Notes: A multi-chaptered story? The world's gone mad I tell you.

But here we go! Let's hope the idea that's spurred out of staring at that damn picture of Kit with his hands raised (Spooks, was it?) can conjure up a decent story. I see lots of shenanigans with this; hence the male/male, female/female tags, because yes...I can and will probably go there in the future. You've been warned.

Hope you like and as always kudos/comments/feedback are always more than welcome! *bows gratefully*

"Like what you see?"

Her voice dripped like honey and he swallowed; head bobbing up and down like a puppet dangling from barely stable strings. He couldn't make out her features despite the flash of disco-neon lights around them. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things. All he cared about was the sexy display before him; the way her hands ran down her ample bosom (damn they were huge!) and how he longed to suckle on those tits until she screamed his name. Salivating with desire, he crawled closer; not bothering to question why he was actually on his hands and knees in the first place. She had cast a spell over him, and he didn't care if he died tonight in her arms. He wanted her – no…he needed her like a drug.

"I want you," he whimpered as he reached out to claim what could be his.

She giggled and slowly stretched out a long leg in his direction. He moaned as her sole met his forehead and when she pressed lightly, he was sure he going to come there and then.

"Then beg, Jon Snow," she whispered in her most seductive tone yet. "Beg like the dog you really are."

Pride flying out the window, he parted his lips to do just that, when something slammed at the back of his head.

The fuck?!

It wasn't enough to hurt, but it jarred him all the same.

"Wake up, asshole!" came the muffled cry from behind him.

Jon cursed beneath his breath again and pursed his lips in irritation; while forcing his attention back to the stripper. This was no time to wake up. She was almost his for crying out loud!

"You really should go now, Jon," she was saying in a voice that seemed to fade in and out. It was almost as if she was disappearing from sight. No good. No good at all.

Jon, feeling the panic rising within, shook his head and reached for her again. "It's okay! It really is. I've got time! Please come back! Please…!"

"WAKE UP!"

This time he was pushed so hard, he rolled out the bed and fell to the floor with a loud thump. His lashes flew open; the combined emotions of sleep and fury causing him to reach for the nearest object to toss in the direction of his tormentor. He ended up grabbing one of his sneakers, only to look up and into the scowling visage of his boss/relative.

"…Uncle Benjen?" he groaned and lowered the shoe; shoulders sagging in weary resignation. Shit.

"You know what today is," Benjen Stark said with a thinning of his lips. He was usually of good disposition and a hoot to hang out with (especially with a couple of beers in him), but on days like these, Jon knew better than to piss off one of the few relatives that could stand his presence.

"Sorry," Jon muttered as he rose unsteadily to his feet. He shook his head to clear out some of the fog; the last whispers of his dream stripper fading from mind. He blinked at the rays of sunlight to filter through the thin curtains and winced at the time on his alarm clock.

Almost nine – no wonder his uncle was pissed.

"Sorry," he repeated as he gave his uncle another weak smile and reached for the pair of jeans crumpled in the corner of the room. He hopped into them and spoke hastily as he dressed; desperate to find at least one clean shirt in the chaos that was his bedroom. "I'll get to it immediately. I swear."

"You better," Benjen replied with a sigh of exasperation. He shook his head; the waves of disappointment stabbing through Jon's heart at the sight. "Make sure you try to get as many of them before they leave. You know how they are."

"Yes, sir," Jon replied as he finally settled on a black tee-shirt with a faded The Crows insignia on it. He ran his fingers through his mess of black curls and dashed into the bathroom to at least get a little more decent.

Twenty minutes later, he was standing before his uncle's office desk; staring down at the lowered head of black (with a sprinkle of grey) hair before him. His uncle was running down the list of those yet to cough up their monthly rent as the three-day leeway was over. Jon's job was to go door-to-door to get them by any means necessary aside from physically assaulting anyone. Good thing it wasn't that large of an apartment complex or Jon felt this job wasn't really for him. He was good when it came to confrontations, and had been in his share of fights over the years, but he'd rather not have things come to that if he could help it.

"They like you better," Benjen had admitted after the first couple of months on the job. "Must be your looks because they sure as hell don't treat me the same way, and I'm the nicest landlord out there for fuck's sake!"

