#improvised play

[ola-na-tungee]

[billthebullfrogs]

K-Change of Plans (A Damien Haas x reader oneshot)

Improv day at Smosh goes off-script when you get paired with Damien for a seemingly harmless game, and what starts as pure chaos slowly turns into something a little too charged to ignore. Between banter, lingering looks, and post-filming decompression vibes, the vibe leans hard into mutual pining, soft tension, and that unmistakable “wait… is this still a bit?” energy.

This stupid game was NOT meant to go like this.

It was one of those simple Smosh Pit improv bits. The kind that only needed a table, a camera, and everyone dressed in the unofficial black improv uniform. Shayne, Courtney, Angela, Chanse, Tommy, and Damien were all there, already half-losing it before the game even started.“K-Change of Plans,” Shayne explained, tapping the bowl sitting dead center on the table.

The rules were easy. Inside were folded slips of paper, each one holding a character you had to commit to: an old woman, a pilgrim, something equally ridiculous. You pulled one. Your scene partner pulled one. The rest of the group threw out a situation.

And then, BOOM. Improv time.It started out really silly. Shayne was Guy Who Can Only Say Zonk™, Angela was some sort of... little Italian man? Cortney was a scarily good Facebook Mom. You were amused, but not surprised by the talent of your castmates. Now, however, it was time for you to go. Damien volunteered as your scene partner, and while you managed to stay cool, your head was screaming and your heart was pounding. "

This is gonna be awesome!" Angela grinned, and added: "I mean, it literally can't be worse than Straight Chanse." She added a dramatic shiver. "Let's fucking go!" Tommy slammed a hand on the table. Everyone was hyped, the mood on improv days was always so good. That was why you felt comfortable enough to actually go a little crazy.Damien picked a paper slip first. "Geez, Guy Who Thinks Everyone Is Participating In His LARP? That's hilarious."

And then he looked at you. Him in his gorgeous black button down, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the tattoos on his ridiculously pretty arms. It was truly unfair how he got to be everything all at once; talented, adorably nerdy and unfairly gorgeous as well?! You took it as a sign to pull your card, though. "Tired Customer Service Person? I like it. Let's do this!"

Oh, you were ready.

You'd been ready for a long time, you thought. Secretly, you had been hoping for this to happen. To be quite honest, you'd been interested in Damien from the start, since you got to join the crew and this ridiculously attractive man grinned at you like you were just what he'd been hoping for. You felt like a secret mastermind, always turning the situation so you'd end up somewhere with him. But is a girl to blame for that?

No, no one was to blame for liking a man like that. He had been there, even when you weren't this entertaining, actress persona. Even when you weren't the funniest, or the best at something. His eyes were on you. You could still remember the first time you got overstimulated at a Smosh event. You'd been masking up until that point, but it was exhausting and one day, it just kinda dropped. You'd left the room, thinking, HOPING, they'd not come after you, because crying in front of these awesome people was just embarrassing— especially because of seemingly nothing.

But he came looking for you. When he'd seen you, he just sat next to you for a moment. After some time, he'd asked what happened. That was the day you'd admitted your hypersensitivity. Instead of being all confused or asking you too many questions, he just nodded. Then, he started talking about the original Pokémon, about his D&D character and literally anything else to distract you. And after that, you were basically inseparable—

—which led you to where you were now. Crushing on a fucking theatre kid with interests which competed with those of fucking Sheldon Cooper. Said theatre kid was now facing you on the little space used as the improv stage. You instantly switched to acting mode. Pretending to sit at a register, you waited for Damien to approach you.

“Ah, good evening! You- you must be the mysterious innkeeper! Pray, how many shillings for a room? Preferably with a bed.”

You blinked, leaning back against the counter.

“Sir… this is a Hilton.”

"What? YOU'RE Ms. Hilton?” He stepped a little closer, chest puffed out as if presenting a ceremonial sword.

“No! I meant—” You threw up your hands, almost knocking over a stack of imaginary brochures.“Ah! So you are the Guardian of this establishment!” He swept into a bow so dramatic it nearly knocked over a brochure stand that did not exist. “I knew it. You’re the boss encounter. The one Hilton was named after...”

