Chapter Text
Damien Bloodmarch’s room was a sanctuary of gothic elegance, every surface curated with care: antique books, dried roses, ornate mirrors catching the soft candlelight. Lucien knew the rules—never touch the taxidermy, don’t mess with the velvet drapes, and absolutely, under no circumstances, was he to snoop in his father’s wardrobe.
But Lucien was sixteen, and sixteen-year-olds are, by nature, curious. He’d been searching for his favorite black hoodie, which he was certain he’d left on the chaise longue. Instead, his hand brushed against something unfamiliar at the back of Damien’s armoire—a heavy, leather-bound box, the kind that looked like it belonged in a Victorian detective’s study.
He hesitated. The old Lucien, the one who’d dyed his hair jet black and written poetry about existential decay, would have scoffed at his own hesitation. So, with a furtive glance over his shoulder, he unlatched the box.
Inside, neatly arranged, was a collection of gear that Lucien only recognized from the more risqué corners of the internet—a set of black leather cuffs, a collar with silver studs, and a mask that looked straight out of a gothic masquerade. There were Polaroids, too, their edges curled with age. Lucien’s hand trembled as he flipped through them, his face flushing as he realized the younger, wilder version of his father stared back at him, caught in moments of playful, suggestive abandon.
Lucien’s mind reeled. His father—Damien, the man who quoted Byron at breakfast and fussed over the proper way to tie a cravat—was into… this?
The door creaked. Lucien spun around, box in hand, as Damien stepped into the room, his eyes widening in horror.
“Lucien!” Damien’s voice cracked, a note of panic threading through his usual calm. “What are you—? That’s not—oh, heavens above.”
Lucien, caught, could only stare, his cheeks burning. “I was just—looking for my hoodie. I didn’t—”
Damien’s face went ashen, then flushed a deep, mortified red. He pressed a hand to his chest, as if steadying his heart. “That’s—private. Extremely private. I—I can explain, or, rather, I should explain, but—oh dear, this is not how I intended—”
The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, filled only by the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
Lucien, ever the rebel, found his voice first. “You… you were into this stuff? Like, back in the day?”
Damien’s eyes darted to the floor. “Yes, well, I—everyone has chapters in their lives, Lucien. Some are written in ink, others in… well, leather, apparently.”
Lucien snorted, the tension cracking just a little. “That’s… actually kinda badass, Dad.”
Damien blinked, surprised. “You’re not—horrified?”
“I mean, it’s weird, yeah. But, like, you’re always telling me to be myself. Guess you were pretty good at it.”
Damien let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I—thank you, Lucien. Still, I should have been more careful. This isn’t something I expected you to find, nor something you should feel obligated to understand. I’m… rediscovering parts of myself, I suppose. As one does, occasionally, at my age.”
Lucien shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Whatever, man. Just, maybe… keep the box locked next time?”
Damien nodded fervently. “Absolutely. And, Lucien, if you ever have questions—about anything, truly—I hope you’ll feel comfortable coming to me. No matter how… unconventional.”
Lucien grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Yeah, sure. Just don’t expect me to call you ‘Master’ or anything.”
Damien’s face went scarlet. “Good heavens, Lucien!”
On his way out, Damien muttered under his breath, barely audible, “Perhaps I should polish the cuffs… haven’t used them in ages…”
Lucien paused in the hallway, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I heard that, Dad.”
Damien groaned, burying his face in his hands, as Lucien’s laughter echoed down the stairs.
The awkwardness would linger, no doubt, but beneath it was something new: a strange, unexpected understanding. In the Bloodmarch house, secrets were as common as cobwebs, but honesty—no matter how uncomfortable—was always welcome in the end.
Chapter Text
For the next week, Lucien noticed a sudden, suspicious uptick in his extracurricular schedule. It started innocently enough—Damien encouraging him to join the after-school poetry club (“You have such a way with words, my dear boy!”), then suggesting he try fencing (“A noble sport, Lucien, and one must learn to parry life’s unexpected thrusts!”). By Thursday, Lucien found himself signed up for a “Victorian Tea Appreciation Society,” which he was pretty sure didn’t actually exist until Damien volunteered to sponsor it.
