CONTENT: while this is mainly plot build up and is completely safe for work, I still recommend 18+ sfw. slow burn.
author note — ive seen how much people liked that post i made a few months ago, that catered to writing for midas. so here it is.. well part of it at least.
word count : 402
"so, do you always talk to strangers like this?" his voice was low, even baritone, and as smooth as the rest of him. It wasn't accusatory, merely curious, a question posed with the casual confidence of someone used to being observed.
a slow smile tugged at your lips, a silent challenge thrown back at him. you met his gaze directly. "only when they interest me as much as you do."
he hummed, a deep sound, and a faint smile touched the corner of his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. It was a silent acknowledgment, a subtle nod to your persistence. his eyes lingered on your face for a moment longer than necessary before he turned his head back to the sports game on the television.
the shift in his focus was a clear signal that the conversation, for now, was over. or at least he wanted it to be.
you shook your head slightly, a playful exasperation in your movement. you weren't about to let him off the hook that easily. "not even gonna tell me your name?" you said, your voice light and teasing. you tapped your fingers against the bar, a rhythmic counterpoint to the low murmur of the bar. "give me something to work with here." It was an invitation, a refusal to be dismissed so easily.
you wanted a hook, a thread to pull on, something to unravel the mystery of the man with the gold eyes and the perfectly tailored suit.
he didn't turn back, his attention seemingly fixed on the flickering images on the screen. he took another slow sip of his vodka, the ice clinking softly, the silence stretching between you, punctuated only by the distant shouts from the sports game and the clinking of glasses.
you took another slow sip of your whiskey, letting the warmth spread through you as you waited. then, just as you were beginning to think he wouldn't respond, his voice drifted over to you. It was almost a murmur, barely audible above the bar's din, as if he was speaking more to the glass in his hand than to you.
"midas."
the single word hung in the air for a moment, a strange, resonant sound in the noisy bar, then was swallowed by the surrounding noise. you raised an eyebrow, a silent question in your gaze. he didn't elaborate, didn't offer a last name or any further explanation.
There is NOTHING that geeks me out more than trying to take photos for traditional drawings. Here’s me putting my Christmas gifts to use tho I love prismacolors mmmmm