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they say your body is full of sin (it's the door through where peace begins)

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If anyone would have told Jaime even two weeks ago that he'd be getting ready to masturbate in front of a group of strangers, he would've laughed--but he wasn't laughing now.

Instead, he took a deep breath, trying to settle the nerves that were running rampant throughout his body. There was still a part of him that felt like this couldn't really be happening, and yet that was definitely his dining room chair sitting in the center of his bedroom floor with his flashlight aimed at it. His laptop was really balanced on his secondhand desk, the webcam aimed and on, but not yet streaming.

Fuck, he was really going to do this. 

He shut his eyes, trying to clear his mind so that he could just power through this final step. It was how he'd approached this entire endeavor, by breaking it down into little, harmless steps. It had been easy to propel himself forward that way, to set up his chair and create an account, to do some push-ups and arrange his lighting.

But now he was down to the sticking point, and it turned out that was a lot harder to push through. 

Should he put music on? Change his clothes? Or maybe he should have shaved. Lit a candle. He had no idea what he was doing which was essentially the problem.

"Fuck it," Jaime said, letting out a breath and trying to embrace that same reckless, defiant courage that had always gotten him through in the past. 

He raked a hand through his hair then smoothed his tee shirt down before taking a seat and leaning forward to peer at the waiting room, hoping there was at least one name present. He just needed a foothold, something to build on. One viewer could be enough, at least to begin with.

There wasn't one viewer, though. There were six.

Jaime grinned, reading those six names over and over. They were the sorts of names he had expected to find on a site like this: BustyBabe_69; OllieLuvsOrgasms; Loaded~N~Lonely. Lots of hormones, but nothing truly original.

But he didn't need originality, or to be dazzled by some stranger's wit. He needed money. 

"Okay, Lannister," he told himself. "Let's do this." Ignoring the jumble of nerves that were knotting tighter and tighter, he leaned forward to move his mouse over the button that would stream his video to his six viewers and hopefully alert others that he was available for watching. 

"Hey everyone," he said, pulling out the same wicked smile that had gotten him nearly everything he'd ever wanted since he was fourteen. "My name is XXXJaimeXXX, but you can just call me JaimeX. This is actually my very first night as a camboy, and I'm a little nervous." The corner of the screen lit up briefly and he felt a ripple of excitement as he realized someone had given him a token. "But no matter how inexperienced I am, I'm also very excited that you're all here for me to help me lose my virginity."

The screen flashed again, two more tokens appearing in his account. I can do this , he realized. This can work .

"The last time I lost my virginity, I was a lot younger and folded into the back of a convertible so this already feels much more comfortable." He stretched his body, aware of the way his muscles would bunch and his shirt would ride up, and bit back a smile when more tokens appeared. As he ran one hand consideringly across his belly, Jaime licked his lips, making sure to move a little slower than normal, his eyes trained on the laptop right in front of him. "Let's get started shall we?" And with his grin firmly in place, Jaime stripped his shirt off. 



Most people would think that it had started a few days ago when Jaime had first heard about being a camboy from one of the young women that worked with him. Others would think it began when Jaime simply walked away from his entire life, family and job included, three years before his fortieth birthday. 

But if they’d asked Jaime, he could have told them it began thirty years before when his mother had died. He knew most people expected those early childhood memories to have faded with time, but for Jaime they had only grown sharper in the way that all impossible dreams grew more vivid with each wave of longing. He took them out and examined them so often that they had no choice but to stay clear. 

He could remember her smile, how it was bright and joyous and always quick to appear, and he could remember the way she would laugh, a sound that seemed to ripple up from her chest and dance to his ears, even when he was on the other side of the house. He remembered baking with her after she would nudge the chef into taking a break so that they could have the kitchen to themselves. He remembered what it was like to curl up in her lap when he was tired or scared or just a boy wanting his mother, and the way she smelled when he buried his head against her neck so that her hair would drape around him like a golden cage of protection. 

