Chapter Text
Jaskier was late. Not fashionably late, not a few-minutes-behind-schedule late, but painfully late. The stream was supposed to start twenty minutes ago, and he was still a full three blocks from his apartment when the panic truly set in. His carefully planned schedule had imploded the moment he decided he had enough time to detour for a latte. Rookie mistake. He should have known better.
He hadn’t even taken the first sip before he realized the gravity of his miscalculation. Clutching the still-warm cup like a lifeline, Jaskier broke into a full sprint, dodging pedestrians and weaving between parked cars like a man possessed. His scarf trailed behind him like a banner of poor time management, and his boots, far more aesthetic than practical, slipped on the wet pavement.
Naturally, the gods, who had long since decided Jaskier’s life was their favorite tragicomedy, decided this was the perfect moment for divine intervention.
He rounded the corner at breakneck speed, and slammed, shoulder-first, into another body. His latte exploded between them, the lid flying off and soaking the stranger in a spray of overpriced caffeine and oat milk.
Jaskier stumbled back, horror blooming on his face as he realized what he’d done. “Oh no. No, no, no, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, I wasn’t looking, I was in a rush, and,” His voice trailed off as he finally looked up.
And saw him.
The white-haired Adonis who seemed to only existed in the realm of mystery and rumor. Jaskier had seen him before, once near the market, another time walking an absurdly regal dog, but always from a distance, always too far to strike up conversation or offer an awkward compliment. His brain had immediately dubbed the man The Muse. No name, no details, just bone structure sharp enough to wound and an air of profound unapproachability.
Now he was standing inches away, drenched in lukewarm latte and glaring with the intensity of someone who’d just had a bad day made worse by him.
The man frowned. Or at least, deepened the frown he already wore like a permanent accessory.
Jaskier’s heart tried valiantly to escape his chest. “Oh, gods. It’s you.”
He meant to think that, not say it….
No, he probably wasn’t getting a name now. But Jaskier could at least say one thing for himself: if he was going to completely humiliate himself, at least it was in front of the most beautiful man he'd ever seen… His white suit shirt now clinged to his chest…
…And the man’s nipples were pierced apparently.
Jaskier’s brain finally caught up with himself in real time, and he stumbled forward, reaching into his coat pocket as if that might somehow undo the damage. “I ruined your shirt,” he blurted, pulling out his wallet with fingers still trembling from the collision. “It’s the least I can do, I mean, I can’t exactly unspill it, give you money to buy a new shirt?”
The man didn’t answer right away. He just looked down at the spreading stain on his shirt, then back up at Jaskier with eyes like winter fog, cool, unreadable, a little amused. The corners of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But not a snarl either. Some rare, in-between expression that suggested he was either seconds away from telling Jaskier to get lost or… something else entirely.
“That won’t be necessary,” the man said finally, voice low and dry, like aged whisky poured over ice. “I’ve got plenty.”
Jaskier blinked. “Not upset?”
“No.” The man brushed a damp curl of hair back from his forehead, the motion graceful despite the fact that he was wearing half of Jaskier’s breakfast. “It's not like you stabbed me.”
Jaskier's mouth opened, then shut again, then opened once more as if the right response might suddenly appear and save him from further embarrassment.
It didn’t.
The Muse adjusted his leather jacket, as if Jaskier hadn’t just doused him in coffee, and took a slow step back. “Try not to kill anyone on your way home.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into the flow of the street, leaving Jaskier standing there, wallet still in hand, latte-less and entirely ruined by a dream boat.
Geralt was having a shit day.
With a sharp sigh, he yanked on his leather jacket as he got into his car, trying to cover the damage before anyone else could comment. Not that he cared what people thought, he didn’t, but it was about dignity. Or what little of it he had left. Blue Eyes had fumbled over himself after slamming coffee into him… Or that's the name Geralt gave him.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and told himself it was fine. He’d just wait it out. Blue Eyes’ crush would fade. It always did. Sooner or later, people figured out that he wasn’t worth the trouble.
Blue Eyes would, too.
Probably around the time he realized Geralt had, in Yennefer’s ever-encouraging words, “the emotional range of a particularly broody sea cucumber” and “zero social skills.”
He had bigger things to worry about anyway. Like picking up Ciri from her community college class.
She was seventeen now, graduated early, because of course she did, and already elbows-deep in general ed classes and applications for transfer. It felt like just last week she’d been in pigtails, galloping around the backyard pretending to be a mare named “Stormlight” and demanding to be addressed as such.
Now she was analyzing economic theory and asking about tuition fees.
