this is going to be the most effective means of getting all 800 layers of dirt off you, okay?” He shrugged and settled back against the edge of the pool.

Cheedo started on his hair. Wetting it, she started combing it, trying to get the dirt and salt clumps out. She had to tug pretty hard and apologized every time Max made a small grunt of pain. “Sorry,” she said as she worked through a particularly stubborn tangle.

“Cheedo, if you apologize to him one more time…” Toast said.

“Sorry,” Cheedo replied. “I mean, sorr-bollocks, whatever,” she said.

The brushes were not comfortable. When the wives had finished scraping and brushing and scrubbing and basically performing an exorcism his skin, he was feeling like he’d just spent a few torturous hours attached to the front of Nux’s car, going hell-bent-for-leather over the desert. Except much cleaner. And pinker.

The Dag and Cheedo saw to his hair, while Capable gave him a shave. Max was relieved. He wasn’t sure if Toast was whom he wanted with a knife near his jugular. Come to think of it, any of the wives really. He tried not to dwell on that thought.

The wives finished shearing off his excess facial and tried to get the hair on his head to behave while war pups gathered up the tufts.

“What’s next,” he asked gazing into Cheedo’s eyes, not realizing he had the silliest grin on his face. She blushed.

“Um, we’ll get you under the showers and then we’ll get you into a clean pool so you can soak up some oils. Not motor oil,” she said quickly.

Max nodded his head and went to stand up. Capable and Toast each took an arm to steady him and led him up steps out of the pool. He looked back to see the water filled with a red-brown cloud of filth.

“Sorry bout that.”

“It’s okay, Max. The pools are drained and re-filled. The water is filtered and re-used,” Capable explained.

“We don’t drink it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Toast warned.

“Mmm, no. I mean, I’ve drank worse,” and Toast actually laughed.

Once out of the water, Max realized how…cleansed he felt. Not just physically, but mentally. He was sure there was a good ten pounds of dirt in the water, but even his heart felt lighter. He felt…safe.

They led him to a small alcove off of the main room. Spigots lined the cave walls. Capable had been absentmindedly stroking the fading tattooed lines on his back as they walked to the showers.

Toast and Capable let go of his arms and gently shoved him into the center. He stood there naked and unafraid albeit vaguely confused.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“Nothing. Just stand there. It’ll help. With the itching,” Toast explained.

“I can do that,” Max said.

“Good boy,” came her reply.

Whatever Max would have said back was drowned out by the sound of the showerheads coming on. Max was immediately enveloped in a spray of water coming from all directions. His mouth was open and he spluttered at the sudden downpour, side pour, all over water everywhere pour. It was heaven. He thought he’d died and gone to Valhalla.

Whatever the wives hadn’t managed to scrub off was unable to withstand the assault of the tropical style shower for long. By the time Cheedo turned off the water Max was a completely different color. Well, maybe not completely but a good ten shades lighter.

The Dag and Cheedo toweled him down and wrapped a dry towel around him when they were done. She shoved another cup of water in his hand, urging him to drink.

“We’re handing you off to the milk mothers,” the Dag explained as drank thirstily.

“Oh. Okay.” He was reaching a state of euphoria that wasn’t allowing for confusion to be a part of his thought process for longer than a few seconds. He obediently allowed Dag to continue walking him dreamily back through the poolroom past a large white curtain cutting off a portion of the room.

“Please, lie down,” one of the mothers told him He complied and let a small grunt of surprise when his towel was removed exposing his ass to the air. But his discomfort was only momentary because she was pouring warm oil onto his back and rubbing slowly into his muscles. He was in a state of near euphoria by the time he heard her say, “Okay, he’s ready.”

He felt strong hands on his body and let out a grunt of surprise. He lifted his head and saw not one but four sturdy looking women oiling up their hands and arms.

“Time to get those knots out of you,” one told him. He didn’t think he had a choice in the matter and dropped his head back down to the mattress.

He assumed it would be pleasant if strong pressure.