Lucien’s suspicions grew with every new club and suspiciously long grocery run. He’d catch Damien glancing at the clock, wringing his hands, and then hustling Lucien out the door with a cheerful, “Enjoy yourself! Take your time! Don’t rush home, the world is your oyster!”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. Damien was, quite obviously, orchestrating his son’s absence for some “alone time.” Lucien could only imagine what that entailed—probably a lot of candles, dramatic music, and, if he knew his dad, at least one monologue about the beauty of rediscovery.
But then things got even weirder. Lucien started noticing little clues: two mugs in the sink when he got home, the faintest whiff of cologne that wasn’t Damien’s usual “Essence of Midnight Rose,” and once, a mysterious, deep-voiced laugh echoing from the study as he walked up the front steps. The next day, Damien was humming as he arranged fresh flowers, looking suspiciously well-rested.
Lucien, never one to let a mystery go unsolved, started keeping a mental tally. By Friday, he was convinced his dad was not only rediscovering himself, but possibly doing so with company.
At dinner, Lucien couldn’t resist. “So, Dad, how’s the… tea club going?”
Damien, mid-sip, nearly choked. “W-what do you mean, Lucien?”
“You know, all that ‘me time’ you’ve been getting lately. You seem… happier. And the house smells like Axe body spray and… is that sandalwood?”
Damien’s cheeks went pink. “I… Well, one must occasionally entertain guests, Lucien. It’s important to maintain social connections. For one’s… health.”
Lucien smirked, stabbing a piece of broccoli. “Sure, Dad. Just don’t forget to put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door next time. I’d hate to walk in on you… entertaining.”
Damien let out a strangled noise, nearly dropping his fork. “Lucien!”
“Hey, I’m just glad you’re having fun. But if I come home to find you and some dude in matching velvet robes, I’m moving in with Amanda.”
Damien buried his face in his hands, groaning. “The universe is truly testing me.”
Lucien grinned, feeling oddly proud. It was awkward, sure, but at least things were never boring in the Bloodmarch household. And, as he slouched off to his next suspiciously scheduled activity, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, his dad deserved a little happiness—and a lot of privacy.
Chapter Text
Saturday morning dawned with a gentle drizzle, the kind that made the Bloodmarch house feel even more like a gothic novel. Lucien, having survived a week of suspicious extracurriculars, was determined to reclaim his lazy weekend. He padded downstairs, hoodie half-zipped, earbuds dangling, fully prepared to raid the kitchen for leftover scones.
He didn’t expect to find Damien in the living room—much less Damien in a velvet robe. Or, for that matter, Damien in a matching velvet robe with another man, both of them tangled together on the couch, mid-makeout.
Lucien froze. The man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a shock of silver in his hair and a look of utter mortification—pulled away so fast he nearly toppled off the couch. Damien’s face went through several shades of red, from “sunburnt tomato” to “Victorian maiden fainting at the opera.”
“Oh—Lucien!” Damien squeaked, clutching his robe tighter. “I—I didn’t expect you home so soon!”
The stranger cleared his throat, straightening his own robe with as much dignity as possible. “Morning, uh… Lucien, right? I’m—uh—Edgar. We were just… discussing poetry.”
Lucien blinked. “Yeah. Looks like you were about to recite some Shakespeare. With your tongues.”
Damien let out a noise somewhere between a cough and a whimper. “This is… not how I intended for you to meet Edgar. Or for you to see… this.”
Edgar, bless him, tried to help. “We were, uh, just about to make some tea.”
Lucien snorted. “Yeah, sure. Tea. Look, I don’t care what you guys do, but can you at least warn me? Or, I don’t know, invest in a lock for the living room?”
Damien, still pink, nodded furiously. “Yes. Absolutely. I am so, so sorry, Lucien. This was… an oversight. A grievous oversight.”
Lucien rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s fine, Dad. I’ll just… go eat breakfast at Amanda’s. Maybe text me when you’re done… discussing poetry.”
As Lucien grabbed his bag and headed for the door, he called over his shoulder, “And for the record, the robes are a bit much. Even for you.”
Damien groaned, flopping back onto the couch, while Edgar tried (and failed) to stifle a laugh. “He seems like a good kid,” Edgar said gently.
Damien sighed, a mix of embarrassment and relief in his voice. “He is. And he’s right. Next time, I’ll remember the lock.”