He had spent three hours in a perfume store once when he was fourteen, smelling each bottle to see if it was what his mother had smelled like, but had left with only a mild ache in his head and a much larger one in his heart.

But what he remembered most about his mother was how losing her became a clear mark of division, the golden early years of before, and the empty despair of after.

When Joanna Lannister died, she left behind her two seven-year olds, a strangely quiet newborn with misshapen legs and a large head, and a husband who no longer seemed to be interested in anything but making sure he could control every facet of his life. 

It was said that nobody had seen Tywin Lannister's smile since the morning his wife went into labor three decades ago. Jaime certainly hadn't. 

In a way, Jaime felt he’d lost both parents that day. His father might not have ever the sort of dad that sitcoms insisted existed, but he had been less rigid,more human before his wife died. The father who had occasionally smiled warmly at his children, or who would read to Jaime once his dyslexia was diagnosed, that man might as well have been dead too. Tywin's body might be up and moving around rather than lying in the family crypt, but it amounted to the same thing.

Every bit of joy bled out of the Lannister house just as surely as every bit of life had bled out of Joanna Lannister in the master bedroom on the third floor. She had labored most of the day downstairs in the den, breathing through her nose as Cersei had shown her the pictures she was drawing for the new baby, holding Jaime's hand as she paced in front of the fireplace.

It was after dinner when she finally agreed to go upstairs, hugging both her children close even as sweat beaded her forehead. "I need you both to be so good for Daddy, okay? Promise me you'll be good until I come back."

They had both sworn they would, sworn they would listen to their father and the nurse that had been hired to mind them while their mother was in labor. Jaime could still remember standing there, clutching his sister's hand as their mother was guided away. He wanted to cry, wanted to go with her, but he had promised to be good for his daddy until his mom returned.

She never did.

Jaime tried anyway. Despite the slaps to the head and the cold silences and autocratic demands, he had tried to be a good brother, a good son. When his father grew more demanding, when he moved the goalposts just a bit, Jaime hadn't complained, not even once. He just kept pushing forward, determined to show his father that he was everything he could ever want in a son.

He played the sports Tywin told him to play. Joined the clubs Tywin told him to join. He went to the university Tywin had gone to, and majored in what Tywin had told him would be most beneficial to the family company.

He watched his brother grow into someone bitter and jaded, watched his sister be shaped into an appealing chess piece for his father's schemes. The baby he had rocked and soothed when his cries had been ignored slowly morphed into a man he didn't like. The sister he had climbed into bed with, both their cheeks wet with tears, was as coldly calculating as the father who had appeared after their mother had gone.

Jaime had followed their path for years. Every time he started to flinch from another demand, another cruel rebuke, he had heard his mother ask for his promise to be good, and he had dug a little deeper, tried a little harder, silenced his internal screaming a little more.

It wasn't until he had been sitting at his father's dining room table on a Wednesday night four months ago that Jaime had realized he had to escape. He had been chewing on a piece of lamb despite the fact that his father knew he hated lamb, his tie slowly choking him, listening to the small talk of his family and their guests, when Tywin had said, "Jaime, now that you've met Ermesande and her guardian, Roger, I believe we can announce your engagement in six month's time. I know custom is a full year, but you're no longer a young man, and some haste would not be amiss."

The scene that had followed hadn't been pretty. Tywin had been mildly surprised and deeply offended that Jaime had objected to marrying a woman he had known for only an hour. Roger and Ermesande had left forty minutes later, both smiling and still under the impression that she would be marrying Jaime. His objections, at first polite and then less so, had been completely ignored as Tywin and Roger had laid out a schedule that would begin with Jaime and his future bride being spotted at lunch in two days time and culminate in a long weekend in Dorne and the appearance of an engagement ring.

Cersei and Tyrion had been no help, not that he expected anything different. They had both married who their father had told them to marry, and despite the blatant infidelity and rampaging alcoholism that both of them and their spouses exhibited, they apparently had no problem assigning Jaime to the same fate.