He wasn't exaggerating either. Compared to the other landlords in Kings Landing, Benjen Stark was one of the 'good guys'. He was tolerant and almost too nice to a fault. It was any wonder he made any money with how many of his tenants had the tendency to give him excuses when it came time to pay up. There were times when Jon wanted to shake his uncle and tell him to be a little tougher, but Benjen would look at him with something akin to pity before replying,

"…some of these people just need a little more time, that's all. In case you haven't noticed, Kings Landing ain't exactly paradise."

No kidding, Jon thought bitterly as he accepted the folder with the list of names and apartment numbers to go hunting down. To say he loathed this city would be an understatement, but it was his stepmother's wish for him to 'gain-some-knowledge' in the South, and what better way than to be shipped down here to spend some quality time with his dead father's younger brother?

Anyone with a brain could tell it was simply Catelyn's way of getting rid of him. After all, with Ned's untimely passing, she was finally able to do something she had always wanted to do anyway. There was no love lost between Jon and his stepmother. The knowledge that he was the product of infidelity was enough to have him on her most-hated list. It was a miracle he had survived the past twenty-two years in her company, and he knew it was all thanks to his half-siblings who at least treated him with some decency. If not, he was sure he would have jumped off the balcony of their massive home in Winterfell to end it all.

He missed them all, especially his little sister, Arya. She was the closest to him, and he genuinely enjoyed her company. Hell, if it wasn't for her lady parts, Arya was more than content to be his little brother because she sure as hell wasn't exactly as ladylike as her mother or older sister – Sansa – would have preferred. Jon had lost count of how many times he and Arya had raised hell in their home, either by staying out late with friends or skipping out on family matters. Arya was a free spirit, and it was a trait Jon admired greatly. Maybe, in some ways, he was a little envious, for though he let loose once in a while, there were moments when he felt he had to restrain himself –

(…so she can like me a little bit)

He could almost laugh at that naïve little boy who was so desperate for Catelyn's approval. He was never going to get it, no matter how many As or awards he received in school. All that praise and adoration was reserved for his older brother, Robb, whom he loved and respected despite the favoritism.

Robb was the typical jock; the guy who got all the girls, who had the looks, and could do no wrong in whatever sport or activity he decided to pick up. Though they were separated by only a couple of months, Robb never failed to act like an older brother. He was always quick to impart his 'wisdom' to a wide-eyed Jon, who listened and soaked it all in like a sponge. Thanks to Robb giving him a good kick in the pants, he finally lost his virginity at fifteen (Robb had lost his two years earlier apparently), and never looked back. Robb taught him how to appreciate women, and despite the many that were more than willing to keep his bed warm, Jon still felt inhibited and almost shy in dealing with them – especially the more forward ones. His sexual escapades could be counted on one hand, while Robb was more than willing to list just about half the women in the entire North he had slept with.

More power to him, Jon thought with a rueful smile, as he gulped down the last of his coffee and took a deep breath. Showtime.

Robb was now in charge of his father's business, and from what he had heard, he was doing quite well keeping things running smoothly. He really did have to give Robb a call to catch up on things. Bran – his younger brother – was a freshman at a rather prestigious college in Oldtown getting his PhD in Bioengineering. A certified bookworm/nerd and avid daredevil (the combo was almost a paradox), Bran was…interesting…to be around. He wasn't much of a talker, and when he did talk, Jon sometimes felt himself dozing off in the middle of conversation. Must be something to do with the flat affect of his voice or his penchant for never really getting to the point on time.

The baby of the house was Rickon, who was still in high school and wasn't quite sure of what he wanted to do with himself once he graduated. He had asked Jon's opinion over a phone call last week, and after half-an-hour of trying to convince him to do something…anything! at all with his damn life, Jon gave up and rudely suggested he become a male prostitute. Rickon had laughed at that before sobering up and saying, "I just might do it."

Jon wasn't sure if he was kidding or not, but imagining the mortification on Catelyn's face if her precious baby ended up fucking random women (or men) for money, was enough to put him in a good mood for the rest of the day.

"Good morning, Mr. Thorne," he greeted as the elevator doors opened to reveal the familiar face of one of the tenants. "Great day, isn't it?"

Mr. Thorne, who might have been pushing a hundred for all Jon knew, tipped his hat and waved his walking cane in the young man's direction. He grinned; revealing pink gums and yellowing teeth before shuffling his way out the front door. He might have muttered a greeting in return, but Jon was so used to not understanding whatever the hell he was talking about, he simply nodded and bound up the stairs two-at-a-time. It might have been easier to use the elevator, but he needed the extra exercise.