As the door shut behind Lucien, the awkwardness lingered, but so did something else—an unspoken understanding that, in the Bloodmarch house, love (and embarrassment) came in many forms, and at least they could all laugh about it later.
Lucien figured he’d given his dad more than enough time to “finish discussing poetry.” He’d spent the better part of the afternoon at Amanda’s, swapping horror stories about parents and eating her weight in pizza bagels. When he finally returned home, he made sure to stomp his boots extra loud in the hallway, just in case.
But apparently, subtlety was not the Bloodmarch family’s strong suit.
He pushed open the living room door, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
There was Damien—his father, the picture of gothic elegance—dressed in his favorite velvet robe, but this time with a wild, sultry glint in his eye. Kneeling in front of him was Edgar, hands tied together with a silk scarf, and—Lucien’s brain short-circuited for a second—completely naked. Damien was leaning in, whispering something that sounded suspiciously filthy, his voice a low, wicked purr.
“—such a desperate, needy thing, aren’t you?” Damien crooned, trailing a finger down Edgar’s jaw. “You’ll beg for it, won’t you? Say it for me—”
Lucien made a noise somewhere between a cough and a yelp. Both men froze. Edgar’s eyes went wide, and Damien’s expression twisted from seductive to scandalized in a heartbeat.
“L-L-LUCIEN!” Damien shrieked, scrambling to cover Edgar with a throw pillow and nearly tripping over the coffee table in the process. “What—why—how—!”
Lucien, ever the picture of teenage composure, just sighed and covered his eyes. “Seriously? Again? Do you guys not believe in doors?”
Edgar, cheeks flaming, tried to wriggle free of the scarf. “Uh, sorry, Lucien. We didn’t hear you come in.”
Damien, still clutching the pillow like a shield, looked about ready to combust. “This is—this is an absolute disaster! I was—Edgar and I were—oh, for the love of all things gothic, can’t a man have a single uninterrupted afternoon?!”
Lucien, peeking between his fingers, tried not to laugh. “You know, Dad, most people go through their midlife crisis with a sports car. Not… whatever this is.”
Damien’s eyes flashed. “I’ll have you know, Lucien, that I have waited years—YEARS—for an opportunity like this. And every time, it’s as if the universe itself conspires against me!”
Edgar, still tied up and now awkwardly wrapped in the throw pillow, mumbled, “It’s okay, Damien. I, uh, don’t mind waiting.”
Damien let out a dramatic groan, flopping onto the couch. “I am a man on the edge, Lucien. A man denied. If I am a little cranky, forgive me, but I was… well, you can see what I was in the middle of!”
Lucien shrugged, heading for the stairs. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll just… go play loud music in my room. Maybe next time, put up a sign. Or, I don’t know, invest in a lock. Or a hotel room.”
Damien, muttering under his breath, began untying Edgar’s wrists, still glaring daggers at the ceiling. “I swear, if I am interrupted one more time, I shall simply join a monastery.”
Edgar snickered, and Lucien—already halfway up the stairs—called back, “Good luck with that, Dad. Maybe the monks have better locks.”
Damien’s dramatic sigh echoed through the house, but even Lucien had to admit: for all the awkwardness, it was kind of nice to see his dad living a little—even if it meant investing in some very, very good noise-cancelling headphones.
Chapter Text
It was becoming a running joke—at least for Lucien. Every time Damien tried to orchestrate a romantic rendezvous with Edgar, Lucien would, without fail, barge in at the worst possible moment. Sometimes it was to “grab a snack,” sometimes it was to “ask about the laundry,” and once it was just to announce that he’d written a new poem called “The Agony of Living with Parents Who Don’t Understand Boundaries.”
Damien, meanwhile, was reaching the end of his velvet-robed rope.
The house was filled with the sound of dramatic sighs, muttered curses in flowery Victorian English, and the occasional thump of Damien’s forehead hitting the nearest antique bookshelf. Edgar, ever the patient gentleman, would just offer a sympathetic smile and suggest board games instead.
But one evening, after the fifth failed attempt in as many weeks, Damien finally snapped. He was pacing the living room, hair askew and eyeliner slightly smudged, while Lucien lounged on the armchair, scrolling through his phone.
