not friends but not dating either...
cw. shower sex, fingering (f!receiving), cute banter between you and Mark (mark grayson x fem!reader)
The water outage notice goes up at seven in the morning.
You find it taped crookedly to the elevator doors on your way back from getting coffee, still sleepy, wearing shorts and one of Mark’s old college shirts because laundry day has become more of a suggestion than an actual routine.
TEMPORARY WATER INTERRUPTION FROM 8:00 A.M. TO 6:00 P.M.
Then stare harder, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less inconvenient.
Behind you, Mark comes out of the stairwell with wet hair, gym bag over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from his morning run. He nearly bumps into you, then follows your gaze to the notice.
You turn slowly. “Did you shower already?”
His face does something suspicious.
“I rinsed off at the gym.”
“You smell like outside.”
“I smell like fresh air and athletic dedication.”
“You smell like pavement.”
He laughs, leaning closer just to annoy you, and you shove at his chest with one hand. He catches your wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over your pulse before he lets go.
The little contact lingers longer than it should.
Everything with Mark lingers longer than it should these days.
The two of you are not dating.
Usually after one of you falls asleep on the couch with the other’s hand tucked under your shirt. Or after Mark comes home bruised and you patch him up in silence, sitting too close, knees touching. Or after you wear his clothes without asking and he looks at you like he has forgotten every language he knows.
Just friends who know exactly how the other takes their coffee, who keep ending up in each other’s beds without doing anything except sleeping too close, who pretend not to notice how charged the air gets when one of you walks around in a towel.
The notice on the elevator says otherwise.
You check the time on your phone. “It’s seven-thirty.”
Mark glances at the paper again. “We’ve got thirty minutes.”
“I need to wash my hair.”
“I need an actual shower.”
The silence is immediate.
Then Mark says, far too casually, “We could save water.”
Your head snaps toward him.
Not fully. Just enough to make your stomach drop.
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
“Your face is never innocent.”
You hate that your body reacts to it too, warmth creeping up your neck as you turn away from him and jab the elevator button like it personally betrayed you.
“We are not showering together,” you say.
“Stop sounding like that.”
“Like you know something.”
Mark leans against the wall beside you, looking entirely too relaxed for someone causing this much damage before breakfast.
“I know we have thirty minutes.”
He lifts both hands. “I’m just saying.”
“You’re just saying nothing.”
The elevator arrives and you step in first.
Neither of you speaks the entire way up.
That somehow makes it worse.
Because the idea is already there now, sitting between you in the tiny mirrored elevator. Mark behind you. Steam. Water. Bare skin. His stupid broad shoulders taking up too much space. You try very hard not to look at his reflection.
Of course he catches you.
His eyes flick to yours in the mirror.
You look away so fast your neck nearly hurts.
By the time you get inside the apartment, you’re already flustered.
You set the coffees down too hard on the counter and march toward the bathroom with false confidence.
Mark follows at an unhurried pace. “You said you have to wash your hair.”
You turn in the bathroom doorway. “Do you want hot water or not?”
He stops in front of you.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes.
His smirk fades a little, replaced by something slower. Warmer.
You swallow. “Don’t make it weird.”
He laughs softly, but his eyes don’t leave your face.
Because he means it. He is leaving it to you. No pressure, no push, no smug little joke now. Just Mark standing there in the hallway, giving you space to say no.
And suddenly the word no feels embarrassingly far away.
You look down at your coffee and then back at him.
Then at the bathroom, where the clock is very much ticking.
“This is just practical,” you say.
Mark’s face stays carefully neutral.
“And you’re not allowed to be annoying.”
His eyebrows lift. “That one might be hard.”
Still, ten minutes later, you are standing in the shower with him.
You have made several tactical errors in your life, but this may be the worst.
The shower is not built for two people. Not two people when one of them is Mark, who takes up space like it’s a personal hobby. His shoulder brushes yours every time he moves. His arm reaches past you for the shampoo and the entire wall seems to shrink. Warm water runs over both of you, steam fogging the glass until the bathroom becomes its own little world.
You face forward with the dedication of someone defusing a bomb.
You keep your eyes fixed on the tile.
Behind you, Mark clears his throat.
“You’re staring at the wall.”
“You’ve never mentioned that.”
“It’s a private interest.”