You groaned but laughed anyway, crossing your arms. “Is this a bit? Sir… I make fourteen dollars an hour and none of them cover medieval combat.”

“LIES! To get a room in this establishment, I must fight you first, correct? Hah! I am a level five paladin! I will SQUASH YOU!” He raised an imaginary sword and took a deliberate step closer, forcing you to lean back slightly.

“You can't say that! PLEASE lower your voice. And your expectations. I don’t have a sword.” You leaned forward over the counter, hands planted firmly, staring him down with mock seriousness.

He tilted his head, smirk twitching, and stepped closer, so your shoulders brushed. “Yet I sense a great power within you… and frankly, it’s distracting my oath. Are you a practicer of magic, perhaps?“

You rolled your eyes but smirked. “Magic? Surviving this lobby every day without losing my mind has to count for something, right?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice like the fluorescent lights were suddenly torchlight. “Tell me, Guardian… do you challenge all who seek rest, or only those who catch your interest?”

Courtney whispered, “Why does he always do this?”“Because God abandoned us,” Angela murmured, already laughing.

You leaned over the counter, unimpressed. “I challenge anyone who raises an imaginary sword in my lobby. And if you don't stop, I'm going to call the police.”

“Ah,” he said softly, shoulders brushing yours. “Then I will sheathe mine… for now.”

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, slumping slightly on the counter. “Sir… if you don’t either book a room or do something that isn’t… whatever this is, you’re going to have to leave.”

“Ah!” he gasped, stepping closer like the fluorescent lighting suddenly became torchlight. “You do not yield easily, Guardian. Truly… you are remarkable.”

You snorted, trying to shove back a laugh, but your chest betrayed you for a millisecond when his hand brushed just slightly against yours while gesturing wildly, a completely accidental touch, and your stomach did that stupid, fluttery thing that made you hate yourself a little more.

"What's remarkable is that I haven't QUIT MY FUCKING JOB ALREADY!" You'd caught yourself and ended the scene with a well deserved crashout.

“Aaand scene!” Angela laughed.“Nice!” Shayne clapped, and you high-fived Damien, the energy still buzzing.“Be honest,” you said, grinning. “Is this just how you are outside of improv?”

He snorted. "Mhm, you got me. I run around with my wooden sword and act like LA is fucking Baldurs Gate or something." After you, Chanse and Tommy had their turn, something about a mime and an opera singer, and you realized you hadn’t actually been paying attention at all.

Damien was sitting beside you. And he was so close. Close enough that your legs touched, warm denim against warm denim, and it felt impossibly loud in your head despite no one else seeming to notice.You didn’t move. Neither did he.

You laughed when everyone else laughed, stared resolutely forward, and tried not to think about how aware you suddenly were of your own body, of how stupidly fast your heart was going, how carefully you were breathing.It was nothing, yet it was more than that. It was everything.You felt like a teenager again, full of nerves and hope and humiliation, praying he wouldn’t notice while desperately wanting him to.Eventually, the scene ended. The moment didn’t.

And when things finally moved on, it felt like waking up from something you weren’t ready to leave.

—

Pretty soon after, they wrapped up filming for the day. It was a good day, and you all were pretty satisfied with your efforts, but it was loud. Yeah, you loved improv days, but they were quite exhausting. Keeping up the performance even when things got too much was part of the job, and so draining nonetheless. You were sitting in the break room, sipping on your standard chamomile tea. That's kinda what you were known for here at Smosh, because every time you were on set, you'd have at least two cups of that damn tea every few hours. That was when someone sat down next to you.

"Chamomile tea again, huh?" Of course it had to be Damien. You didn't even have to look at him to know he was smiling as well. Your eyes drifted to his anyway. "If you see me drinking anything else, you know that's my evil twin," you joked. He grinned. "Do you not get tired of it?"