The moment the door had closed on their guests, Tywin had clamped his hand on Jaime's collar and dragged him into the office. Jaime had stood there while his father had berated him like a child, the angry lash of his insults and demands washing over him as they had done so many times in the past. He barely felt them anymore. He carried his father's disappointment on his skin like tattoos that were visible to his eyes alone, and could feel himself going numb as he continued to stand there, could feel himself wanting to simply surrender.

But letting his father pick out his wife wasn't like letting his father pick out his college or his major or his condo. It wasn't like letting him dictate what suit he wore to which function, or even which bland woman he allowed himself to be photographed near at galas and fundraisers.

Despite Jaime's slowly dwindling trickle of dates, he wanted to get married one day. But he wanted to marry a woman that he fell in love with, wanted to find someone he could be partners with, someone he could trust to have his back and be his best friend.

Ermesande was not going to be that.

It was when Tywin had moved into the 'I'm your father, and I know what's best for you and your future' portion of his speech that Jaime realized his eyes were locked onto a picture of his mother, the only one that existed outside of his room as far as he knew. She was caught mid-laugh, her hair golden and windblown and tumbling down her back, her mouth starting to open under the weight of her joy, her eyes open and shining and full of delight. She looked young and free and thrilled to be alive, not knowing that in just over a year she wouldn't be. 

Had he ever felt like that same wild happiness, that same reckless pleasure of simply existing? If he had he couldn't remember it, though he supposed he'd had moments of it in his childhood before things changed. There had been pockets of it in his adolescence, but even then, his father's expectations and demands had lingered in the back of his mind, tainting any scrap of peace he may have found. It seemed like those moments had been stretched further and further apart until he couldn't even remember the last time he had felt it. 

Jaime kept his gaze trained on the photo, using it to anchor himself as his father insulted and threatened and demanded. He could feel his throat getting tighter, felt as if his suit jacket was also suddenly tighter across his shoulders. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be with his mother in that frozen stretch of time, wanted to be young and free and drunk on sunlight and the promise of happy days. 

He was still thinking about it hours later as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't stop thinking about it. What did it say about him that he couldn't remember the last time he had felt excited and hopeful and happy? Or anything at all except for the bleak sense of hopelessness he finally could name as despair?

He was thirty-seven years old, living in a condo that his father picked out, in a bed that would soon be filled by a woman that his father picked out, and he'd never felt quite as pathetic as he did in that moment. It hurt to think about how things could have been different for him. If his mother had lived, if he hadn't ripped his knee to shreds in the last game of his senior season, if he hadn't agreed to go to his father's alma mater, if he had taken the position in Riverrun instead of returning to King's Landing.

He could have had a different life if he had only taken the opposite turn just once. He could've had a career he enjoyed, maybe a wife and a few kids instead of being stuck in this loop of misery. He had that same feeling now that he'd had as he mailed his acceptance letter to college, the same as when he’d shaken Brynden Tully's hand at the end of his internship and thanked him for the opportunity before walking away. 

He was at another fork in the road, but this time he didn't think he could do as his mother asked all those years ago. He wanted to be a good son, wanted to be a good brother, but the price seemed to get higher each year, and Jaime didn't know how much more he could pay without breaking for good.

He spent the next two days unable to think of anything else, imagining what shape the rest of his life would take if he showed up at Baelor's for lunch with Ermesande, and he didn't like the future he saw. Dread curled his belly into knots until he had to call out of work on Friday, certain he would be sick if he had to go in. As he watched the minutes on the clock begin to bleed into hours, he was barely aware of what he was doing, driven blind by his panic. 

As one o'clock grew nearer, he found himself moving quickly, shoving random clothes into suitcases, transferring money to a private account, grabbing photos and memorabilia that he couldn't replace. He had no clue what he was doing, but the urge to run was nearly choking him. He hadn't had a panic attack in two years, but could feel it building in him now, bands of anxiety and fear tightening around his lungs.

