Dan & Julia Pt. 01

Chapter 1: The Flatmates

Dan moved into the cramped two-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side in late August, hauling a battered suitcase and a portfolio stuffed with charcoal sketches. Julia was already there, her nurse's scrubs neatly folded on the couch, a faint scent of antiseptic clinging to her despite the lavender candle flickering on the counter. She was 28, with chestnut hair tied in a messy bun, hazel eyes that darted nervously when she shook his hand. He was 23, lanky and pale from London's gray skies, his art-student wardrobe a chaotic mix of paint-splattered jeans and thrift-store flannels. They exchanged polite smiles, mumbled introductions, and retreated to their respective rooms--strangers tethered by a Craigslist ad and a single bathroom.

The first few weeks were a dance of avoidance. Julia's shifts at Bellevue Hospital were erratic--days, nights, doubles--leaving Dan to sketch in peace or blast Radiohead through his headphones. He'd hear her come home at odd hours, the creak of the floorboards, the hiss of the shower. She'd catch glimpses of his easel in the living room, nudes in bold strokes, and blush, muttering something about coffee before disappearing. They shared the space like ghosts, leaving notes about rent or groceries, their voices barely rising above small talk.

The bathroom was the unspoken battleground. One sink, one toilet, one tub-shower combo. Dan learned to knock after hearing her yelp through the door one morning; Julia started locking it after she caught him brushing his teeth in nothing but boxers. The tension was quiet, simmering beneath forced smiles and "sorry, you go first" exchanges.

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The Turning Point

It happened on a humid October evening. Julia had just finished a 12-hour shift, her bladder screaming as she fumbled with her keys. Dan was in the bathroom, door ajar--an oversight born of exhaustion after a late critique at Pratt. She pushed it open without thinking, desperate for relief, and froze.

He was standing over the sink, pants around his ankles, one hand braced on the counter, the other working himself with slow, deliberate strokes. His head was tilted back, eyes half-closed, a soft groan escaping his lips. The mirror reflected every detail--the taut line of his jaw, the flex of his forearm, the glistening tip of him. Julia's breath hitched, her tired brain short-circuiting.

"Oh--shit, sorry!" she stammered, stepping back.

Dan's eyes snapped open, but he didn't scramble to cover himself. Instead, a lazy grin tugged at his mouth. "No, it's fine. I'm almost done. You need the toilet?"

She blinked, caught off guard by his calm. "Uh... yeah."

"Go ahead," he said, nodding toward the seat. "I don't mind if you watch."

Her face burned, but something in his voice--low, teasing--rooted her in place. She hesitated, then stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. The air was thick with steam and something muskier. She tugged her scrubs down, sat, and let go, the sound of her stream mingling with his ragged breathing. Their eyes locked. His hand moved faster, knuckles whitening.

"Jesus, this is weird," she muttered, half-laughing.

"Want it weirder?" he asked, voice rough. "Help me out."

She licked her lips, adrenaline spiking. "You serious?"

"Dead serious."

She slid off the toilet, not bothering to pull up her pants, and sank to her knees on the chipped tile. Her hands found his thighs, steadying herself as she took him into her mouth. He groaned louder, hips bucking, one hand tangling in her hair. She tasted salt and heat, her own pulse hammering as she worked him, pee still dripping down her legs. It was messy, raw, absurd--and neither cared. He came with a shudder, spilling into her throat, and she swallowed, grinning up at him as he caught his breath.

"Fuck," he panted. "You're insane."

"Says the guy jerking off with the door open," she shot back, wiping her mouth.

From that night, the walls crumbled. Privacy became a memory, modesty a joke.

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Uninhibited

By November, they'd rewritten the rules. Clothes hit the floor the second they walked through the door--her scrubs in a heap, his paint-stained shirts flung over chairs. They roamed the apartment naked, skin bare to the chilly air, no pretense left. Julia's body was soft and strong, curves carved by long shifts on her feet; Dan's was lean, angular, smudged with charcoal or ink half the time. They ate takeout on the couch, legs tangled, laughing over spilled soy sauce on bare thighs.

One Sunday morning, Julia shuffled to the kitchen in a faded T-shirt and panties, hair a wild nest. She was pouring coffee when Dan crept up behind her, silent as a cat. She felt him before she saw him--his erection pressing against her ass, hard and insistent. "Morning," he growled into her ear, hands yanking her panties down. She gasped, coffee sloshing, but didn't resist as he bent her over the counter. He thrust into her without warning, deep and rough, the edge of the Formica biting into her hips. She moaned, pushing back, the T-shirt riding up to expose her breasts. It was quick, brutal, glorious--plates rattling as he pounded her, her cries echoing off the peeling walls. He finished inside her, panting, and she came seconds later, trembling against him.

"Warn me next time," she said, breathless but grinning.

"Where's the fun in that?" he replied, smacking her ass.

Another night, they sprawled nude on the couch, a shitty horror flick flickering on the TV. Her head rested on his stomach, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her thigh. Without a word, she shifted, straddling his face, her wetness hovering over his mouth. He gripped her hips and pulled her down, tongue plunging in, lapping at her like a man starved. She rocked against him, gasping, then leaned forward to take him in her mouth. They moved in sync--her sucking, him licking--until the movie was forgotten, drowned out by wet sounds and muffled moans. She came first, thighs clamping around his head; he followed, spilling down her throat as she ground against his chin.

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Open Doors

Separate rooms stayed, but boundaries didn't. Julia was bisexual, her tastes fluid--men with stubble, women with tattoos. She'd bring home a bartender named Mike one night, fucking him loud enough for Dan to hear through the wall, then a tattooed redhead named Claire the next, their giggles spilling into the hall. Dan, straight as an arrow, stuck to women--art-school girls with pierced noses or gallery interns in tight skirts. He'd pin them to his bed, the headboard banging, knowing Julia could hear every thrust.

Threesomes happened naturally. One night, Julia brought home Claire, and Dan joined mid-session, slipping into the room with a smirk. Julia watched, legs spread, as he fucked Claire from behind, then took her turn with a strap-on while Dan kissed her neck. Another time, Dan's fling--a blonde named Sophie--stayed late, and Julia crawled into bed with them, her mouth on Sophie's clit while Dan took her from behind. The apartment became a playground, no jealousy, just heat.

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The End

Spring 2025 rolled in, and Dan's final critique loomed. He'd been accepted to a residency in London, his sketches of Julia--nude, sprawled, unashamed--earning him praise. The night before he left, they fucked one last time on the living room floor, slow and deliberate, her nails digging into his back, his teeth on her shoulder. No words, just sweat and breath.

He packed the next morning, portfolio under one arm, suitcase in hand. She stood in the doorway, naked as always, a mug of coffee steaming in her grip.

"Gonna miss your dick," she said, smirking.

"Gonna miss your mouth," he shot back.

They hugged, brief and fierce, then he was gone--back to London's gray drizzle, leaving her to haunt the apartment alone. She kept his last sketch pinned to the fridge: her, legs wide, grinning like she owned the world.