You shook your head. "Never. It's kinda like my emotional support tea, you know? It, uh, it always tastes the same, no matter how loud things get. That's what I like about it." "No, I get it." He paused, tilting his head to look at you better. Under the table, your hand was gripping your jeans, you were trying not to explode because of the eye contact.

"Today was loud again, yeah?" He asked. You shrugged. "I mean, it's what I signed up for. Plus, for emergencies, I still have these babies," you said, pointing to the noice cancelling headphones you always kept around your neck, just in case. He gave a small nod. "Well, you did really good today. Kinda made me wanna go again, to be honest." You looked at him with a grin.

"You just want an excuse to flirt with me," you teased. Sometimes, you wondered where you got the balls to flirt, but you had realized a whole ago that sometimes, you'd have to fight for what you wanted. This wasn't a fight, really, it was much better, but you weren't usually the one speaking up like that, so every battle counts for something. Damien leaned a little closer. "Oh please, I don't need excuses to flirt," he stated, crossing his arms. "Just don't want you to explode the moment I say something that's not PG-13."

You felt the heat rising in your cheeks. "Jesus-" You whispered under your breath, before catching yourself and flirting back because WE DIE LIKE MEN.

"Hm, you know what I think?" You asked, tilting your head teasingly. "I think YOU'RE the one who can't take it." With a grin, you blinked up at him, before getting up, having finished your tea.

Unexpectedly, he followed. "Nuh uh, you're not leaving. Not after you looked at me like that." He gently grabbed your wrist, and after realizing how demanding he sounded, he added: "Please?"This time, you couldn't regulate yourself enough to form a proper answer. "I... you... Damien, are... are we still acting?"

He carefully, almost hesitantly stepped closer, having let go of your wrist to not crowd you. "Honestly? I've stopped acting a while ago."

"What?"

"Listen, I... I don't want this to be weird or anything, really, I just-... I think you're pretty awesome, and, uh," he took a moment to breathe before continuing, "I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you." He didn't look at you for a moment, he couldn't. But when he did, he saw a ridiculously red face. You were rendered speechless for a moment, but you were sure your expression spoke for you. It actually made him chuckle. "You doing okay there? Geez, I... I didn't think I could do that."

"Oh, shut up!" You finally shook it off, but you were smiling like an idiot. "In case it wasn't completely obvious, I am head over heels for you, Day. Sometimes I scare myself, but, uh... I guess I don't have to anymore." You smiled a bit at your own awkwardness. He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Wow. Okay. So this is… happening.”

“Yeah,” you said, still smiling like you couldn’t stop it even if you tried.He bumped his shoulder against yours, warm and solid. “Guess we’re really bad at pretending, huh?”

You leaned into him, just a little. The space between you shifted, subtle but unmistakable, like the air itself had leaned in too. His shoulder was warm against yours, steady, and you became acutely aware of how close his face was now. Close enough that you could see the way his breath caught, the way his jaw tightened as if he were working up courage all over again.

“Hey, uh... Can we-... Can I kiss you, please?” He asked, voice soft, careful, like he was holding something fragile in his hands.

You felt your eyes widen, your heart stuttering hard enough that you were sure he could hear it. You turned your head to look at him fully now, really look at him, and found that he was already watching you, hopeful and nervous all at once.“You wanna kiss me?” You blinked, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. His smile came slow, crooked, fond.“If that’s okay?”

“Please.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he lifted his hand, hesitant, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t. His fingers brushed your jaw, barely there, like he was still making sure this was real. When he leaned in, it was unhurried, reverent, his forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat as he exhaled a quiet laugh of relief.

The kiss itself was gentle, soft pressure, more promise than anything else. It lingered, unspoken words settling between you as easily as his lips did. You kissed him back without thinking, without fear, and something warm and steady unfurled in your chest.

When you finally pulled apart, you stayed close, foreheads touching, breathing the same air.It felt right.It felt like the easiest thing in the world.

And you realized that the easiest scenes were the ones where you didn't have to perform.

[bardofvibes]

I just love when they're being silly with the subtitles lmao

[superfandomlife]

"The Underground of Holland."