“Lucien,” Damien began, voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unsatisfied nights, “I love you dearly, but I swear by all that is unholy, if you interrupt me and Edgar one more time, I—”
Lucien looked up, eyebrow arched. “You’ll what? Ground me for life?”
Damien threw his hands in the air, exasperation radiating off him like a gothic thundercloud. “I brought you into this world, young man, and I can take you out of it! Or at least send you to live with your aunt for a month!”
Lucien snorted. “You wouldn’t last a day without me.”
Damien groaned, flopping onto the fainting couch in true Victorian fashion. “I just—” He paused, clearly debating whether to say what was on his mind. Then, in a moment of pure, frustrated honesty, he blurted out, “I just want something in my vagina again! Is that so much to ask?!”
The room went silent. Lucien’s jaw dropped, and Edgar—who’d just walked in with a tray of tea—nearly dropped the whole thing.
Damien clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified. “Oh, dear. I—well, that was not meant for public announcement.”
Lucien, after a beat, burst out laughing. “Dad! TMI! But, like, also… respect. You’re really going through it, huh?”
Damien, now blushing furiously, nodded. “You have no idea, Lucien. No idea at all. I am a man on the brink. A man with needs. Needs that have been tragically, repeatedly thwarted by your impeccable timing.”
Edgar, setting the tea down, tried to hide his grin. “He really has been trying, Lucien. Maybe you could… give us a heads-up before you come home?”
Lucien, still chuckling, held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll start texting before I come home. Maybe even take up a second club. Or, you know, just hang out at Amanda’s more.”
Damien let out a sigh of relief so dramatic it could have won an award. “Bless you, my son. You are a merciful soul.”
Lucien grinned. “Just don’t make me a sibling, okay?”
Damien groaned, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes at last. “One crisis at a time, Lucien. One crisis at a time.”
And with that, peace—at least temporarily—returned to the Bloodmarch household.
Chapter Text
After weeks of thwarted passion and mounting melodrama, Damien Bloodmarch had finally reached his breaking point. No more would he suffer the indignity of being interrupted at the height of romance by a son in search of snacks, a neighbor returning a misplaced book, or the mailman with yet another package of novelty tea blends.
So, one Saturday morning, Damien set about crafting his magnum opus: a sign so bold, so beautifully blunt, that even the most oblivious visitor would get the message. He selected his finest parchment, dipped his quill in the darkest ink, and, with all the flourish of a Victorian scribe, wrote in ornate calligraphy:
“DO NOT ENTER. I AM HAVING SEX. GO AWAY.”
He framed the sign, adorned it with pressed black roses, and hung it proudly on the front door for all to see.
Lucien, coming home from Amanda’s, stopped dead on the porch. He stared at the sign, then at the house, then back at the sign. He burst out laughing so hard he had to lean against the mailbox for support. “Dad, you absolute legend,” he muttered, snapping a photo for posterity.
Inside, Damien was a new man. No more furtive glances at the clock, no more stifled sighs or dramatic monologues about fate’s cruel hand. For once, the house was blessedly, gloriously undisturbed. Edgar arrived, saw the sign, and grinned so wide his face nearly split in two.
“Effective, isn’t it?” Damien said, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Very,” Edgar replied, stepping inside and locking the door behind him.
For the first time in ages, Damien had the peace—and privacy—he so desperately craved. The only sounds that filled the house were the soft strains of romantic music, the gentle clink of teacups, and, eventually, some much more enthusiastic noises that Lucien was very grateful to miss.
When it was all over, Damien lay sprawled on the fainting couch, a blissful smile on his face, hair deliciously tousled. He’d done it. He’d conquered the universe’s conspiracy against his love life.
Outside, the sign remained, a testament to one man’s determination—and his impeccable penmanship.
And for once, all was well in the Bloodmarch household. Damien was, at long last, utterly, perfectly satisfied.
Chapter Text
The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows of the Bloodmarch house, casting colorful patterns across the floor as Damien practically floated down the hallway. His usual brooding gloom had been replaced by a radiant glow—so bright it could have rivaled a thousand candles.
Lucien, sitting at the kitchen table scrolling through his phone, looked up just in time to see his dad break into an uncharacteristic skip, arms flailing like a man who’d just discovered the secret to eternal happiness.
