Takes place in the future, because if I were to use Arya when she was twelve; that'd be too awkward, and it will make Jaqen look like a pedo. Warning for grammatical mistakes and sex.

Summary: She's a grown assassin now—talk like him, act like him, just like him—he thinks, and considers how exciting it will be to have her on his bed. "Eighteen and a professional already?" he asks, smiling. "I learned from the best." Jaqen/Arya.

Arya is polishing her sword, diligently and lovingly as usual, when her eyes catch a glimpse of red and white on the corner of her bedroom. She freezes; her hand instinctively shoots toward the hilt of her sword and waits. Her eyes carefully observe the shadow that stands by the window, her muscles stiffen visibly and her jaw clenches tight at the sense of danger that suddenly overwhelms her.

She knows this kind of feeling, has been familiar with it since the moment she joined Yoren and encountered that man who granted her wishes, and secretly becomes addicted to it ever since. It's the feeling of adventure and danger, adrenaline that rushes furiously through her veins, and heart that beats so hard and quick inside her chest that if she doesn't move to hit something or someone, she might explode.

Unconsciously, her lips stretch wide into a sick twisted grin. Those silver eyes of hers that resemble so much with that of her father's shine in something between excitement and hunger for blood and something else. Her sword is drawn and ready as she studies the shadow more carefully.

If her eyes do not fool her, the owner of the shadow is a tall man; elegant and lean, with a small portion of muscles in all the right places. His posture alone is basically perfect, she thinks, and there are not a lot of people she has met before that has a body similar to this one. What irritates her is the fact that he's standing at an angle, so precise it's impossible for her to make out how his face looks like.

Despite the lack of information she has gained, Arya decides to identify the stranger as three things; another Faceless Man, a lost sorcerer, or quite possibly, a professional thief who's planning to steal her valyrian-steel sword. Her tongue flicks out at the thought, sweeping the raw skin of her lower lip in something akin to hunger or excitement or both. The Temple has made her working rather too hard these days, with most of the people she was assigned to assassinate were all weaklings that she barely lifted a finger. A chance for a spar with another individual that is possibly stronger than her is not something she would miss, especially when she's really, really bored at the moment.

Her grin widens then, but before she can move her feet, she hears the man chuckles—so soft and polite and painfully beautiful (he'd be an excellent singer, she thinks, but dismisses the idea quickly)—and a shiver runs down her spine. She recognizes that voice, more so than her body does, from one of her most, say, fascinating memories.

That voice makes her weak on her knees and her body to pulse with desire; making her crave for the feel of his skin, so cold against her warm ones, and for his lips and tongue and fingers to explore the curve of her body entirely in every sense of word. She wasn't aware of having this kind of sexual urge until their third reunion in Braavos two years back, and he had been a frequent visitor in her dreams ever since.

She recognizes that voice just as fine as her own alright, and it scares her.

The man steps into her line of view, and her breath catches. He has always been stunning, she thinks, with his half-white half-red hair, and inhumanly handsome most attractive face she has ever seen in her life. Last time, he wore the face of a hook-nosed man with golden teeth, and as ugly as one thinks it might be, he was somehow still be able to look gorgeous in her eyes. This time, he wears the same face as the one he used when they first met, without the chains and dirty ragged clothes or expensive armor of Lannisters' and a long sword.

"Jaqen," she whispers lowly, her own voice is unusually thick with lust and slightly strained in her throat. She must have sounded weird, she thinks, but she's Arya Stark and she is not some kind of weakling that would bow in front of him. So she straightens her back and gives him a cold unwavering gaze, just to prove it. Another soft chuckle comes from him, and she hates how her eyes are unable to look away from his lips.

Jaqen walks toward her in careful feather-soft steps, his skin glistens under the dim moon light, his hair turns into beautiful colors of light-blue and pale-red, and his deep-blue eyes look even brighter than before. It makes her jealous, sometimes; when she recalled how he looked like when they first met, how nice he smelled even after slaughtering those men in Harrenhal under her request, and how beautiful he was, more than any women she had seen before, Sansa included.

Her eyes roam over his posture, feeling slightly disappointed by the fact that the black duffel-coat he's wearing doesn't show much of his fine features. It makes her want to strip him off any clothing materials and just watch until she's satisfied, but she can't tell him that. He will be much cockier than he already is if he knows, and that's just annoying.