Shoot From The Hip - Improvised Play 63: The Sins of the Gardener (And the Gouda Tattoo) (2025)

[soupy-soul0]

Yes ginny, I too often get irritated with my lesbian conscious and tell it to fuck off

[someacedude]

Okay I'm already obsessed with the newest long form and something I noticed that I love! (Spoilers for "The Game of Truth and Tea,"

I love the way it shows Luke's character/the mum understanding Winthorpe/Henry much better than Winthrop does

(accidentally) giving evidence of sorts for the wonderful twist of him being Arthur's father. Also them both throwing shade at their capture is so fun

It's these moments that make that final twist even better to me. This whole long form was amazing!

[bullets-and-bloodsuckers]

I know they’re talking about the band, but all I can think of are these guys, lol.

[storyfromthehip]

Inside the Mysterious Cube | by Shoot From The Hip

The helicopter thudded impatiently on the landing pad, its blades chopping the air into anxious pieces. The sky had the color of old steel. Below it stood the President of the United States, coat tugged tight, staring at the horizon where the Cube had begun to glow again.

"Sir," said the guard beside him, stiff and careful. "They’re ready when you are."

The President nodded, then paused. "How are you feeling?"

The guard blinked. "Me, sir?"

"Yes. I like to know the people around me."

"I’m… fine. Just security."

"What’s your name?"

"Robson, sir. Son of Rob."

The President smiled faintly. "Robson, son of Rob. A good name. How long have you served?"

"Twelve years. Three presidents."

"And your favorite?"

Robson hesitated. "We’re not meant to—"

"Oh, come on."

"…Obama," he admitted. "He was a good man. Lost him in the war."

The President looked toward the horizon. "Yes. On the horse."

"Shirtless," Robson said solemnly.

"With a sword."

"A shame he didn’t take a tank." Robson said "But, he chose the horse."

They stood in silence. Somewhere far away, the Cube hummed—a low geometric sound.

"My time has come," the President said. "The Cube has returned."

Robson swallowed. "The last cubing nearly ended us."

A voice interrupted them. "Husband!"

They both turned. A woman hurried forward, fierce and breathless.

"My wife," the President said. "She calls me that."

"Husband," she said again. "You can’t go."

"I have to."

"No. You don’t. You remember what happened to Obama."

"I have to be like him."

She grabbed his sleeve. "Then at least don’t take a sword."

Robson nodded vigorously. "Sir, respectfully—any weapon but a sword."

But the President shook his head. "The Cube doesn’t fall to bullets. Or rockets. Only a sword and a horse have ever worked."

"I’m coming with you," the woman said.

"No."

"I am."

They stared at each other until the world narrowed to that single moment of stubborn love.

"I love you," she said. "And you’re the President of the United States of America," she added, as if daring him to contradict her.

He smiled. "Say it again."

───

Across the country, people watched the Cube’s shadow creep closer.

Two men sat on a porch in the South.

"Looks like the one from twelve years ago," one said.

"I remember that," the other replied. "Didn’t vote for Obama, but I respected him. Shirtless on a horse. That’s leadership."

"That’s how I wanna go."

A radio crackled. Then silence.

"Oh, what’s he going to say now?" Bubba muttered. "Probably that we’re out of water. Again." He gave a dry laugh that didn’t quite land.

"Or that he’s calling up the Reserves. That’d be me." Jeremiah muttered. 

Bubba turned toward him sharply. "Don’t say that. I mean it," he said, softer now. "I don’t want to hear it"

Bubba stepped closer, voice breaking through its usual bravado. "I don’t want you going anywhere. I love you. I’d hide you in the basement if I had to. I’d tuck you up in the attic and board the door shut. Anything to keep your body safe."

Jeremiah smiled, sad and tired. "I know."

"Stay with me," Bubba said. "Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow."

Jeremiah looked down at his hands. "I made a vow to my country."

"And you made one to me," Bubba shot back. "In that cornfield. You went down on one knee and said my name like it was a promise. You said you’d never leave my side. Not ever. Not even after the war took my legs and gave me these wooden ones instead."