“Dad?” Lucien asked, raising an eyebrow. “What’s gotten into you?”
Damien stopped mid-skip, turned, and grinned like a man who’d just won the lottery. “Lucien, my son, I am positively ecstatic. After ten long years—TEN YEARS!—I have finally been laid.”
Lucien blinked. “Ten years? Seriously? That’s… wow. That’s a dry spell worthy of a gothic tragedy.”
Damien nodded solemnly, then chuckled. “Indeed. But you see, my dear boy, much of that time was devoted to raising a certain rambunctious six-year-old hellspawn.”
Lucien smirked, folding his arms. “Hellspawn, huh? You mean me?”
Damien’s eyes twinkled with affection. “Yes, you. Parenting you was like trying to tame a tempest with a feather duster. Lovely, but exhausting. And, well… it left little time for the pleasures of the flesh.”
Lucien laughed, shaking his head. “So you’re saying I was the reason you went a decade without getting laid?”
Damien gave a mock gasp. “Not the only reason, but certainly a significant contributing factor! And now that you’re older and more… independent, I can finally reclaim my personal life.”
He struck a dramatic pose, as if announcing the end of an epic saga. “Today, Lucien, is officially the best day of my life. The clouds have parted, the moon shines brighter, and Damien Bloodmarch has been… satisfied.”
Lucien grinned, raising his mug of tea in salute. “Well, Dad, here’s to many more days like this. Just try not to make a habit of skipping through the house. It’s kind of weird.”
Damien laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “No promises, my son. No promises.”
And with that, the Bloodmarch house felt a little lighter, a little warmer, and a whole lot happier—proof that sometimes, even the darkest hearts need a little sunshine… and maybe a little romance.
Chapter Text
The Bloodmarch house had always been a place of gothic charm and occasional melodrama, but lately, it had taken on a new—and decidedly louder—vibe.
Lucien was sitting at the kitchen table, headphones firmly in place, trying to drown out the unmistakable sounds echoing from the living room. It was a symphony of moans, gasps, and the occasional dramatic gasp that could only belong to Damien Bloodmarch.
He sighed, pulling one earbud out. “Seriously, Dad? Do you have to be *that* loud?”
From behind the closed door came a muffled, theatrical groan. “Passion, Lucien! Passion cannot be silenced!”
Lucien rolled his eyes and glanced at the calendar. “You’ve been at this for, like, three weeks straight. I’m pretty sure the neighbors are filing noise complaints.”
Later that evening, Lucien found Damien in the kitchen, looking a little worse for wear. His usually flawless makeup was smudged, and he was nursing a cup of honey tea, his throat clearly sore.
“Dad, you okay?” Lucien asked, trying not to grin.
Damien cleared his throat—a raspy, croaky sound that made Lucien wince. “I am… well, I am a bit under the weather. A sore throat, nothing a bit of rest and some elixirs can’t fix.”
Lucien smirked knowingly. “Yeah, I’m guessing all that… *enthusiasm* with Edgar is the culprit.”
Damien flushed a deep crimson, but there was a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “One must embrace life’s pleasures with vigor, Lucien. Though I admit, my vocal cords are paying the price.”
Lucien shook his head, half amused, half mortified. “You’re gonna wear the poor guy out. And the rest of us, too.”
Damien gave a dramatic sigh. “Ah, the sacrifices one makes for love. But I daresay, it’s worth every hoarse whisper and every awkward interruption.”
Lucien laughed, slipping his headphones back in. “Just maybe keep it down a notch? For the sake of my sanity—and the neighbors’.”
Damien grinned, a little devilish. “No promises, my son. No promises.”
Chapter Text
The local music store was Lucien’s sanctuary—a place filled with the comforting chaos of guitar riffs, drum solos, and the faint scent of vinyl. He’d dragged Damien along under the guise of “bonding time,” though he mostly just wanted an excuse to browse the new releases.
Damien, ever the picture of gothic elegance, floated through the aisles with his usual poise. Today, though, Lucien couldn’t help but notice something… off. There, peeking out from under Damien’s high-collared shirt, was a thin strip of black leather. At first, Lucien thought it was just another one of his dad’s dramatic accessories—until he caught sight of the tiny silver ring at the front.