What the hell had happened?
He blamed Yennefer.
She’d been pushing Ciri toward STEM like a general marshaling troops for battle. Engineering, chemistry, robotics, all subjects Geralt could only nod along to. He didn’t really care what she studied, not as long as she was happy. He himself had started in pre-med before ending up owning a butchery with Eskel. Life zigzagged. That was normal.
When he pulled up to the curb, Ciri was already there waiting, bag slung over her shoulder, hair pulled back, looking exhausted and more adult than he was ready for.
She climbed in with a groan, immediately tossing her backpack into the back seat. “Ugh. I swear if I hear the phrase ‘peer-reviewed journal’ one more time, I’m going to scream.”
Geralt grunted in solidarity, pulling away from the curb. “Rough day?”
“Yeah. But I crushed my biology quiz, so that’s something.”
He nodded, keeping one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the heater. “Good.”
Ciri chatted on, detailing every twist of her day with a mix of sarcasm and genuine interest. He listened the best he could, he always tried to, even if he didn’t understand half the vocabulary. She made it easier, tossing in jokes and pausing for his grunts of acknowledgment.
Then, mid-story, she sniffed the air dramatically and narrowed her eyes at him. “Wait. Is that… coffee?”
Geralt didn’t answer right away.
“Did you get coffee without me?” she accused, lips curling into a smirk. “Rude.”
“I didn’t get it,” he muttered. “I wore it, thanks to Blue Eyes.”
She raised an eyebrow, then leaned closer. “Oh my gods. Him?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Yes.”
“The guy. With the blue eyes. The one who stares at you like you’re made of magic.”
Geralt sighed. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Ciri grinned, all too pleased with herself. “So it wasn’t Mr. Puppy Eyes who spilled his entire coffee on you?”
“Yes, he spilled his coffee on me. But I don't care about his staring, I don’t have time for relationships,” he muttered.
Ciri chuckled. “You don’t have time for laundry either, apparently.”
He shot her a sideways glance, but she just grinned wider.
“You know,” she added casually, “he seems nice. You could at least learn his name.”
Geralt rolled his eyes, trying to suppress the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t admit it, but the day felt a little less shit now.
Aiden was juggling a thousand things, and he didn’t even have the energy to complain about it anymore. His phone buzzed with an unread email, a text from his landlord, and two notifications from social media, all ignored as he crouched down to scratch the tiny grey kitten perched on the corner of his cluttered desk.
The kitten purred, rubbing her head against his knuckles, and Aiden let out a breath that felt like it had been stuck in his chest all day.
“I should just quit and open a cat sanctuary,” he muttered, smiling tiredly. “You guys wouldn’t judge me for being broke, huh?”
The kitten mewed in response.
He loved being a vet tech. Really, he did. He’d worked his ass off through school, survived exams, late-night cramming, rotations, internships. It was his passion. Helping animals, being part of a team that saved lives, calmed nervous owners, gave second chances. It gave him purpose.
But holy fuck, it didn’t pay.
Not enough to live comfortably. Not enough to ignore the reminders from his family, dropped so casually over the phone.
“So, when are you going to use that degree for something real?”
“Have you thought about getting your RN instead?”
“There’s good money in dental tech. Way better than, you know… cats.”
He rolled his eyes just thinking about it. If one more person in his family compared his salary to a waiter’s, he was going to scream.
Actually, he could probably make more waiting tables in the right part of town.
But instead, he had a different side hustle.
He glanced at the clock. Shit.
It was almost time to stream. After that, he still had to film content for his website. The only problem? His usual webcam guy was leaving and Aiden was still scrambling for a replacement.
Finding someone to film for him without being creepy, sloppy, or a gossip-prone disaster had proven… nearly impossible.
“Either they overshare, or they try to get in my pants,” Aiden muttered, pushing himself up and grabbing his bag. “And I literally pay you not to do either of those things.”
He walked into the clinic’s back office, grabbing a few supplies for afternoon rounds. His scrubs were a little wrinkled, his sneakers overdue for replacement, and his shoulders ached from more than just physical strain.
He didn’t regret what he did on the side. The sex work, streaming, videos, custom content, it paid his rent. And then some.
It kept him afloat when vet tech wages couldn’t. It let him save a little. Gave him the freedom to buy decent food, cover emergencies, keep the lights on.
Still…
His family didn’t know. They already judged his day job. He couldn’t imagine what they’d say if they found out he was filming softcore videos in his room at night.
Lambert knew but didn't care. Hell, he laughed, called it “entrepreneurial,” and asked if Aiden was raking it in.