Whistling beneath his breath, while making mental notes of the cracks along the wall and on the landing itself – he dreaded having to call Yoren to get these re-plastered and painted, but maybe his uncle could get the crotchety old bastard to do the job without bitching continuously about it.

He came to a stop before 1201 and rolled his eyes at the sounds of Tchaikovsky filtering through the green door. Damn hipsters pretending to be classical music enthusiasts.

He rang the doorbell and counted beneath his breath. At thirty-five, the door finally creaked open, letting out an undeniable waft of hashish, before a green-eye peered at him with feigned caution.

"Joooon?"

"Hi Olivia," Jon greeted with as big a smile as he could muster, while trying not to cough. He had once made the mistake of accepting an invitation to one of their smoke-fests, and goodness knows he wasn't going to repeat that again. The hangover was the worst, and he was sure he had been high for days afterwards. "Petyr home?"

"Noooo," she drawled and opened the door a little wider; a knowing smile now on her visage as he cursed beneath his breath and forced himself to look at the folder.

She was naked except for a pair of sexy black stilettos.

Seven hells.

"You owe the rent," he managed through clenched teeth. He tried to take a step back as a jeweled hand reached out for him. Her fingernails were a kaleidoscope of colors, and would have been pretty if it wasn't for how claw-like they looked. "It's three-days past due."

"Oh really?" she pouted and moved closer still until she was almost in the hallway. Jon darted a quick glance around to make sure no one else was coming, before making the mistake of reaching out to push her inside…on her left breast.

Goddamn it!

"Oooh! Naughty!" she giggled and caught him with a surpassingly strong grip around his wrist. "I know you've been eyeing me, Jon darling. Let's have a little fun before Petyr comes back."

"Not today," Jon replied with a grit of his teeth as he pulled back so hard, he nearly stumbled over his feet. He tore his gaze away from her; wishing she didn't have such a great body despite the myriad of tattoos dotting it. Her features weren't bad either, and with the piercings on her ears, nose, and tongue; her multi-colored hair and glazed expression, she was ripe for a good hard fuck or at least a tongue bath. Jon wasn't blind. He could literally see her juices running down her thighs.

Fuckfuckfuck.

"I need the rent, Olivia," he stated firmly; forcing images of spiders crawling all over him into his mind. "Do you have it or not?"

"Urgh. You're such a buzzkill," she complained and rolled her eyes. Taking a drag of her weed, she blew a cloud of smoke in his face before turning away and sashaying into the apartment.

Jon – despite his better judgement – studied every sway of those hips with an ass that just wouldn't quit. He felt himself getting hard(er) and forced those damn imaginary spiders – his greatest fear for whatever reason – to crawl around his dick.

When she returned with the envelope in her hand, she waved it before him; a teasing smile on her lips. "You're not going to get it until I get a kiss from you."

"Olivia…"

"I'm just asking for a little kiss, that's all," she whined and leaned closer with red-painted full lips pouted and ready to go. "Pretty please?"

"Just one kiss, right?" Jon replied with a raised brow.

Her breath quickened and she nodded eagerly. "Yes…just…one…"

He moved so quick, she barely had the time to think. The kiss was a warm one on her forehead, just as the envelope was snatched away from her hand at the same time.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Jon said with a smirk and mock salute as he walked away backwards. "See you next month."

"You asshole!" she screeched as he dashed up the stairs; nearly laughing until he got to 1305 and composed himself.

Lucky for him, Mr. and Mrs. Martin were not much of a hassle. The older man apologized profusely; complaining about not being able to finish up a book he's been working on and things have been so chaotic lately. His publishers were giving him a hard time with deadlines and all that crap, but he did have the check ready.

"Well good luck with your novel," Jon said with a smile. The poor guy looked hassled, and if that white beard and frazzled expression was any indication, the book he was writing must be an epic of sorts.

"Thank you, Jon, and feel free to stop by anytime for a cup of coffee, eh?"

Jon thanked him for his kindness, but doubted it. If he wanted to be bored stiff, he'd call Bran and listen to him drone on about his latest thesis on some weird engineering thing he had concocted in class.

