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Sansa can’t quite explain it—nor does she care to examine it—but watching Jon do the laundry is perhaps the most erotically-charged experience of her young life.
It’s just so delightfully, panty-dropping domestic, the way he sorts his whites from his colors (mostly blacks). And the fact that Jon’s masculine security is such that he doesn’t shy away from flowery detergents and fabric softeners? Well. Sansa confesses herself shocked that the mere knowledge of this hasn’t gotten her good and pregnant (yet).
Thanks to all those birthday wishes Sansa never cashed in, the laundry service at the flat Jon shares with his mate Sam has been out-of-order since they moved in six months prior. So Jon pops by Sansa’s every weekend with a bag or two, and sets up camp in the tiny closet that houses her washer and dryer. The makeshift washroom is just off the kitchen where she just happens to be baking the afternoon away. It’s completely coincidental—and serendipitous, perhaps—that she’s got a perfect view of his arse from where she’s rolling cookie dough at the stove.
They wheedle away the hours with their chores and idle chatter. Jon folds the shirts she’d neglected to take out of the dryer that morning, and she fills tupperware with cookies or cakes or tarts or whatever she’d baked during Jon’s multiple spin cycles. He always smiles and claims that he’s getting everything out of the deal—free laundry service and baked goods, to boot—and how can he ever thank her? Sansa only smiles back and neglects to mention that his arse is thanks enough.
But she’s not an animal. She also likes the way he looks in his specs with his tousled curls and slightly too-tight flannel, because all of his well-fitting clothes are in the wash, and when he brings her coffee those weekends he pops in before nine A.M. she swears she can hear wedding bells.
And, alright, so maybe she’s a bit of an animal, Sansa relents, because the sight of him bending over to make sure he’s got the last of his socks from the dryer makes her fan herself with the nearest takeaway menu. And when he stretches the tension from his shoulders, his shirt rides up a little and she gets a peek at his lower back or the curve of his hip bone or the lightest dusting of hair that disappears into his waistband, and when he leaves she’s got to take a cold shower to relieve the ache she’s so sure he’ll never fulfill, if only because she won’t tell him about it for fear of his sure-to-be gentle rejection.
Because Jon Snow isn’t stupid—he knows he’s gorgeous, knows the effect he has on anyone who’s biologically predisposed to an attraction to him, whether he’s folding laundry or not. He just doesn’t care, not enough to use it to his advantage. Which is only another reason why Sansa wants to jump him in that tiny closet just off her kitchen—because he’s looking for commitment and stability and all those cheesy, happily-ever-after things that Sansa’s been swooning over since the tender age of nine-or-so.
Jon Snow doesn’t hit it and quit it; Jon Snow wants to put a ring on it, and for that Sansa wants to get that boy on lockdown by snogging him on a pile of their freshly-laundered delicates.
Not that she would ever make such a bold move, not even a suggestion and certainly not a direct request. Because despite her lecherous thoughts about Jon’s arse and his delicates and what that light dusting of hair trailing past his navel leads to, Sansa Stark is a good girl. She pays her bills on time and she does charity work at the animal shelter, and her hem is always tailored to a tasteful length that flutters about her knees (barring the girls’ night pub crawls, when she fancies herself a bit more daring). She tips waitstaff handsomely and holds doors open for strangers and she knows everyone’s coffee order. She would never indulge in anything more sexually promiscuous than the collection of paperback romance novels hidden in the bottom drawer of her bedside table (her weekend ogling of Jon’s various appendages notwithstanding).
Sansa Stark is a good girl, and this really isn’t her fault at all. What transpires on one fateful Sunday morning is truly the most random of happenstances for which Sansa refuses to take full responsibility, regardless of how it all works out in her favor.
(That, she’ll come to tell an uncharacteristically smug Jon more than once following this fateful Sunday morning, isn’t the point—rather the point is that Sansa Stark is not some clever, conniving seductress, and more importantly she wouldn’t show off her underwear to just anybody, no matter her feelings for them, because the humiliation that would follow a rejection simply wasn’t worth the possibility that he would have reciprocated said feelings. She would have had to throw out all of her lingerie and replace it just to begin moving past her shame.)