Mark laughs under his breath.
You can feel him trying not to move too close.
That is somehow worse than if he just did.
Because you are painfully aware of every inch he is keeping away from you. Aware of the heat of him behind you. Aware of the water running down his chest, his stomach, lower. Aware of the fact that if you turned around, you would see everything you have been carefully not thinking about for weeks.
You reach for the body wash.
Mark reaches at the same time.
In the cramped space, Mark steps forward.
His chest hits your back.
Your whole body goes still.
Mark’s breath catches behind you.
Water beats steadily against the tile as steam curls around your face.
Your fingers tighten around the body wash.
Mark’s voice comes low near your ear.
His hands hover at your sides, not touching yet, just there. Waiting.
“Tell me to move,” he says.
Your throat feels dry despite the shower.
Instead, your voice comes out small.
The silence changes again.
This time it is not awkward.
His hands settle lightly at your waist.
His thumbs rest against your wet skin, and you feel him exhale behind you.
The water runs down your face, your chest, between your breasts. His body is warm and solid behind yours. Too close. Not close enough.
His hands slide slowly around your waist, palms spreading over your stomach. He pulls you back against him, just enough that your spine fits to his chest, just enough that there is no pretending anymore.
You gasp softly when he presses harder against you.
Mark’s mouth brushes the side of your neck.
He smiles against your skin. “How?”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
For one awful, breathless second, you think you have ruined everything.
Then his hands tighten on your stomach.
Your face burns hotter than the steam. “Don’t.”
“Make me say embarrassing things.”
His lips graze your neck.
“But I like when you say embarrassing things.”
He catches your arm, laughing softly, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.
It is too gentle for what is happening. Too soft for the way his cock is pressed against your lower back, too sweet for the way his hands are already sliding higher, up your ribs, slow enough to give you time to stop him.
His palms cup your breasts.
You nod, then remember what he always does.
His fingers flex, careful at first, testing. Your nipples are already hard from the water and the nerves and him, and when his thumbs brush over them, your whole body jolts.
His mouth returns to your neck. “I didn’t say anything.”
Your head tips back against his shoulder before you can stop it.
You squeeze your eyes shut, mortified.
He pinches gently, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and the sound you make echoes off the tile before you can swallow it.
“I know.” His hands keep moving, slow and deliberate. “I know, baby.”
You go soft against him, and he feels it instantly.
His arm slides around your waist, holding you up as his other hand continues teasing your nipple until your knees threaten to give.
“You like that too?” he asks.
You whine as Mark smiles against your ear.
“You’re still leaning on me.”
“You have plenty of choices.”
His hand slips down your stomach.
He pauses just above where you want him.
“Tell me no,” he says softly, “and I’ll stop.”
You stare at the fogged shower glass in front of you, heart pounding.
Instead, you reach back blindly and grab at his lower back.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”
His fingers slide between your legs.
He holds you tighter, chest firm against your back, one arm wrapped around your middle while his hand finds you with devastating ease. He touches you like he has thought about it before, like he already knows where to press, where to slow down, where to circle until your hips jerk helplessly into his palm.
Wetness slickening his fingers as the pads circle your clit.
His mouth opens against your neck.
You hate that he sounds smug.
You hate that it turns you on.
His fingers glide through your folds, gathering the slickness there, mixing with the hot water running over both of you. He groans again, deeper this time.
His laugh is low and mean in the sweetest way.
You cover your face with one wet hand.
He immediately catches your wrist and lowers it.
“I know.” His fingers find your clit, and your body jerks. “It’s cute.”
He rubs slow circles over you, barely enough, teasing more than giving. Your hips chase his hand, and he holds you still with infuriating ease.
“I’m not being mean.” His voice is soft, almost innocent. “I’m being practical.”
You huff a broken laugh despite yourself. “Practical?”
“You’re—” Your words dissolve into a whimper when he presses harder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re trying not to come on my fingers.”
Your whole body goes hot.
His teeth graze your shoulder, not biting, just enough to make your stomach flip.
“What?” he murmurs. “Too honest?”
Not when he is touching you like that, not when his cock is still hard against your back, not when his other hand returns to your breast, thumb circling your nipple in time with his fingers between your thighs.
The steam. The water. Mark’s body wrapped around yours. The fact that you are not dating, not together, not anything simple, and yet he is holding you like he has wanted this for weeks.