By the time he got to the topmost floor, Jon had dealt with three more passes from lust-filled women; including old Mrs. Tyrell who kept pretending she was deaf, but only wanted Jon to come into her apartment until she slapped his ass and commented on how 'delicious he was enough to eat'. He would have been freaked out at her daring, but a part of him couldn't help admiring her boldness. From the pictures dotting her walls, it was clear O. Tyrell had been one hell of a babe in her younger days. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind, and he could appreciate her brute honesty.

Two others were not available and he had left the pink notices tacked to their doors, while one had insisted on speaking to his uncle to request an extra week.

The last apartment, on his list, was 1803 – conveniently tucked away at the end of the hallway as if it was an afterthought. Uncle Benjen did say he had once considered using it for storage, but figured with a little ingenuity, he could convert it into a loft for some desperate student.

And desperate student's name was… Dany S.

Jon blinked at the name. Dany? Was that some cool hipster way of calling himself?

Great. Another one of those.

He stopped at the red door and listened. It was quiet. No sounds of music or a T.V. or even the cooling system. Jon couldn't even remember when someone had actually moved in here, though it might have been sometime in the past month, because he was sure he hadn't been here since this Dany's arrival.

Probably not home, Jon thought as he pressed the doorbell, while desperately praying it was the case. He was running out of his 'charm' for the morning, as all the other adventures had taken a toll. All he wanted to do now was take a smoke break, have a beer, and possibly call up Ros – his on-again-off-again girlfriend – for a quick pick-me-up. If he was lucky, they could have a quick fuck without her yapping into his ear about something banal or –

The door creaked open –

"Hello," Jon began on autopilot, only for the words to die out as he found himself staring at the muzzle of a gun pointed right at his forehead.

HolyshitI'mgoingtodie!

"What do you want?" came the muffled voice from behind the door.

Jon couldn't trust himself to speak, and when the hammer clicked, he rushed out a desperate, "I just came to get the rent, that's all. I swear. I'm not doing anything else. Please don't shoot me."

There was a heartbeat of a pause, where Jon was sure the person was going to blast him away anyway, when the door promptly slammed shut…there was the jerk of the chain locks opening and then –

"Ah!"

He was dragged in by the scruff of his t-shirt, with gun still pointed squarely at his temple, and the door slammed shut behind him.

It was a miracle he was still clutching the folder like a lifeline (somehow the stupid thought of his uncle being upset that he lost all the checks was suddenly more important than his life on the line), as he was forced to face his attacker. He was prepared to blubber out some other plea for mercy, when he found himself doing a double-take.

What the…?

"Are you the landlord?" came the curt question.

Jon was so gob smacked at the sight of the petite female (pretty despite her rather haggard appearance) that he barely felt the cold hard object still stuck to his temple. She was slightly shorter than him, but with her stance and stern expression, it was clear she was not one to be messed with. She was barefoot, but clad in a pair of black sweatpants and matching hoodie which covered most of her face. However, it failed to hide the thick braided ponytail with hair so white it almost shimmered like silver when she moved.

And her eyes…whoa.

He had never seen eyes that shade of purple or was it lilac or maybe violet -

"Are you the landlord?" she barked out impatiently, and this time he nodded quickly.

"Well not really," he explained. "I'm Jon Snow. I work for him…the landlord that is. He's my uncle. Uncle Benjen? He's the one with the long hair that's always in a ponytail and he looks like he's pissed, but he's not…"

He realized he was blabbing and forced his mouth to keep shut.

Her eyes narrowed. She studied him as one would study a cockroach about to be stomped before she lowered her gaze to the folder. Jon was sure he wasn't breathing; the only sound being the thundering of his heart and the undeniable pressure forming in his bladder. The last thing he wanted to do was pee himself in terror, but if he was going to die in front of her –

"Don't move," she finally said after what seemed like an eternity. "If you do, I'll kill you. Understand?"

He nodded again; not trusting himself to speak.