By the time he was supposed to be sliding into a seat at Baelor's, waiting for Ermesande to arrive so he could press a kiss to her cheek, Jaime was at the airport, buying a ticket for Winterfell simply because it was the next flight out of King's Landing.

He didn't know what he would do when he got there, didn't know where he'd live or where he'd work, but he assumed that he had enough money in his personal account to cover at least a year of expenses, to buy him time to figure everything out.

He assumed wrong. 

It turned out that when you had spent your entire life in a lavishly wealthy bubble, you didn't have a single clue how expensive basic living could be once it popped. By the time he had spent a week in a hotel, signed a lease on a modest apartment, and bought basic furnishings and supplies, his bank account had started to wheeze a little. And money just seemed to bleed out of it. Had seafood always been so expensive or was it just the import cost? Was it normal for satellite television to cost more than an electricity bill, or was he being robbed? Having his ignorance highlighted so starkly made him feel like even more of an idiot.

His decision to keep the majority of his money in the account opened by his father when he was fifteen was biting him in the ass now. His father had closed out the account by the time Jaime had landed in Winterfell, probably driven by the less than formal resignation letter he had emailed as the plane readied for takeoff. He knew the only reason his company phone hadn't been turned off was because of his father's need to track and call him, so he got rid of it immediately which was another expense he hadn't realized was so significant. All he had was his rapidly dwindling personal account, and the trust from his mother that he couldn't touch for another three years. It didn't take long to realize that his casual belief that he'd be able to relax for a bit so that he could plan was as foolishly naive as he was.

It took him longer than he wanted to find a job. He had worked for Lannister Holdings since he was sixteen, and it wasn't like his father or siblings were going to write a glowing reference for him. And he didn't want to be in that corporate world anymore, at least not the one ruled by his family.

By the time he was hired on at The Godswood, one of the nicer restaurants in The North, he was close to broke for the first time in his life, and beginning to get desperate. Maege Mormont hadn't been impressed by his degree in economics or his career in financial consulting, but she had been pleased with his marketing knowledge, his ability to function in a kitchen, and his attractive looks.

He enjoyed his work at the restaurant, enjoyed the weird blend of tasks he'd been assigned. Whether he was suggesting new promotions or events to bring in a larger crowd, or delivering plates to tables, or even in the kitchen helping with preparation and being trained on the line, Jaime felt good at the end of each day. The work was difficult, but fun, and his coworkers all seemed to be reasonably friendly. 

One of them, Hildy, had hit on Jaime within three minutes of meeting him, but seemed to have taken his rejection in stride, even though she was still blatantly flirty. She was also the one that told Jaime about the wide world of camming when they had all been on break between prep and the dinner hours. Jaime had been working his way through a plate of pasta, bitching to Jon about money (a thing he had never done in his previous life), when she had piped up and suggested that Jaime look into stripping.

"Never gonna happen," Jaime said, stabbing a chunk of tomato with his fork.

"Is it beneath you, Mr. Lannister?" Hildy purred, though with a hint of a sneer in her voice. 

Jaime looked around him, gesturing at their cramped surroundings. "Hildy, nothing is beneath me at this point. I'd clean shit up off the streets if it paid well enough. I just can't dance."

They had laughed, this motley crew of coworkers and maybe friends, but it had been a good-natured laughing, one that washed over him rather than stabbing him. 

"What about being a cam boy?" Hildy asked. "I saw an article on Cawfeed about it. People are making really good money. You just need a webcam and an account on JerkStream."

"I didn’t understand a single word of that," Jaime told her, feeling unbearably old all of a sudden. 

"JerkStream is an adult website," Hildy explained. "But instead of produced porn, you enter rooms. Each room has a livestream going, male or female, and they perform for their viewers. Some have schticks, some have interactive things, but the goal is to basically build up regulars who will watch you and give you tokens, which are then turned into money."