"Even if a girl doesn't speak, a man knows." Jaqen speaks softly, ruining her train of thoughts. She doesn't realize that he's already in front of her until his gloved-thumb brushes against her cheek, making her breath catches and her lips part at the contact, but she doesn't move away. Their eyes meet, her silver ones clash against his deep-blue, and she seems to be at loss of what to say, lost in his eyes and light-touches.

One cold thumb moves down to her neck, rubbing at the sensitive skin unknowingly (or maybe he knows, maybe he doesn't), and she shivers, biting the insides of her cheek to stop her from moaning. She sees him smirk down at her, and when she swallows, the smirk gets wider, and she can't decide whether to punch him or kiss him senseless to wipe that smirk off his face. Perhaps she might as well tear his clothes to pieces and fuck him right here and there, for the sole purpose of catching him off-guard, but they've done it before, so she shrugs the idea off.

"And what does a man think he knows?" she asks him back, forcing her voice to come out of her throat, but it sounds low, barely a whisper. He hears her though, she knows, because he tilts her chin up slightly to get a closer look at her face, and this time, his smile actually reaches his eyes.

"Everything." The way he whispers the word, ever so softly and deep and low, makes her toes curl and her heart to pound mercilessly against her ribcage. Her stomach feels like it is on fire, and she presses her thigh together to ease the itch between her legs. It doesn't do her any good though, so she chooses to be bold and get this over with.

Arya leans forward to him, her lips and body are barely touching with his, making sure that her knees hit his legs before drawing it back ever so slightly, and grins when he holds his breath. They are looking at each other through half-lidded eyes; hers are already dark and clouded with lust at the thought of feeling him again, and his are pretty much unreadable, as they have always been. He leans down a bit, their noses brushing, his forehead rests against hers, and the faint scent of mint and cool breath on her lips make her heart pounding faster in excitement. As much as she loathes the way he teases her like this, and the time before too, Arya hates losing just as much. She lost once, on their first time, her first time, so she won't lose now. She won't.

She feels his hands moving to her sides, one caressing her waist up and down while the other rests on the small of her back. He pulls her closer to him, not close enough that their bodies are pressed against one another like what she was hoping it would be, and god how is that even possible in their position? It annoys her—he annoys her and turns her on at the same time—and she hates him for it. The worst part is that he seems to know everything that she's thinking, like he's able to read her mind or something, and she bites her lower lip in annoyance. At this moment, if he doesn't move first, it's either she'd throw him on to the floor or push him against the wall hard, not caring if he were to mock her for it later. The throbbing between her thighs is too much to bear, even for her.

"Should we do this here?" he asks, playfully and amusedly, with that somehow seductive voice of his, and a small whimper escapes her lips. His lips are kissing her cheek and the corner of her mouth, but never her lips, and his hand ghosts across her arse and her center, but never actually touching. She's weak on her knees, her head is painfully dizzy at his torture, and finally, she gives up and pulls him by the collar down to her.

Her lips crash against his furiously, catching him off guard and literally takes his breath away. Her hands find its way to his hair, pulling and ruffling and grasping at it as she pleases, her fingernails scratching his scalp almost painfully, but he doesn't care. In that instant, Jaqen presses her flush against him, moving his lips sensually and passionately against hers, kissing her senseless like there's no tomorrow, and he grunts when she pushes her knee against his growing erection.

Always the bold one, he thinks, and slams her hard against the wall. He knows she doesn't mind, because she pulls him back to her again, tearing his clothes apart and pushes the material off his shoulder. He does the same with her clothes; ripping her shirt open and throws it away somewhere, and she wraps her legs around his waist tightly, rubbing her body urgently against his. Jaqen moves his hands to squeeze her backside hard enough to leave a bruise, but this only turns her on even more. She moans, loud and clear for him to hear, and he smirks as he kisses his way hotly down her neck, nipping and biting at the sensitive skin that make her shiver and hisses his name in pure delight.

Deft calloused hand pulls at her long brown locks roughly, giving him a better access on assaulting her neck before moving up to the spot below her ear. He hesitates briefly, his breath cool on her ear and cheek, and before she can say anything to encourage him even further, he gives a long wet lick behind her ear, making her shiver and moan his name shakily.

"Jaqen," her voice is a mixture of a whimper and a moan, and he knows that there's nothing better than the sound of it moaning his name. Arya bucks her hips against his, rubbing her breasts flat against his chest as he leaves open-mouthed kisses from her ear down to the connection of her neck and her shoulder. He sinks his teeth into her skin, marking her as his and his alone, and she lets out a cry of shock and pleasure.