"You don’t have to remind me," Jeremiah said quietly. "I carry those vows with me every day I think about going back out there. Every day I think about that Cube."

"You can’t fight it," Bubba said. "You don’t have a horse. You don’t have a sword. That’s the only thing that’s ever worked."

Jeremiah huffed a bitter laugh. "You think the Army doesn’t have thousands of horses they could lend me?"

Bubba tilted his head, studying him. "Sounds like you want to go."

He opened his mouth, closed it again. "Maybe I do. Maybe when you’ve been to war like I have—"

"Don’t," Bubba snapped. "Don’t you dare tell me about war. My legs are made of wood."

The words hit the room like a dropped plate.

Jeremiah swallowed. "You know as well as I do," he said gently, "a part of you always stays on the battlefield."

Bubba stared at him, jaw tight, eyes wet.

"Yeah," he said. "My fucking legs."

Then, finally, the President’s voice—The broadcast crackled into life with a long, uncertain breath.

"My friends… Americans… Romans… Americans… and—ah—people."

"I come before you today because I have… a great—" he stopped, regrouped, then continued, his voice drifting strangely southward, rounding its vowels. "I come speakin’ to you in your own tongue, so you can understand me a little better down there."

The accent wavered, tried to settle, failed. It was not quite Southern, not quite anything, as if geography itself had lost confidence.

"I know many of you don’t want a return to the war from years ago. The one where we lost Obama." He paused. "But enemies have a way of comin’ back stronger. You cut off the head of a snake, it grows back meaner. And when the enemy is a cube—well."

He cleared his throat.

"When you cut the head off a cube, you don’t really solve anything. You just make more sides. More problems. A cube can become… well. Somethin’ else. An octagon. Or maybe a quadragon. The math ain’t important. What matters is this—"

His voice sharpened suddenly, rising with borrowed conviction.

"What matters is you. Look at the person you love right now. Really look at them. Imagine a great cube descendin’ from the sky and crushin’ them flat. Legs gone. Head gone. Everything you know about them turned into geometry."

He inhaled, audibly steadying himself.

"And then tell me you wouldn’t climb onto a horse. Tell me you wouldn’t ride out and fight for the human race."

The signal wavered. Static hissed like wind through dead grass.

"I’ll leave you with a poem," he said, softer now, almost pleased with himself. "By Rudyard Kipling."

He recited it poorly, but with conviction:

" 'When the wind does blow,

To and fro,

You must get your shit together

And fuck up them hoes.' "

The broadcast cut out shortly after, leaving only the hum of electricity and the uneasy sense that history had just cleared its throat again.

The man with wooden legs squeezed his partner’s hand. "I’d go," he said softly. "So I understand if you gotta go."

"I gotta go." Jeremiah muttered

Bubba nodded, "I’ll keep the farm waitin’ for you."

───

The Cube army arrived without ceremony.

They descended like thoughts made solid: vast, humming blocks folding space around themselves. Smaller cubes bustled beneath them, chirping in tones that almost sounded cheerful.

"We seek the Nintendo GameCube," announced the Cube Commander. "The most powerful cube-based technology in human history."

A smaller cube malfunctioned mid-sentence and collapsed with a sad electronic wheeze.

"No!" cried another. "He was my friend!"

The cubes regrouped.

"Send scouts," said the commander. "Stealth Cubes. Learn how many swords. How many horses."

Light twisted. Shapes softened. Two cubes reformed themselves into human outlines, imperfect and glowing.

"Remember," one whispered, "less cubic."

They walked toward the front line.

A soldier greeted them cheerfully. "Defense post! Round front. Confuses the cubes."

One of the disguised cubes tried to walk and forgot how arms worked.

"Think water," the other hissed.

Music played from a nearby radio. A crooner sang about the moon.

"What is this?" the cube asked.

"Frank Sinatra."

"I know Frank Sinatra," the cube said instantly.

"You do?"

"Yes."

"What’s his famous song?"

"Cube."

The human frowned.

The radio began to howl—frequencies warping, reality bending.

The disguise failed.

Steel screamed. Someone screamed louder.