"Perform? I just told you I can't dance. I also can't sing or play an instrument or do any of that. The only thing I'm good at is soccer, and maybe baking."

"Gods, Lannister, did you miss the name of the website?" Bronn asked with a friendly sneer. " JerkStream . Nobody is there to watch you sing a little song, you fucking idiot. It's a site where people beat off for others to watch."

"That's not all it is!" Hildy said defensively even as everyone else laughed and Jaime blinked, genuinely taken aback. "I mean, yes, it's mostly that, but people do all sorts of things. One man keeps his face covered and provides sex therapy through fantasy description! There's a woman who shows you the proper form for exercising! Another one reads poetry. There's a lot more to it then just getting yourself off on camera!"

"You know a lot about it, Hildy," Bronn raised a brow at her. "Been moonlighting on there? Or spending your tip money being a voyeur?"

"Oh piss off," Hildy said in exasperation. "I got curious when I read the article, and so what if I checked it out? I'm just saying that there's a lot of variety, and people are making a lot of money doing it. If you're as broke as you say, Jaime, what's the harm in looking into it?"

The rest of their group laughed again, whether at her indignant expression or the idea of Jaime Lannister, a thirty-seven year old former rich boy, jacking off for money, he didn't know. It was a ridiculous idea, though. Masturbating on camera? Trying to build up a following of people who wanted to watch him get off on a regular basis? His father would have a stroke if he found out.

Later Jaime would admit that it was that thought that spurred him forward. 

He had gone home and looked into it, reading the article Hildy had mentioned, clicking through the website to see if there were any strings tucked away. He had talked himself into making an account (just in case), staring at his gray screen name as he debated whether it was worth it, and within an hour had seen it shift to orange as he selected to be a cam provider. But even then, he had been hesitant, at least until he got a notification that his electric bill would be withdrawn in six days and he pictured his father's smug, sneering expression at seeing Jaime struggle, and his apoplectic rage at discovering his heir, his legacy, was making

money jacking off for strangers.

Now here he was, spreading his legs in the chair, one hand resting on his chest, his thumb idly dragging across his collarbone, while he let the fingers on his belly slowly dip down to tap against the button of his jeans. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "When my friend first told me about this website, there was a voice in my head telling me that nobody would be interested." He trailed his index finger around the snap, glancing down a little for the sole purpose of looking back at the camera through his eyelashes. "I'm not exactly a young man anymore, as I'm sure you can see." He popped his jeans open, the snapping sound loud in the quiet of his room, and fought back a delighted smile as more tokens appeared.

"I didn't know if anyone would want to see me like this, if anyone would pass over the college boys to watch a man who's nearly forty. But you're here aren't you? Which means you know something other people don't." His thumb curved, mindlessly stroking the ridge of his firming cock. "Do you wanna know what that is? Do you want me to tell you?"

Jaime dragged his teeth over his lip, and then slid his tongue across the skin. "Us older men," he said slowly, pressing his entire palm over his zipper now, squeezing and releasing himself once. "We may have a bit more gray in our hair, and a few more lines on our face, that's true." He grasped his zipper now, tugging it down slowly. "And our bodies may be a little bit softer." His other hand drifted from his shoulder down to his belly, fingers brushing against the soft muscle there before continuing on to help peel his pants open. "But our cocks aren't soft at all."

Jaime lifted his hips so he could shuck his jeans down, rolling his pelvis a little more than was necessary. He kicked them off, thankful he was already barefoot so he didn't look like a jackass pulling socks off. He was breathing a little faster now, excitement beginning to burn in his blood at the idea of being watched, of being wanted for something as simple and basic as pleasure, to be wanted only for something that would make everyone involved feel good.