In the half a year since Jon has been doing laundry at hers on Sunday mornings, Sansa has made sure to finish her own the night before. And when you go through as many outfits as Sansa does in a week—between office work and client meetings and all the brunches necessary to one’s career with Highgarden Events—several loads of laundry on a Saturday night really takes it out of you. After one particularly trying week planning Loras Tyrell’s wedding with his sister and Sansa’s best friend, Margaery, Sansa had passed out on the couch halfway through her first cycle.
“I am so sorry,” she mumbles, still half-asleep when she answers the knock on her door sometime after ten the next morning. “My stuff’s still in the wash, I fell asleep before I could finish last night.”
“It’s no problem.” Jon offers her that soft smile of his, and she accepts it as gratefully as she does the steaming paper cup of coffee he hands her. “It’s your washer, after all, I’m only an interloper. I’ll take care of it for you, if you want to go back to bed.”
“Do I look that much of a mess?” Sansa snorts, mostly joking, as she leads the way into the kitchen. But still she can’t help the hand that pats self-consciously at her hair, which is surely a sight she’d prefer no one, least of all Jon, to see.
“‘Course not,” Jon says immediately, and the tips of his ears glare red. He drops his bags in the washroom and mutters, “I mean—well—you never look a mess, Sansa. Um—”
He clears his throat and Sansa, despite how high her eyebrows have hitched up on her forehead, tries not to think anything of it. That would be almost as dangerous as propositioning him, however appealing the thought might be when he’s blushing and spluttering and avoiding her gaze.
She’s not well-rested enough for this. So she shakes it off, thanks him, and almost loses it all over again when he meets her eye with another one of those smiles.
What the fuck is going on? Sansa thinks in a panic while she busies herself with croissants because she can’t possibly bake anything more complicated today. She’s overthinking this, she knows she is, but Jon keeps stealing glances as he sorts his laundry and has he ever done that before? Has she simply been too wrapped up in her own besotted foolishness to notice?
She doesn’t have too much time to overthink further—a fact for which she would be forever thankful, if it weren’t for the mortifying nature of her paranoid stream-of-consciousness’ interruption.
“Erm… Sansa?”
“Yes?” Sansa says, cool as you please, if only she hadn’t dropped the baking sheet with a thunderous clatter! She fishes it from the floor, cheeks blazing, and replaces it to its spot on the counter as if she hadn’t just demonstrated her extreme, lust-driven clumsiness.
Jon pokes his head through the doorway, brow creased in concern. “Are you alright?”
“Fine, I’m fine,” she babbles. “Are you?”
“Oh. Right.” Once more Jon’s ears go that curious shade of pink. He clears his throat again and says, “Could you—erm—I dunno if you want me to take care of this laundry for you, after all…”
He trails off as Sansa scoots into the cramped room beside him. When she catches sight of her lingerie in a pile on top of the dryer, she’s sure she’s about to spontaneously combust. She almost wishes she would, if it meant she’d never have to look Jon Snow in the eye ever again.
There is one long beat of silence between them, broken only by the mechanical whirring of the wash machine as it tumbles the first load of Jon’s darks.
“I’m sorry” is the first thing Sansa can think to say, so she does and then continues as if she’s got anything else in her arsenal. (She most decidedly does not, and yet it seems that nothing could deter her embarrassed rambling, eyes glued to the pile of lace and silk and satin in all manner of bright, cheerful colors that will now haunt her nightmares for years to come. After all, whenever she thought about Jon taking her atop a pile of their freshly-laundered delicates, her personal mortification had never been part of her sexual fantasy lubricant.) “That—well, I told you I nodded off before I could finish—”
“So this—I mean—” Jon appears to be struggling with words as much as she is, although he sounds far more frustrated than embarrassed. “I just—so you didn’t do this on purpose?”
Sansa blinks, eyes on him now to find that he looks frustrated, too, face burning and forehead scrunched. One hand readjusts his specs as the other takes it in turns to scrub at his beard and run through his already-disheveled curls.
“Do what on purpose?”
“I—” That sinful mouth of his is opening and closing and opening again. It makes Sansa want to slip her tongue between his lips. (Everything makes Sansa want to slip her tongue between his lips.) “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I just—I thought…”
Thought what? That she’d left her lingerie in the dryer specifically to tantalize him into some grand declaration of love? Or, at the very least, that he’d be so overcome with carnal lust at the sight of all that silk and he’d take her fast and rough against the machine during its spin cycle?