"They’ve breached the line!" the soldier shouted. Gunfire erupted around them.

───

Inside a command tent, the President paced.

The figure burst into the command chamber with urgency badly disguised as confidence.

"Where is the President?" it demanded. "I bring a message. Not about cubes. About presidents."

The President looked up from the console. "Are you the man they sent to fix my computer?"

"Yes!" the figure said at once.

The President clapped once, relieved. "Good. I need this working. I have to send orders. The troops must advance through the eastern front."

"The eastern front?" the figure repeated, tilting its head.

"Yes. And then they’ll attack. We have to attack." His voice wavered. "They’re already coming. Oh God… I’m never going to be like Obama."

The figure leaned closer. "You knew Obama?"

"I did," the President said. "Now he’s dead. He has two sides. Like a square."

The figure considered this. "Do you want to be a square?"

"No—if you’re not cool, you’re a square."

A voice burst in before the thought could finish forming.

"Husband!"

He turned sharply. "Wife! I— I thought you were— how was the front?"

"Beautiful," she said, breathless. "Terrible. Beautiful."

She gestured toward the stranger. "Who’s this?"

"My technician," the President said quickly. "He’s helping with the computer."

"I’m helping," the figure agreed, pleased.

Miranda studied him, head tilted. "You’re very… square."

"Thank you," he said warmly.

An awkward quiet settled, humming with machines and distant alarms.

"Did you know Obama?" the The President asked.

The technician nodded. "I was there. At the end of the Obama-time."

The room seemed to contract.

"He came rushing forward," the technician said, eyes brightening. "Riding the cubes themselves. So fast. So strong. For one moment, the cubes hesitated. He broke their front line."

The air thickened as the story took shape.

"His sword pierced the greatest cube. Jelly poured out—cube jelly. Everything became soft. All jelly. We did not like it-" A pause. "The cubes did not like it, I mean."

A small, nervous laugh escaped him.

"And then Obama disappeared into the jelly. One man for many. Gone inside it."

Silence followed, reverent and uneasy.

The technician lowered his voice. "He went through so much. When you are on a battlefield… a part of you does not come back."

The President swallowed.

"Oh," he said quietly.

And in that softness—in the shared reverence, the confusion, the grief—the room seemed to tilt, just slightly, toward something else. Toward a trap quietly closing.

───

A stealth cube. In the camp. The President had been taken.

Outside, alarms wailed. Inside the Cube, something deeper awakened.

They rode together into the breach: the President, his spouse, and a cowboy.

They rode on one horse, singing badly, yelling defiance at the sky.

Inside the Cube, geometry folded inward. Space became argument. Logic curved.

The cowboy fell first. Held in the arms of his love, Bubba. "Go inside the Cube. Finish it!" Jeremiah told him with his last breath.

At the center waited the Queen Cube—vast, radiant, patient.

"You have entered the cube-within-cubes," she said. "We came for your GameCube. But we found more."

The President’s spouse appeared, transformed—cube legs humming softly.

"I chose this," she said. "To understand them."

The Queen Cube spoke gently. "We are tired of war. Humans become jelly. Cubes become jelly. In jelly, we are equal."

"You killed him," Bubba said.

"Would you like him back?"

Silence.

"There is enough life-jelly for one return."

The choice hung in the air, heavy as gravity.

"Not Obama," Bubba demanded. "Bring back my husband."

The Cube hesitated. "That is… love."

"Love doesn’t have shape," Bubba said. "It doesn’t have sides."

The Queen Cube considered this.

"Very well."

Light poured out. Forms melted and re-formed. Jelly shimmered, rearranged itself, remembered.

A body returned. Human. Breathing. Jeremiah was alive again.

The Cube dimmed.

"Peace," it said. "A world that is part round, part square."

───

Later, as dawn rose—round and soft—Bubba and Jeremiah stood hand in hand, back in their field, staring up at the empty sky where the cube had been just hours earlier. 

───────

watch IMPROVISED PLAY #11 | "Inside the Mysterious Cube" | Shoot From The Hip :