She pulled away slowly; gun still trained on him. He held her gaze and swallowed; a part of him hoping she would bump into the chair behind her, giving him some time to escape or better yet kick the gun away. However, one, he wasn't about to fight a woman, and two, he had spent too much time imagining he was a secret agent –

Or maybe she's the one who's a secret agent, he mused as she turned and disappeared into a room. Maybe she's a member of the Kingsguards! Holy shit…or maybe…maybe she's a drug dealer or…

He scanned the apartment, perhaps hoping to see a pile of cocaine or heroin stacked there. To his dismay, there was absolutely nothing to give her away. If anything, the apartment looked as if no one had lived here in a while. There was just a hint of lemon in the air, but otherwise, it was free from the familiar stench of smoke or rotten food he had come to associate with the other tenants. Everything was neat and with its monochromatic theme of white and blacks, there was a stark neatness that was slightly unnerving. The walls were adorned with abstract paintings that made no sense to him, but did make for a pleasing aesthetic. The furniture choices weren't cheap either. We were talking fine leather and an entertainment center that was to die for. It had all the latest devices with a flat screen T.V. that could rival a movie theater screen.

Fucking awe -

"Here you go," she said as she appeared again with an envelope in hand. Luckily, the gun was not exactly pointed at him, but it was still clutched in her hand anyway.

"Than…thanks," Jon replied with what he hoped was a smile, but she didn't respond in kind. He cleared his throat. "Uum…do you mind if I borrowed your counter?" He pointed to the kitchen island with its marbled top. "I just need to sign a few things and give you the receipt."

She said nothing, and taking that as a 'yes', Jon walked carefully toward the kitchen and struggling not to display his nerves, scribbled out the receipt after making sure that the check was for the right amount. He was quick to note that there was a pot of coffee and a mug with "PRINCESS" written on it to indicate that she at least lived here, so that was promising. Other than that…

The seconds ticked by endlessly.

She was too damn quiet, and it was beginning to bother him.

He wondered what he could talk about. Dare he ask who she was or where she came from? Should he start with something as inane as the weather? Though he was sure she'd shoot him just for boring her to death. As he struggled to think up something good, he was spared when the sudden chime of a phone ringing interrupted the silence.

He looked up with a half-smile. She stared back with no expression on her…

(damn she really is pretty)

…visage.

"…uum…that's your phone I think," he finally said with a light shrug. "You going to answer it or…?"

Without missing a beat, she whipped out the device from the pocket of her hoodie and not tearing her gaze from him, she spoke curtly into it. "Talk to me."

Yikes. She was definitely a Kingsguard. No doubt about it. He had heard stories about how ruthless they were, but to think that one of them would be living here? How improbable was that? She was probably on some secret mission and he might have jeopardized it by showing up to –

"…that's unacceptable," she was saying as she paced away from him to walk to the window. The hood fell off her head to reveal the rest of her hair, and Jon's breath caught at the sight. If it had shimmered before, now it seemed to literally glow beneath the sun's rays. There was something decidedly ethereal about this woman, and when she spun around again; the luminescence of her lilac eyes caused a whole other sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He cursed beneath his breath and gathered up his papers with hands that slightly trembled.

"…midnight," she continued. "Got it. I'll see you there."

She hung up and tucked the phone into her pocket. The mask was on again, and it was clearly time for him to hightail it.

"Thanks again," he mumbled as he handed her the receipt.

She accepted it, and with the slight brush of their fingers, Jon felt a rush of blood to his face and groin that was almost painful. Fuck this. He'd blame it all on Olivia later.

He couldn't tell you how he managed to make it out of her apartment, but once in the 'safety' of the hallway, he was just about to let out a deep breath of relief, when her voice halted him again.

"You saw and heard nothing here today, Jon Snow."

"Huh?"

Her brows met in the middle and she repeated the words slowly. "You saw and heard nothing here today."

He got it.

"I…yeah…I saw and heard nothing," he repeated with his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. That urge to let go of his bladder returned, but when her lips curved into the faintest of smiles, that other undefinable emotion slammed into his chest.

…to match the slamming of the door in his face.

Damn.

Guess that's that, he thought with mixed feelings of dismay and gratitude, as he made his way downstairs where he finally let go of the breath he had been holding as he clutched a balustrade for support.

Heard and saw nothing, huh?

He pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling for a long time.

What would his little free spirited sister, Arya, do in a situation like this?

/Midnight. Got it. I'll see you there. /

He glanced at his watch and felt the first stirrings of excitement racing through him. He might end up getting his ass shot if he was discovered, but hell! It was probably going to be worth it if he learned just what a member of the Kingsguard was doing here. Besides, he was sure Arya would want to hear all about it when he saw her next time (if there was a next time). She did always a fascination for that mysterious group.

"Midnight it is," Jon whispered as he bound down the stairs double-time.

Suddenly, his day had gotten just a little bit better.