But more importantly, did he want to do any of that? Should she seduce him? Or was he thoroughly seduced already, so she could just go in for the kill?
Go in for the kill? Sansa wonders, half-mad with the thoughts running through her obviously addled brain. God, who am I? Margaery?
Sansa certainly wishes she had a moment to text Margaery for advice on how she should proceed. But time is of the essence, and Jon’s ears are getting redder by the second. Not to mention he keeps not-so-surreptitiously glancing at her chest, as if to determine what she might be wearing under yesterday’s blouse, based on what he’d seen in the offending pile in front of them.
Logically, Sansa thinks the best course of action is to just make a move already; Jon’s certainly given her enough to work with by now. But she’s much too self-conscious at the moment for anything to be enough to work with, unless she can get him to make the first move. Then she would know, indisputably, that he wants to get it on in her laundry closet as much as she does.
It’s not that Sansa is an illogical person, per se, nor does she tend to be anything less than utterly and completely self-possessed. But there’s simply too much to lose if she were to make the wrong move with Jon; it’s not worth her pride or the decimation of their friendship. So if Jon wants this—wants her—then for fuck’s sake, he’d better show her.
She takes a step closer and nearly crowds him against the wall. “What did you think, Jon?”
“Well, I—” Jon blinks rapidly, and in the midst of his confusion he’s looking at her mouth and her chest and her face and then her chest again. Sansa lifts an eyebrow, which apparently emboldens him because now it’s Jon taking a step towards her and she’s being crowded against the washer, the vibrations of which shake her spine and tease so many other delicious parts of her body.
“Maybe it’s not what I thought, exactly, but I had hoped that you might—” Jon’s throat bobs but he soldiers on— “that you fancied me, and honestly this seems like the sort of thing Margaery would tell you to do to get my attention, not that you needed to get my attention, you already have it, and… and…”
The edge of the washer digs into Sansa’s lower back, and Jon’s so close she can feel his heartbeat. The scent of detergent and his aftershave cloud her senses, and his coffee-stained breath fans across her lips that are aching to taste him.
He takes a breath—deep and steady, eyes searching her face like he means to commit every curve and shadow to memory—and he says, “You know what? Deck me if I’m wrong, but I’ve just—I’ve got to try this one thing—”
And before Sansa can so much as suppose what he means by that, Jon’s mouth is on hers, lips parted, tongues tangling, teeth clashing. It’s immediate, instantaneous, the way that he wants her, and Sansa could legitimately weep from the long-awaited relief his stubble scratching at her chin brings her. Her back arches and his hands slide around her waist, hips meeting hers when she grinds against him, because she’s been waiting for this and she can’t wait any longer now that he’s got his hands on her.
Jon leaves her lips for her neck; she whines at the loss of contact and then moans when he sucks a hickey behind her ear. One of his hands pushes her hair back, twists into the long, lush strands and pulls, and the other tears at the snap of her jeans, caught between their rutting hips.
“Christ, you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Jon’s words are a ragged breath against her skin as he drops kisses to every corner. Sansa’s jeans undone, he moves to her blouse, palming, kneading, pinching her breasts over her shirt. “Please tell me you’ve got something like that on—”
Sansa rakes her nails down his chest, then up his shirt. His muscles shudder and she invites, “Rip my shirt off and find out.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Buttons fly everywhere, hitting the machines with several plastic-on-metal plinks! that are barely audible over the combined efforts of the washer and Jon’s groan when he sees the swatch of red lace covering Sansa’s chest.
His mouth moves to the newly exposed skin and he mutters, “God, Sansa, but you’ve got the most fantastic tits.”
“You’ve got the most fantastic—mmm—mouth,” she says on something between a sigh and a moan. Her fingers spear through his hair and his lips twitch against her skin.
“Just you wait for it.”
Again, Jon’s too quick for Sansa to form a coherent meaning to attribute to his words. He drops to his knees, yanking her jeans around her ankles as he goes. His thumbs hook in the waistband of her black cotton panties before he pauses, looking up at her for permission to continue. Sansa could hardly deny him, not when he’s prostrated himself in front of her, not when he’s licking his lips and looking at her so needily, his breath flaring against her pussy, thumbnails grazing, teasing her hips.
Sansa Stark is a good girl, but she’s definitely going to let Jon Snow fuck her against the washing machine, any which way he’d like. Every which way he wants.