Lucien’s eyes widened. Oh, no. No, no, no.
He sidled up to Damien, lowering his voice. “Uh, Dad? What’s with the… collar?”
Damien blinked, feigning innocence. “Oh, this? It’s merely a fashionable choker, Lucien. Very in vogue among the alternative crowd.”
Lucien squinted, unimpressed. “Dad, that’s not a choker. That’s a—” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “That’s a collar. Like, a bedroom collar.”
Damien’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, but he tried to play it cool. “Well, fashion is subjective, is it not? Besides, it’s quite subtle.”
Lucien groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Subtle? Dad, it literally has a ring on it. You look like you just stepped out of a—” He stopped, unwilling to finish the sentence in public.
Just then, the store clerk wandered over, eyeing Damien’s accessory with a knowing smirk. “Cool collar, man. You and your partner into the scene?”
Damien coughed, clearly flustered. “Ah, well, we do enjoy… alternative aesthetics.”
Lucien could feel his soul leaving his body. “I’m never coming here with you again.”
Damien, now beet red but trying to maintain his dignity, adjusted his collar and offered Lucien a sheepish smile. “Perhaps I was a tad too bold. But one must embrace life’s pleasures, even if it means the occasional… fashion faux pas.”
Lucien shook his head, half mortified, half amused. “Next time, maybe just stick to the velvet capes, okay?”
Damien chuckled, the awkwardness melting into genuine laughter. “Deal, my son. Deal.”
And as they left the store, Lucien couldn’t help but smile—because as embarrassing as his dad could be, at least life with Damien Bloodmarch was never, ever boring.
As they stepped out of the music store, Lucien was already plotting which headphones would drown out the memory of his dad’s “fashion statement.” But before he could even finish his thought, Damien paused on the sidewalk, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
“One moment, Lucien. I forgot something most… essential,” Damien said, turning on his heel and sweeping back into the shop.
Lucien groaned. “Please don’t let it be another collar,” he muttered, following at a safe distance.
Inside, Damien made a beeline for the “Romantic Jazz & Mood Music” section. He picked up a CD with a tastefully sultry cover—*Velvet Nights: Jazz for Lovers*—and gave it an approving nod. As he approached the counter, the clerk’s eyes lit up, a sly smile spreading across his face.
“Back so soon?” the clerk teased, glancing at the CD. “Going for the full experience tonight, huh?”
Damien, to Lucien’s horror, didn’t even blush. Instead, he leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. “One must set the mood properly, don’t you think?”
The clerk grinned, clearly emboldened. “If you ever need recommendations—or company—I’m here most nights. Name’s Rowan.”
Damien’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Well, Rowan, I do appreciate a good recommendation. Perhaps you could… share your expertise over coffee sometime?”
Rowan slid a notepad across the counter. “Write your number, and I’ll make sure to bring my best playlists.”
Lucien, standing by the door, watched in disbelief as his dad scribbled his number with a flourish, then handed it back with a wink.
CD in hand and collar still subtly peeking out, Damien rejoined Lucien, who was now somewhere between mortified and impressed.
“Did you just—Dad, did you just give the clerk your number?”
Damien tucked the CD into his bag, looking positively radiant. “Why yes, Lucien. A gentleman must keep his options open—and his music collection well-stocked.”
Lucien shook his head, unable to suppress a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
Damien grinned, looping his arm through Lucien’s. “Life is too short for regrets, my dear boy. Now, shall we go home and enjoy some jazz?”
As they walked away, Lucien realized that, embarrassing as his dad could be, there was something kind of awesome about Damien’s newfound confidence—and the fact that, no matter what, he was always unapologetically himself.
Chapter Text
Lucien tried to keep a low profile, but it was impossible when your dad was suddenly the talk (and the heartthrob) of every PTA meeting, bake sale, and dog park gathering. Damien had always been a little extra, but now he was *extra* extra—like, “openly flirting with the soccer coach while handing out orange slices” extra.
At the community center’s “Parents’ Night Out,” Lucien was just trying to blend into the snack table when he heard the unmistakable sound of Damien’s sultry, velvet-draped voice.
“Robert, my dear, have you ever considered the subtle art of candlelit poetry readings… in the nude?” Damien purred, swirling his punch with a flourish.