He assumed wrong.

The milk mothers were merciless. They kneaded and forced out every knot that had ever had the temerity to form in his body.

He assumed he had known physical pain before this.

He assumed wrong.

“Breathe,” a mother instructed him every now and then. He would then take in a gulp of air and force himself to expel it, repeating until the milk mother returned to torturing his muscles with her strong arms. Whereupon he would once again hold his breath until they told him to breathe.

By the time they were done, they had taken his body apart and put it back together. His body had never felt so loose. Even his knee felt like it was going to work properly for a while. He didn’t even blush when they flipped him over to massage his front. They didn’t miss a spot save for his family jewels, which did attempt to make their presence known when their hands moved to his upper and inner thighs. Too tired to really go any further than a twitch, his cock resumed its slumber on his thigh. The milk mothers were used to the ways of men’s bodies and barely gave it a glance. Their business, now that Immortan Joe was dead and gone, was working the harshness of desert life out of men and women. Sex was no longer a factor in their lives unless they wanted it to be.

Arms, hands, individual fingers. Legs, ankles, feet, toes were rubbed and soothed. Not a single inch of him was left unoiled. Any remaining itch that had been making its last stand was shown the door. His body was warmed and saturated with oil to the point where he thought he could slide off the bed onto the floor and out of the room of pools with barely a scratch.

The milk mothers eventually finished their exquisite torment of him after what felt like an eternity but also the blink of an eye. They covered his lower body with a light sheet and left the room, pulling the curtain tight.

Max dozed until he felt a dip in the mattress and someone crawl up to his body. He opened one eye lazily and cocked an eyebrow at what greeted his gaze.

“Furiosa.”

“Max,” she replied.

He smiled at the sound of her voice saying his name. She smelled like roses. An unexpected thrill shot through him as she laid her head on his chest. He was always pleasantly surprised at this kind of physical contact from her. He hummed his pleasure when she kissed him and he managed to raise himself to his arms to get a better position. She pushed him back down with a finger on his chest.

“Max, we can talk later. Right now I just need to be with you, to make sure you’re okay. I know I’m fine but you, you just left,” Furiosa told him.

“’m sorry,” he slurred.

“I understood. We can talk about it later if you want? Let’s just relax,” she said.

He hummed a reply and settled in to her body’s touch against his.

And his eyes flew open when her hand sneakily stroked his cock.

He moved to stop her. “Furiosa, …I’m...you don't…” but she’d shushed him.

“You’ve been at half-staff since the moment I crawled on the bed,” she informed him with a laugh in her voice. Max rolled his eyes at himself but couldn’t find it within him to get her stop. He rolled his hips involuntarily at her continued stroking and she began to increase her speed, as he grew fully hard. He re-entered Valhalla when Furiosa bent to take his length in her mouth. He forced himself not to thrust into her very warm, very welcoming mouth and pressed his palms to his eyes to get some kind of control.

Furiosa also showed him no mercy as she sucked and licked and rubbed him to the point of no return. He came a little too quickly for his liking, but he hadn’t so much as gotten himself off since the last time he’d been at the Citadel. He stopped caring about his lack of stamina the moment a heavy, warm rush spread throughout his body. Furiosa left to get a damp towel to clean him and by the time she finished he was well and peacefully asleep.

Max had woken hours (days?) later lying on his stomach to see Furiosa gazing at him with a serene expression on her face.

“Hey sailor,” she said with a grin, when she noticed he was awake. She was stroking his head with her full hand, her head on her left arm. “Your hair never lies flat, does it?” she mused.

Max just stared, lost for words. The synapses in his brain were struggling to fire, let alone connect. He felt loose, unconnected. The only thing that kept him from floating off the bed and back into the darkness had been Furiosa herself.

It had always been her from the moment they’d first tried to kill each other. That had been the beginning of this new and welcome itch to scratch.

“Hi,” he finally managed after a journey of a thousand miles.

“Hi,” she smiled and leaned in for a kiss (she tasted like roses).