She can’t help the strangled sort of laugh that escapes when she nods. Jon’s answering grin near splits his face in two, and he rips her panties off just the same; they’re ruined but he pockets them, anyway.
“Those are mine now,” he tells her as he plants wet, messy, open-mouthed kisses to her thighs. His hands follow the progression of his tongue, and he slips two fingers inside her when he adds, “And so’s this.”
His mouth is on her then, tongue joining his fingers and lips ravishing her. He doesn’t waste any time—it’s as though he’s been waiting for her as long as she has for him—and concentrates his efforts on her clit, swirling and sucking and groaning, muttering unintelligible appreciation and filthy praise, mmmm and mine and so good, sweetheart and Sansa darling, Sansa sweetheart, Sansa love—
“Jon,” she gasps back with equal fervor. She pulls his hair as she comes and he groans louder, longer, fingers leaving her to grip her arse to tug her more fully against his face, tongue lapping at her like he’s a man starved and parched and wanting.
When all that’s left of her orgasm are the aftershocks, Sansa pulls at Jon’s curls to encourage him back to his feet. Their mouths crash together anew, tongues exchanging a sweet, salty tang. Jon’s grip on her arse tightens; he slams her against the rocking washer, his erection grinding at the hot apex of her thighs through his jeans. Sansa fumbles for his button and zipper while Jon tears his shirt over his head. They nearly stumble in their eagerness. Jon mumbles something about a condom between hickeys and Sansa reassures him that she’s on the pill.
“I want you—” she sucks on his earlobe and he hisses a short, satisfied breath between his teeth— “now.”
Jon Snow is nothing if not eager to please, so it seems, and he doesn’t keep her waiting a moment longer. He squeezes her thighs, nips at her bottom lip, and thrusts into her in perfect time to the wash cycle. Their moans are in sync with the pace and the whir, breath harsh as Jon pounds into her, just as fast and rough as Sansa had always hoped, ardent and desperate and chasing the thrill of her skin against his, of her fluttering, pulsing cunt around his cock.
“Sansa—” Jon grunts when a series of short, deep cries rip from her throat, spurring him on, harder and faster. He fucks her against the washer and the washer bangs erratically into the wall, sure to leave enough damage behind for which Sansa will not get her security deposit back.
But when Jon moans her name, bites her neck, licks her mouth, slaps her arse… God, fuck the security deposit, her landlord can go hang.
Sansa comes first—of course Jon would make sure of that, any man who takes the time to separate his lights from his darks is sure to take the time to make his woman orgasm before he does (and there go those wedding bells again)—and Jon follows, riding the wave of her second round of aftershocks just as she’d ridden his cock: fast and hard and so, so satisfying.
They sink to the ground, slumped together, panting, arms and legs tangled, skin slick with sweat and lusty bruises. Jon sweeps a hand through her hair, again and again, and Sansa trails slow, lazy kisses across his shoulder. They take a moment to catch their breath, but still their heartbeats race upon Jon’s confession:
“The laundry at my flat isn’t out-of-order.”
It takes a moment for his words to register with Sansa’s sluggish, sated mind. Her tongue sweeps his jaw thoughtfully, then she prompts, “What?”
“The laundry at my flat, it’s perfectly in order.” Jon shakes his head in something like disbelief, a dazed smile on his face when he looks at her. “I just wanted an excuse to spend several uninterrupted hours with you every week.”
She laughs, blushing and breathless. Unbelievable. Ridiculously, wonderfully unbelievable that he would want her the way she wanted him, all the while.
“You could have just asked.”
“I’m an idiot.” He shakes his head again, and traces the shape of her lips with a gentle, reverent touch that makes him sigh, content, and her heart flutters.
“If you’d asked,” Sansa says, words soft upon his fingertips, “it wouldn’t have taken six months for you to see my underwear.”
A pause. And then…
“I’m a fucking idiot.” Jon swears, and begins kissing a wildly chuckling Sansa’s neck with renewed vigor.
(It takes them the rest of the day to finish their laundry but, as it happens, Sansa wants Jon just as much, even when he’s not expertly removing a ketchup stain from his favorite shirt.)
(And, eventually, Jon sees Sansa’s lingerie someplace other than in a pile on her dryer—namely, on the girl herself, and he’s properly seduced every time.)