Your voice trembles. “Have you thought about this?”
For a second, only the shower speaks.
Then his mouth presses against your ear.
Your knees nearly buckle.
Mark catches you, his laugh breathless and rough.
You turn your face away, shy and burning.
His hand leaves your breast to cup your jaw, guiding you just enough for him to see your profile.
Your whole body throbs at the command.
“What did you think about?”
His fingers start moving again.
“This,” he says. “You trying not to look. Pretending you’re not curious.”
“Pretending you don’t notice when I come out of the shower.”
You hate that he’s right.
His mouth drags over your neck.
“I thought about getting you exactly like this,” he admits, voice rough now. “All shy and wet and shaking against me.”
Your hand flies to his wrist between your thighs, but again, not to stop him.
“I thought about touching you until you couldn’t pretend anymore.”
His fingers circle faster.
“Thought about how you’d sound.”
You come with his name breaking in your mouth.
It hits you hard, sharp and hot, your body folding forward as much as his arm will allow. Mark holds you through it, hand working you gently while you tremble, his mouth pressed to your temple, murmuring soft praise into your wet skin.
“That’s it. There you go. I’ve got you.”
Your legs shake so badly that he has to turn you carefully, pressing your back against the tile so you don’t slip.
You stare up at him, breathless.
For the first time, you let yourself look.
At his wet hair falling into his eyes. The water running down his chest. His flushed face. The way he is still hard, still wanting, still trying so visibly to be careful with you that it makes your chest ache.
Mark notices your gaze drop.
You look back up too quickly.
He laughs softly, bracing one hand against the wall beside your head.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He leans down, his lips brushing yours but not quite kissing you.
Your answer comes too fast. “No.”
The first kiss is careful.
Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him closer as he presses you back against the tile, his body fitting between your thighs. The water runs over both of you, hot and steady, and everything gets messier from there — mouths slipping, hands wandering, Mark groaning when your fingers finally wrap around him.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth.
You freeze, suddenly shy again.
He catches your wrist gently.
“Don’t stop unless you want to.”
You look up at him through wet lashes.
You touch him again, slowly, and his forehead drops to yours.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re going to kill me.”
“You’re naked and touching me in the shower.”
“You suggested saving water.”
He laughs, but it breaks into a groan when your hand moves again.
Your face heats at the feel of him in your palm, hard and heavy and unmistakably affected by you.
Not some almost-girlfriend. Not some roommate. Not some friend he keeps blurring lines with.
Mark kisses you again, deeper this time, then pulls back just enough to look at you.
“We should get out,” he says, voice strained.
“If we keep going in here, I’m going to lose my mind, and I don’t want you slipping.”
The fact that he can still be responsible right now is offensive.
You stare at him and then you softly laugh.
“You’re really telling me to get out of the shower for safety?”
“After making me come on your fingers.” You whisper teasingly.
You gasp softly, delighted. “Oh my God.”
He turns the water off with a little too much force.
You giggle as he reaches for a towel, but the sound dies when he wraps it around you himself, careful and tender, rubbing warmth back into your arms. The steam clings to the mirror. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. He is still naked, still hard, still standing close enough to make your thoughts scatter, but now he is looking at you with something softer than hunger.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You smile faintly. “Yes, Mark.”
You should leave it there.
You should go get dressed. Pretend this was a weird, water-saving incident. Laugh awkwardly over coffee and never talk about how his hands felt on you or how quickly he made you fall apart.
Instead, you reach for his towel.
Mark looks down at your hand.
Your fingers curl in the fabric.
“I didn’t say we had to stop,” you whisper.
Mark’s expression changes slowly.
The soft concern remains, but heat curls through it, darkening his eyes.
“Then where do you want me?”
You glance toward the hallway.
When he looks back at you, his smirk has returned.
You hide your face in the towel. “Don’t say it like that.”
Mark laughs softly, then scoops you up like you weigh nothing.
You squeal, grabbing his shoulders. “Mark!”
“What?” He carries you out of the bathroom, dripping wet and grinning. “We’re conserving energy now.”
You press your burning face into his neck.
Mark’s arms tighten around you as he carries you to his room, the apartment quiet around you, the water outage forgotten, the line between friends and something more already washed clean off the floor.
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