Arya grabs a hold of his face and pulls him up for another kiss, fierce and breathtaking and challenging and Arya. His tongue darts out to sweep across her lower lip twice, begging for entrance, and she doesn't hesitate to let him in.

Their tongues start wrestling for dominance, while their hands are occupied mostly on removing each others' breeches without breaking their connection. Growling in frustration, Arya takes out her dagger and rips his breeches without the slightest hint of hesitation or guilty, and he laughs.

"A girl must not be violent, especially to her friend." He purrs hotly near her ear, emphasizing the word friend in his most seductive and teasing voice that sets her on edge, and she groans as she nips at his earlobe.

"You love it." Yes he does, so much, and smirks against her skin that is now hot and sweaty. She pushes the remaining of his breeches down with her toes, and he snatches the dagger from her hand to tear her breeches instead. Hers are obviously more expensive than his, but that was his favorite out of all, so fair is fair.

He takes his sweet time slicing at the fabric on her thigh, the feel of cold steel against her hot skin feels oddly pleasing in a way, but she prefers Jaqen's cool fingers more than the dagger. When he finishes slicing the breeches completely until it is, undoubtedly unusable anymore, Jaqen ducks his head down to her breasts and takes her nipple into his mouth without warning.

His tongue is hot and wet, rolling around her buds like it's the most delicious thing he had ever tasted while his free hand pinches and massage the other. One of his hands, which are not occupied at the moment, holds her by her back, slipping into the thin fabric of her black undergarment once in a while. She's too busy making a mess out of his hair to notice, and he smirks, grazing his teeth lightly over her nipple, and she curses.

"Fuck. Jaqen, please." Arya says between pants and moans, her pleading voice is far too sweet in his ears and he chuckles. He's going to say something like 'be patient' or 'slow down' or whatever, as long as it goes with either of those lines, but they're lost when her hand reaches down between them and wraps her palm around his erection. He lets out a deep muffled groan, slamming his fist beside her head while the other is still holding her in place, because really, she's not as small as she was before.

She's a grown assassin—talk like him, act like him, just like him—he thinks, and considers how exciting it will be to have her on his bed. She has slim and lean posture, pretty tall for her age, but unlike normal and ordinary women, she has muscles, not a lot, but they're visible. It's impossible to mistake her for a man no matter what kind of face or clothes she chooses to wear now.

He has heard rumors, rumors about her, how awesome and great she is at her job of assassinating people without leaving a single clue or making it look like their deaths are caused of natural causes, not a murder.

"Eight and ten, and a professional already?" he asks out of the blue, smiling. Her palm clenches tighter around him, and he growls beside her ear.

"I learned from the best." She replies breathlessly and throws him a smirk.

Jaqen laughs and grabs her arms, releasing himself from her sweet torture and pins them by the wrists above her head. They're staring at each other once again, but this time it was a bit different. His expression is unreadable, and there's something in his eyes that she cannot understand what it is. All she knows is that he's looking at her and she feels slightly embarrassed at the sudden attention he gives.

He slides into her without any warning, hard and deep, and they both groan loudly in pleasure. She shifts her hips against his once, twice, thrice, and cries out in shock when he lifts her up and jabs into her. Arya digs her nails into his back and shoulders, letting him thrust harder and faster, the tension building more and more intense at the pit of her stomach. She throws her head back and shouts his name when she finally comes down, her body shuddering in relief, and he whispers her name hotly in her ear before coming down himself.

She feels his mouth on her neck once again, nipping and kissing softly at her hot sweaty skin, and they stay like that for another couple of minutes. It's unusual, she thinks, as he places open-mouthed kisses all over her neck, but she doesn't mind. It makes her feel good and warm, and loved, even though it is almost impossible now that she has no one but him and the remaining of her siblings left in this world.

"Bed?" he asks softly, nuzzling his nose at the nape of her neck, and she nods. Right now, all she wants to do is relax on her bed without the need to look over her shoulder for danger, and for once, he doesn't mind to stay with her, even if it's just for a while.

It's a win-win, I guess, Arya thinks for the last time and yawns, before drifting off to sleep in his arms—as cliché as it may sound.

Uhh. So that was short. I guess. Title is based on Maroon 5's "Hands All Over". It's a great song—even though it might not have something to do with this story, at all—and I feel like an idiot, writing this. Hope y'all will still like it.