NOTE: Lately, I haven't had any shows to watch, so I started watching Smosh again, and oh my god, Damien, Amen. I don't know what it is about him, but I love him.xoxo
The energy in the Smosh studio was already a disaster—and they hadn’t even started filming.
Courtney was pacing in circles, practicing an unhinged British granny voice. Angela was digging through the costume bins like she was on a time limit in a thrift store game show. Amanda had claimed the hotdog costume and was now arguing with Shayne over whether the mustard stain added “texture.”
And Damien? Damien was casually perched in the TNTL chair, legs spread, black T-shirt tight across his chest, smirking like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Which, of course, he did.
You were trying very hard not to look at him. Which meant you were definitely looking at him.
You leaned against the TNTL prop table, pretending to scroll on your phone, but your eyes kept drifting to the way his fingers tapped the side of the chair, how he kept glancing at you like he was daring you to say something.
He knew what today was. He’d started it.
“We should do double-entendre jokes this round,” Damien had said earlier, with that faux-innocent little shrug. “Spice things up.”
You’d made eye contact across the prep room and replied dryly, “Only if you’re ready to lose.”
Now he was in the hot seat—mouth full of water, cheeks puffed, eyes watching you as Shayne kicked things off.
“Alright,” Shayne grinned, spinning toward the camera, “today’s TNTL is all about innuendo. Damien suggested it, so naturally he’s our first target.”
Laughter rang out from around the room. Amanda made a dramatic choking noise. Angela muttered something about “digging his own grave.”
You stepped forward slowly, arms crossed but grin playful. The rest of the cast quieted—there was a known thing, a rhythm between you and Damien when you were on camera together. You matched energy too well. Knew each other's timing. You didn't plan jokes—you just vibed, and the audience loved it.
So did the cast. Even if they were now sick of how long it had gone unresolved.
You stopped just in front of him, letting the moment stretch. His eyes narrowed in amusement, but you saw it—the flicker of anticipation.
You didn’t use props. No wigs. No slapstick.
Just your voice.
You leaned in, tone low and teasing.
“You know, Damien…
I really admire your stamina.
Most guys can’t stay in this chair for longer than a minute.”
There was a ripple of laughter from the couches. Chanse audibly wheezed.
“I mean,” you continued, stepping closer, “holding all that in your mouth and still keeping eye contact?
That’s impressive.”
You reached out and dragged two fingers slowly up the side of his knee.
The room lost it.
Damien’s cheeks ballooned as he tried not to choke. Amanda screamed. Courtney slapped the couch and yelled, “THAT’S NOT A BIT, THAT’S FOREPLAY!”
He held on—barely. You cocked your head and purred:
“I didn’t say stop me if I’m being inappropriate…”
SPIT.
He doubled forward, spraying the water in a glorious arc across the studio floor, coughing between helpless laughter.
You turned on your heel triumphantly, sauntering back toward the couch as the rest of the cast erupted.
“Oh my GOD,” Angela shouted. “Will you two PLEASE just fuck already?”
Amanda nodded solemnly. “They are legally married in the state of ‘Denial.’”
“She cheated!” Damien choked out, wiping his chin with a towel. “That wasn’t even a joke. That was emotional warfare!”
You threw him a wink. “Maybe don’t challenge someone who’s better at flirting than you.”
His expression flickered—he smiled, but his ears turned slightly red. That only made you grin wider.
Courtney took the seat reluctantly, already muttering, “I swear to God if they team up, I’m not surviving this.”
And team up you did.
You and Damien flanked her like evil improv angels, each standing on one side. He started it off smoothly:
“I walked in on Y/N the other day…
Practicing with a plunger.”
Courtney’s eyes widened over puffed cheeks. You nodded solemnly.
“I like to warm up with the big tools first.
Gotta keep everything… loose.”
A cough. A snort. Courtney shifted in her seat.
Damien leaned closer.
“She calls it ‘cardio with benefits.’”
Courtney exploded, water bursting from her mouth like a fire hydrant. You and Damien high-fived. Amanda fell backward onto the couch dramatically, groaning, “DOES EVERYTHING YOU SAY HAVE A SEXUAL UNDERTONE?!”
“Yes,” you and Damien said in sync.
“Let’s do one more together,” you said to Damien, grabbing two clip-on mustaches. He grinned, already playing along.
You both stood like deadpan newscasters.
“Good evening,” you began. “Tonight’s top story: Damien’s pipe has burst again.”
“That’s right, Y/N,” Damien replied. “Sources say it burst wide open after she handled it for too long.”
Shayne’s cheeks inflated comically.
“Cleanup was messy, wet, and deeply satisfying,” you added.
Shayne EXPLODED.
The studio went full chaos. You and Damien collapsed against each other in laughter.
You should’ve known this would come back to bite you.
One minute you were on fire, racking up spit takes like a flirt-powered demolition derby—and the next, someone (probably Shayne) shoved you into the TNTL throne with a wicked grin and a shout of:
“LET’S SEE IF THE TEASE CAN TAKE IT.”
Your smugness evaporated fast.
Mouth full of water. Cold plastic chair beneath you. The set lights suddenly blinding. Damien approaching like a Bond villain about to monologue you into submission.
You tried to focus. Don’t break. Don’t laugh. Don’t—
Damien walked out from the shadows holding… a banana.
Oh no.
He didn’t even speak at first. Just stood in front of you, dead silent, slowly peeling the banana with exaggerated care, like it was a bomb. The studio lost it before he even got a word out.
Courtney had faceplanted into a pillow. Angela whisper-yelled, “NO. NOPE. NOT THE BANANA.”
Damien took a thoughtful bite.
“Bananas,” he said, around a mouthful, “are a great source of potassium.
But did you know... they’re also excellent practice for deep breathing exercises?”
You clenched your jaw. Do not spit. Do not combust. He’s doing it on purpose.
He crouched lower in front of you. Face level. Oh god.
“I’ve seen you eat bananas before,” he added. “You don’t even chew. You just... commit.”
A choked sound burst from the back of your throat.
Damien smirked.
“It’s inspiring, really.
I mean, most people don’t gag that far into a potassium stick and come out smiling.”
You shook violently. Your eyes watered. You slapped your knee like Morse code.
