"You're so wet."
"Gee, really? I hadn't noticed." Bucky rolls his eyes and drips on the floor. "Thanks so much for pointing that out."
"Why are you so wet?" Natasha puts a finger between the pages of the classified report she was translating. "Did you forget which way to hold the hose?"
Bucky scowls. "No, I did not forget which way to hold the hose. Do you have the key to the laundry room?"
"Give." Bucky holds out a demanding hand.
Natasha shakes her head delightedly. "Nuh-uh. Not until you've told me how this happened."
Bucky glowers at her for a moment, then sighs. "I was washing the dogs."
Natasha nods and gestures with the photocopy for him to continue.
"Bowser decided he was already clean enough and made a break for it. That got Molly jumping around so her leash wrapped around my shins. The ground was soapy. I fell into the tub. Basin. Thing."
"The blue plastic kiddie pool covered in cartoon lobsters."
"See, this is why I want to plant more hidden cameras!"
Bucky folds his arms, his wet t-shirt rippling over the muscles it's conforming to. "Just give me the key, demon. Wet jeans're torture enough."
Natasha eyebrow-shrugs. "Alrighty." She stands up and heads for the door to the basement. Bucky's shoes squelch miserably as he follows her down to the room housing the center's washer, dryer, water heater, and utility sink.
She unlocks the door and follows him in, watching as he kicks off his shoes and immediately opens the dryer. He remembers to empty the pockets of his soaked jeans before he shucks them off and parks the contents in a soggy pile on the shelf by the detergent. Natasha leans past him to check the lint trap and then retreats to rest against the inside of the closed door while he removes his socks.
Bucky's drenched white t-shirt has effectively fused itself to his skin and resists efforts to peel it off. He growls when he defeats it and throws it into the dryer with rather more force than necessary.
He reaches for the door to close it and Natasha stops him with an 'ahem'.
Natasha directs a pointed glance at his boxers, which are clinging to him nearly as fervently as the shirt did. Bucky gives her a dubious look.
"Might as well dry it all at once," she says. "There's nothing down there I haven't seen before—or can't see pretty clearly right now, for that matter."
He rolls his eyes again and drops his shorts.
"How long, do you think?" He asks when the door is closed and his fingers hover over the controls.
Natasha does consider answering in inches. "To dry that much stuff, ten, fifteen minutes? Jeans'll take a little longer." She smirks. "I don't suppose you brought a book."
His grumpy-cat face tells her precisely how droll he thinks that is.
Natasha shrugs. "Then I guess we'll have to find some other way to pass the time."
"We?" Bucky frowns as he takes a worn towel from the shelf and starts scrubbing at his hair. "There's nothing keeping you down here."
"No, but I'm ready for a break and you smell like pet shampoo."
He abruptly pauses in toweling off his chest to look at her skeptically. "Please don't tell me that turns you on."
Natasha laughs. "Not in and of itself, but you wear a wet t-shirt better than any man has a right to and I like imagining you all soapy."
"Is this some backhanded way of telling me I need to bathe more?" Bucky goes back to drying himself, rubbing the towel briskly over his arms and legs.
"Not at all." She pushes off from the door and oozes towards him. "I thought it was a rather fore-handed way of telling you I want to have sex now."
Bucky watches her sway with a raised eyebrow. He twists his hands into each end of the towel, holding it like a strap. When she comes within range he hooks the loop around her shoulders and uses it to yank her to him. Natasha savors the show of zeal.
Bucky smirks and lets her kiss him. "Sure you're not using me as a proxy for Bowser?"
Natasha chuckles throatily. "Definitely not—although I do respect his determination."
Bucky hums agreement into her mouth. "That dog could not care less about being neutered."
She pushes away from him with another laugh. "Is this really the best time to talk about neutering?"
Bucky feigns offense. "You started it!"
"Whatever." Natasha's hands slide around his hips to pull him flush again.
After another minute of snogging Bucky murmurs, "This feels somehow unbalanced." He punctuates with a kiss. "And chafy."
They delegate without need for discussion: Natasha peels out of her shirt and removes her bra while Bucky flips the towel back over her head so he can hold it in his teeth while he unbuttons her skirt and pushes it off along with her tights and thong.
Bucky grins around the towel. He picks up the ends again and drops it around her hips. "Much."
A sharp tug on the towel brings them skin to skin. Natasha puts her arms around his neck and he tightens his grip to grind her against him. Natasha pushes up onto her toes, one leg hooked around the back of his thigh to give her clit a better rubbing angle. They enjoy a few minutes of slow sliding, macking and rolling their bodies against one another, until Bucky looks over her shoulder and hums like he's had an especially bright idea. Natasha turns her head to see what he's backing her into and grins.
The dryer door is hot and hard and the vibration rattles her teeth. The front-loading washer beneath it is a different make and extends slightly farther from the wall, enough to create a narrow ledge adequate to take some of Natasha's weight when she braces her back to hike her leg higher around Bucky's hips. He kisses her neck and fingers her, spreading her juices, and purrs, "This is the kind of wet I like." Natasha moans her endorsement.
The dryer's shaking makes reaching up and sideways to fumble for a condom package from among the former contents of his pockets a little challenging but Natasha accomplishes it, spilling only a little loose change (and a marble?) onto the floor.
Bucky wastes no time once the condom is on, sliding right into a quick and purposeful rhythm. It's not the most stable position; Natasha has to wrap both legs around him and hold onto the lip of the washer ledge to fuck him while Bucky holds onto each side of the dryer (Natasha has no problem feigning ignorance regarding any mysterious dents that might appear on the left side especially). It's definitely different--the warm metal agitates the tissues of her upper back like a clumsy massage, and the vibration saturates her body with a deep, subtle thrum that feels a little like afterglow before she even starts to come.
Both she and Bucky laugh when her moans come out choppy from the shaking, and the choppy laughter makes them both laugh harder. Unfortunately that giddy crack-up disrupts their fornication enough to set back Natasha's pursuit of orgasm so that she's still closer closer closing in when the machine comes to an abrupt halt. Ever the decisive tactician, Bucky growls in irritation and smacks at the controls to kick it back into action. The dryer lurches back to life and Bucky and Natasha resume fucking with conviction, driving themselves and each other intently towards the crash.
The machine rumbles on, oblivious to the breathless laughter when they sag against it.
"You realize," Bucky says a little later, when they're pulling their clothes back on (his fresh and toasty from the dryer, hers rather less so from the floor), "you've just admitted a very exploitable weakness."
"What, that I'm putty for a man in a kiddie pool?" Natasha deadpans as she opens the laundry room door.
He grins darkly at her chutzpah. "Wet t-shirts."
"Hmm," Natasha says as she takes a plastic water bottle from the flat on the pantry shelf outside the laundry room. "Hmmmm." She cracks the seal and unscrews the cap.
"Don't you fucking dare," Bucky cautions and starts backing towards the stairs—barefoot, of course, because his shoes are still soggy and miserable. "Gah!" He yelps when Natasha splashes his face and lunges for the bottle. Natasha resists his efforts to wrestle the now wildly spilling water bottle from her grasp, laughing wickedly. Bucky laughs too, a low chuckle, and steers Natasha back into the laundry room. That, she does not resist.