Jaime slid the fingertips of his left hand underneath the band of his boxer-briefs, scratching his nails against the tender skin where his pubic hair began. His other hand skimmed over the bulge of his erection, his hips shifting as his cock grew even more. "And we're patient," he continued, his voice just a little bit rougher. "Even when we're in a hurry to come, we know how to take it slow, how to draw it out." His eyes flicked up to the camera more firmly now, his mind conjuring some blurred facade of a woman, someone he wanted to make feel good. "I don't want to rush my pleasure. I don’t want to rush yours. There's plenty of time for us to shake apart. Older men know how to savor that time, we know how to savor you ." He released his grip on himself and slid his hand up his thighs instead, feeling his cock throb impatiently. 

"And there's another reason I decided to give it a shot," Jaime said, slowly hooking his thumbs into the sides of his boxer briefs. "Do you wanna know what it is?" The flash of tokens being added told him that they did. He lifted his hips up with a bitten off moan, easing his shorts down so that his cock sprang free, thick and erect now and ready to be touched.

"I walked away from my entire life not long ago," he confessed, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs wide again. "I completely cut myself away from my family, my friends, my job. Everything and everyone I've known for the past thirty-seven years." He eased his hand down his thigh so that his pinkie could brush against the curve of his erection. "And I've been a bit lonely since then. I miss being known, miss being touched." Jaime let his hand slide across his cock once, twice, before he gave in and curled his fist around it. "And even though you can't touch me tonight, knowing that you're watching me feels almost as good."

Jaime began to move his arm in long, slow strokes, watching the muscles in his forearm bunch and release as he settled into a steady rhythm. "Fuck," he bit out, breathing heavier through his nose. "It's been so long since I've had someone touch me." He let his head fall back for a moment, leaving his throat exposed to the camera as he began to rock his hips. "What about you? Do you miss being touched too?"

He gripped the base of his cock firmly, stilling his hand as the chat box lit up repeatedly. He had more viewers now, he saw, and had a moment of confusion before he smiled. "Ollie, you sent out a Raven about me? I hope that means you're enjoying the time we've spent together so far. Is there anything in particular you're wanting to see?" He stroked his hand up one more time, flicking the pad of his thumb across the head of his cock while he waited for a response. When it came it made him smile even broader.

"I can do that," Jaime said, shifting to stand up so that for a moment his camera caught nothing but the plane of his belly and the thick jut of his cock. "You wanna see me fuck my hand, Ollie?" Jaime turned to the side slightly, planting his left foot on the seat of his chair and bending over slightly to brace his hand on the wall. "I don't know how long I'll last like this. Older men have patience but we also know how fucking good it can be when you just let it take you." 

Jaime began to roll his hips, thrusting deeply into the circle of his palm, moaning when the sensitive patch beneath the leaking head of his cock rubbed against his newly formed calluses on his hand. "Gods, I wish all of you could feel how good this feels. I hope it feels good for you, hope you're right here with me, hope you're fucking yourself with my voice in your ears. What should we do, hmm? How do you want it? Should I go slower?" Jaime decreased the speed of his hips, fucking his hand with long, deep thrusts, his head falling backwards on a moan. "Or do you want me faster, want to see me to fuck even harder?" He sped up again, his hips snapping against his hand furiously, a growl erupting from his throat as his head fell forward against the wall. "Tell me, oh fuck , tell me what you want to see. You can have it."

Jaime turned his face towards his camera, aware of how wrecked and desperate he looked, his body gleaming with sweat, his hair a mess, his cock throbbing in his hand. His entire body was trembling as he tried to focus on the words on his screen. There was a stream of comments now, the usernames all lit up in different colors, the purples and blues outweighing the greens and grays, but his eyes landed on his token counter and picked a name from there. 

"Some of you want me to go faster, and some of you want me to go slower. What do you want ValeVixen? You pick for me tonight. Such a lovely tip deserves to have a reward. Let me reward you the only way I can tonight. What should I do to make you happy?"

"Idc if it's faster or slower, i just want you to come."