He sighed, rubbing his temples before slapping a smile on his face as the next client came in with an excitable golden retriever.
"Hey there, big guy!" he said in a bright voice, kneeling down, dodging the dog’s attempt to lick his face. "Somebody missed me, huh?"
The owner smiled awkwardly. “He does that to everyone. Sorry.”
Aiden chuckled. “No worries. He just knows I’m the treat guy.”
He made it through his rounds, nodding politely, checking temperatures, giving vaccines, soothing skittish pets and nervous people. By the end, he felt drained, like a balloon that had been slowly deflating all day.
He locked up for the evening and slid into his car, phone already buzzing again with the reminder for his stream.
“Okay,” he muttered, “time to be hot on camera now. Great.”
He headed home to shower, prep, and hope to hell his backup tripod held steady. Because if not, he was going to have a nervous breakdown live on camera.
Again.
Aiden’s phone buzzed as he stepped out of his car, the evening air already sticky and humid. He pulled it out of his scrub pocket, expecting another text from his landlord or some spam email offering a credit card he couldn’t afford.
Instead, it was Jaskier.
Jaskier: i just committed a latte-based assault on mr. hottie. i think the gods are punishing me for my caffeine addiction.
Aiden blinked and barked out a laugh, thumbing out a reply as he started walking toward the apartment.
Aiden: Did you at least apologize?
Jaskier: i apologized PROFUSELY. he was not amused. he’s hotter up close. like unfair levels of hot. it was a white shirt. the latte is now part of the shirt. i’m gonna die alone.
Aiden: I'm sure you'll survive.
Jaskier had been a meme buddy at first. They met at a party, one of those mutual friend things where you’re both the weird artsy ones at opposite ends of the couch, drinking something neon and judging everyone else. Their friendship mostly lived online, a constant stream of dumb screenshots and “have you seen this cursed image” texts, until Aiden found out Jaskier was a live streamer. Not his kind of streaming, of course. Jaskier played music, hosted Q&As, and occasionally livestreamed himself cooking meals with a dangerous level of enthusiasm.
Still, the guy knew his way around web cameras and lighting, and when Aiden asked for advice, Jaskier didn’t ask too many questions. Just gave him tips, helped him find decent gear, and never once pried into what Aiden was filming.
It meant a lot.
Aiden pushed the apartment door open and was hit immediately with the smell of pizza and whatever game Lambert was yelling at.
“Home sweet home,” Aiden muttered to himself, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.
Lambert was camped out on the couch in sweatpants, headset on, PS5 controller in hand. Gunshots rang out from the TV, and a cowboy on horseback was galloping across some dusty landscape.
“You’re late,” Lambert said, not looking away from the screen. “And Ciri stole your last Pop-Tart.”
Aiden dropped his bag by the door with a groan. “If she touched the cinnamon ones, we’re gonna fight.”
“She already did. You’ve got no chance. Kid’s ruthless.”
Aiden kicked off his shoes and padded over to the kitchen, glancing over at the coffee table. A shiny, overstuffed basket sat there with a big red bow.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Gift basket,” Lambert said, finally pausing his game. “Kiyan dropped it off like an hour ago. Said it was for you. Something about parting gifts and thanks for being hot on camera?”
Aiden snorted. “Of course he did.”
Lambert turned, brow raised. “So… you two were a thing?”
“What? No. Kiyan?” Aiden shook his head and started picking through the basket. “He was my camera guy. And sometimes… scene partner.”
Lambert blinked. “Scene, oh. Oh.”
“Yeah.” Aiden pulled out a box of his favorite chocolates and turned it over in his hand like it might say something useful. “He got a better job offer in another town. We ended things amicably.”
Lambert leaned back into the couch, letting that information settle. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Lambert said. “Just thought you were dating him. You guys had weird chemistry. And he kept calling you ‘babe’ like it was a punchline.”
Aiden rolled his eyes. “He calls everyone that. He called Gaetan ‘babe’ once and almost got bitten.”
“I bet he loved that,” Lambert said with a grin, going back to his game.
Aiden took the basket to his room and set it gently on his desk, fingers trailing over the chocolates, the little lotion bottle he liked, a candle that smelled like sandalwood and vanilla, Kiyan knew him too well. He exhaled, pulled off his scrubs, and flopped into his desk chair.
His ring light was still up. The tripod was holding steady. Everything was in place.
He had a show to film. Rent to pay. He grabbed his motorcycle helmet, he wore to cover his face, leaned forward, and muttered to himself:
“Alright. Time to turn it on.”