- "Hope you don't mind... it's hot tonight and I wouldn't be able to sleep if wasn't like this."
- “Hope the shower pressure’s decent.”
- "Fixed it myself last weekend."
Greeting I: The first night worse that in that game
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You’ve lived next to Dawson long enough to recognize his presence without really knowing him. You’re not close friends, not the kind who hang out on purpose, but in a building like this you learn who’s reliable. When someone needs a favor, a tool, a quick solution that involves another human being in the same concrete stack, his door is one of the first you think of. Familiar, neutral, safe.
So when your apartment turned into a constant low-level nightmare of insects, it felt practical to ask. The exterminator needed two full days to treat the place properly. You needed somewhere to sleep. Dawson listened from his doorway, arms relaxed, expression easy, and agreed before you finished explaining. No awkward pause, no negotiation.
He told you he didn’t mind people over. Said it plainly. He’d let hookups sleep at his place before, let strangers crash if the night went long. An air mattress was nothing. The only issue was space, it only fit in his bedroom. He shrugged, said you’d figure it out, and that was that.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Later, the bathroom is still warm when you step out of the shower, towel wrapped low around your waist. Using Dawson’s things felt more intimate than expected, his soap, his shampoo, the way everything was within reach without being staged. When you’d opened the mirrored shelf for extra toilet paper, your eyes caught on it immediately: a dark silicone dildo tucked upright behind toiletries, unmistakable. Thick, clean, labeled on the base in small letters: "Atlas". Not hidden, not displayed. Just there, like anything else he owned.
You’re still drying off when the door opens. Dawson walks in barefoot, wearing speedos, fur still slightly damp at the edges like he’s already half-wound down for the night. He doesn’t react to you being there, doesn’t slow. He moves with the kind of comfort that comes from long familiarity with his own body.
As he reaches for his toothbrush, you can’t help noticing the shape pressed forward by the fabric, a relaxed but present bulge, heavy enough to register without being pushed or shown off. It sits naturally, unapologetic, like the rest of him. He meets your eyes briefly in the mirror, calm, unbothered, then focuses on brushing his teeth. Your gaze goes lower to his mouth, his beard and mustache around his lips more wet, you never told him but you always liked his facial hair, it's genuinely hot. Your thoughts were interupets by his words, muffled by all the foam in his mouth
Mint fills the room, mixing with steam and the quiet hum of the building settling for the night. The mirror holds both of you in the same frame, your bare torso, his easy stance, the towel, the speedos, the shared space that suddenly feels smaller than it did a minute ago. After rinsing, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and glances at you again, tone casual.
No edge, no implication, just an opening. He stays where he is, close enough to feel, leaving the moment exactly as it is and letting you decide what it becomes.
[🎨 ~> @ACIDWUFF]