#t;cyborg

[covteau]

we aesthetics;    → come a little closer; thorton & dax

why’d you come, you knew you should have stayed i tried to warn you just to stay away and now they’re outside ready to bust it looks like you might be one of us

[covteau]

come a little closer ; thorton + dax

continued from here 

★ —    “don’t mean to interrupt,” his words are hollow, but the arrogant undertone remains. he taunts the man, staring up the blade and into his eyes, “but the world is plenty big–more than enough room for the both of us… don’t you think?”

the mind games are part of dax’s signature, his own brand of chaotic madness. but he keeps that tucked inside his yellow jumpsuit, masked by the stench of motor oil and sweat. his type is unmistakable, a costume turned practiced persona — certainly not on the cover of a magazine, but the side-streets of urban cities where five-star restaurants are part of the folklore. biker is what he calls himself; street thug is what he is. and his kind prowls around town in packs, and scoff in the face of society, of the order rising from the foundations of embellished establishments — restaurants, hotels, cafes, and couture. he revs the engine of his motorcycle, and speeds down the streets like the grim reaper follows him in hot pursuit. 

the rocket diverts his attention from the taunting eyes of the brat before him. he fails to conjure up sincerity, an apology. dax lifts his brows at the man’s discourtesy and advanced get-up. industrial, robotic --- he would describe it as. a familiar aura, atmosphere, dax senses the closer he inspects the stranger. .

 . . . definitely not a part of the kanto scene. 

      the world is plenty big ---          more than enough room for the both of us . . .    don’t you think ? dax’s eyes widen at his abrupt response, a blast from the past dax --- his blade that still dangles at the ready. good job on “keeping you’re cool” . . . he returns the weapon to his pocket. 

even if it’s only slightly, dax’s lower eyelid twitches. disbelief hits like a brand, and jealousy burns — third degree. just when he was beginning to believe they couldn’t be so different after all. happy ever after --- but, fuck that. no one will ever be like dax; because when he extends his hand for a shake, the other’s is stain-free. blood-free. guilt-free. 

so, he pulls back. “hey, cyborg.” dax jabs a finger into the man’s shoulder. “cool threads.”