Jaime moaned and took his foot from the chair, turning towards his desk so that his camera caught him from face to thigh as he gripped the desk and leaned towards the laptop. "You want to see me come?" he asked, and his hand was moving faster now, pulling his cock to a quick and steady beat, his grip firmer than before. "Is that what you want? It's what I want. Fuck I want to come, and I want you to come with me." 

His breathing was coming rapidly, his words devolving into a tangle of growls and grunts and moans as he furiously fucked his hand. "Oh fuck," he whispered, feeling the knotting low in his belly spiraling to twine with the gathering of pressure in the base of his spine. "Right there, right there. Come on, come with me, please, oh fuck."

Jaime's back arched, curving forward toward his desk as his orgasm ripped through him and over him, his vision whiting out with sheer pleasure. He stumbled forward as his knees buckled, his thighs shaking as he collapsed into his seat. 

"Holy fuck," Jaime murmured, and he could hear the sleepy satisfaction in his voice, a feeling mirrored on his blissful face. He was blushing a little now, could feel the warmth in his cheeks as he examined his belly and hand that were smeared in his come. "I gotta admit, friends--I was a little worried I'd have trouble getting hard knowing I had people watching, but I'm definitely not worried about that anymore. That was intense ."

He leaned down to pick up his tee shirt, absently cleaning himself up while leaning forward to read the comments. Some were super explicit but others were almost sweet, almost friendly.

"Gods Jaime, I hope you're planning on making this a full time job."

"I want you to bend me over your chair and fuck me."

"No, I'd rather he let me bend him over the desk and fuck him. That ass is chef's kiss ."

"You did really well, Jaime. Are you blushing? After we just watched you come all over your hand? Adorable."

"I miss being touched too, Jaime. But it doesn't feel safe to me anymore. This is safe. So...thank you."

Jaime smiled softly, absurdly moved by the variety of responses. Some of these comments made him feel like he was doing a good thing, like it wasn't just a crude way to make a quick buck. He knew it was silly to attach a deeper meaning to masturbating on camera, knew that it wasn't something heartwarming and tender by most people's standards, but hadn't he decided he wouldn't live by any standards but his own?

Fuck it.

"Thank you everyone," he said much more honestly than he would've expected an hour earlier. "Sincerely. I was so nervous about tonight and all of you made it so easy." His eyes roamed over the comments again, his smile growing into something wide and joyful. "And if you come back again, I promise I'll do even better. I'm going to figure this out, for me and for all of you. If you'll bear with me during these growing pains, I think it'll be worth it. There's a lot we can experience together if you're willing to take a chance on me."

Jaime watched as his tokens counter and comment box exploded again, laughing a little in disbelief. "I'm gonna go take a long, hot shower and then crawl in bed, but I hope to see all of you again next time. I'll be back in three days, at midnight. I hope you can come too." He winked at the camera, and kept the smile on his face while he ended the livestream and closed the window.

"Fucking hell," he said when he was sure his camera was off, and he was alone once more. He had been so certain that tonight would be a flop, either via his cock or with one lonely viewer. Instead he'd had a user send out a Raven about him, had seen his viewer count grow from six to thirty-two in what felt like a matter of minutes. He had gotten tips, including one for thirty dragons. He had earned nearly two hundred dragons in half an hour. He was already getting notifications that people were saving his channel, or subscribing to it for a small, one-time fee.

Jaime had expected to feel cheap or dirty afterwards, had thought he'd feel shameful and pathetic for making money by jacking off on camera. It was the exact opposite, though. He felt good, his body loose and relaxed, his spirits high. And most importantly, he didn't feel quite as hopeless or quite as alone as he had four hours ago. He wouldn't be forced to find a tiny apartment with four roommates and a community bathroom. He wouldn't have to take on a second or third job in hopes of making ends meet. And he wouldn't have to go crawling back to his father, his spirit more broken than ever.

"Well, Father, you told me to go fuck myself the last time we talked. Who knew it would be so profitable?"

At the thought, Jaime laughed until he cried.