Robert, usually the king of deadpan, actually blushed. “Uh… can’t say I have, but I’m open to new experiences.”
Lucien nearly choked on a cheese puff.
It got worse. At the next school fundraiser, Damien showed up in a mesh shirt under his blazer (“It’s very avant-garde, Lucien!”), and spent the evening complimenting every single dad on their “robust forearms” or “dangerously mysterious eyes.” Brian, the burly dad from down the street, was spotted giggling. *Giggling.*
The other parents started to notice. Whispers followed Damien wherever he went:
- “Is that a hickey on his neck?”
- “Did he just wink at Craig and Joseph at the same time?”
- “I heard he’s got a playlist called ‘Bloodmarch After Dark.’”
Even Amanda, Lucien’s friend, texted:
**AMANDA:** “Dude, your dad is THIRSTY. Respect, but also… yikes.”
Lucien tried to intervene with a heartfelt talk. “Dad, maybe just… dial it back a little? You’re kind of scaring the straights.”
Damien, now sporting a silk scarf and a devilish grin, just patted Lucien’s shoulder. “My dear boy, I have been repressed for a decade. I am simply… making up for lost time.”
Lucien groaned. “Yeah, but do you have to make up for *everyone’s* lost time?”
It was like Damien couldn’t help himself. He’d wink at the mailman, flirt with the barista, and once, Lucien swore he heard him ask the principal if she’d ever tried “Victorian roleplay.” The principal’s glasses fogged up.
By the end of the week, Lucien was considering faking mono just to stay home. But as mortifying as it all was, he had to admit: his dad was happier than he’d ever seen him. And, deep down, Lucien knew that a little embarrassment was a small price to pay for seeing Damien finally, gloriously, living his best life—even if it meant Maple Bay would never be the same.
Chapter Text
The sun was shining, birds were singing, and the cul-de-sac was buzzing with the usual weekend activity. Lucien was in the garage, pretending to look for an old skateboard, when he heard Damien’s unmistakable voice floating over the hedges.
“Joseph, my dear, I simply insist—let me mow your lawn. It would be my pleasure.”
Lucien peeked out just in time to see Damien, dressed in a pair of suspiciously tight black jeans and a mesh tank top (again), strutting across the street with a bottle of artisanal lemonade in one hand and a gardening hat perched rakishly on his head. Joseph, the ever-polite youth minister, was blushing so hard he looked like he’d just run a marathon.
“Oh, Damien, you really don’t have to—” Joseph started, but Damien silenced him with a single, smoldering look.
“Nonsense. I find working with my hands… invigorating.”
Lucien groaned. “Oh no. Not the lawn. Not Joseph. Not like this.”
But it was too late. Damien fired up the mower, but instead of the usual back-and-forth, he made a show of it—slow, deliberate passes, pausing to wipe imaginary sweat from his brow, flexing just a little too much. Joseph, standing on the porch, looked like he might faint from sheer excitement.
The neighbors started to notice. Curtains twitched. Amanda texted Lucien again.
**AMANDA:** “Your dad is mowing Joseph’s lawn and I think Mrs. Lee just dropped her watering can.”
But the real show started when Damien finished the last pass, turned off the mower, and sauntered up to Joseph. There was some whispering, a giggle, and then—well, let’s just say the lemonade never made it back inside.
A few minutes later, the entire cul-de-sac was treated to the unmistakable sounds of two grown men being… extremely enthusiastic about “yard work.” Birds stopped singing. Dogs stopped barking. Even the ice cream truck driver paused at the stop sign, eyes wide.
Lucien, mortified beyond belief, stuffed his earbuds in and cranked his music to maximum volume.
By the time the “lawn” was thoroughly “mowed,” Joseph and Damien emerged from the house, hair tousled, shirts misbuttoned, and grinning like teenagers.
Joseph waved shyly to the neighbors, who pretended to be very interested in their rose bushes. Damien, ever the showman, just winked and gave a little bow.
Lucien, watching from the garage, shook his head and sighed. “Well, at least they’re happy. And hey—maybe the grass will finally get watered for once.”
And from that day forward, “mowing the lawn” became the new neighborhood euphemism for… well, let’s just say the Catholic Church would not have approved.