Bree’s Delusion Outlet

I started this blog as a space to share my love for Smosh and, most importantly, to post my own Smosh fanfiction! You can also find me on AO3 now, yay!

Grab your apples and munch on some warm bread as you read 🍎 🤗 🍞

📚 Bree’s Masterlist 📚

Welcome to my fanfic masterlist! You can find all my finished and ongoing works here, organized by name and type. I typically write reader inserts with gender-neutral pronouns to be inclusive, unless someone requests it to be F/M pronouns.

like in tntl reader and damien keeps laughing at each others bits, or in games they keep looking at each other or making each other win

and at the end, the both of them are in smosh mouth w Shayne to talk abt their relationship

i really love ur fics <3 im sorry if this is too much for you make and i hope you take care of urself as well since you have all these fics to write <3

Hello there~ *in Obi-wan's voice* I forgot to answer this but OMG once again, I'm very happy that you bestowed your first ever request to my humble writing skills 😔🙏 Yeah, my WIPs are stacked but not too much as I posted two of them already! No worries, just needed to churn out two more and then this req! :D

If I have a dollar for every Anon requesting I write a hard launch fic, I could buy a Pineapple Kickstart with a few changes to spare... Or whatever the actual saying is. Three inboxes, all recent, requested hard launches but with different Smosh members, that's just so funny to me lmao

Anyway, I think my Roommates fic with Damien didn't really end in them hard launching... Do you mind if I essentially write a sequel to that but with your prompt? Thank you for reading and loving my fics, every interaction is greatly appreciated 😊❤

Damien Haas x GN! Reader

Summary: The writers at Smosh planted a hidden camera on you so you could test Damien, your boyfriend, on the Bird Theory trend. It went terribly well, too well that you felt guilty seeing his betrayed expression. So you promised to make it up to him fairly to apologize for what you did.

Word Count: 2,600 ish

The Anthony fic is all I dreamt of. I can write, but I cannot write an already existing man and try to bring his personality to life. Yes, I am the Anthony anon and I came here to say thank you.

I shall place another request of Anthony soon trust. But I'll keep it down for now as I noticed you have about two more fics on your writing list.

But I will come back...

AAAA I am SO HAPPY you like it, it was v interesting writing fanfic for a Smosh member that I’ve never done so I’m glad you like my interpretation of Anthony :>

Anthony Padilla x GN! Reader

Summary: People in Smosh use the rumor of you, a big movie star, dating someone in Smosh as a perpetual inside joke. One day, Anthony, your husband that you secretly married years ago, casually exposes himself as the true culprit, thinking it’s finally time to confirm your five-year marital commitment for everyone at Smosh and the internet. The viewers loses their minds when they watched the most private actor and Smosh member reveal their relationship in a casual ‘Smosh Reddit Reads’ video.

Word Count: 6,000 ish

you know what this fandom needs? another straight white man. more trevor x reader.

LMAOOO don’t worry, don’t worry, I want to write more for Trevor too, but damn my WIPs are getting stacked:

- Req!Anthony secret marriage (DONE)

- Bird Theory Damien (DONE)

- Req!Hard Launch Spencer x M! Reader

- Something about Trevor, just give me time to mythically cook here—I WANT MORE TREVOR TOO AKH I LOVE THAT MAN 😭 One of my vocal stim for, like a year now, is Rhett yelling “Trevor! TREVOR! TREVARHH!” in GMM, let me find the clip.

okay so like i’ve never made a request before so pls give me grace but i was wondering if we could get a spencer x male!reader fic!!!

i was thinking where spencer and reader HARD LAUNCH to the media AND cast/crew (like only ian, anthony, and HR knew) by kissing during TNTL

i was thinking about like the shayne and courtney thing where they just kissed and everyone FREAKED OUT but instead it’s like nobody knew about spencer and readers relationship before the kiss :)

but like overall a fluffy hard launch fic with maybe a little bit of angst!! (if i fucked up this request/if you have any questions plspls ask)

Hello hello! I’m honored that you trust me to handle your first request, this seems like something I could do just changing the pronouns and a few little details.

No worries at all, your descriptions are already so detailed, I don’t think I need additional info unless you want to specify the kind of angst you’re looking for.

Spencer Agnew x GN! Reader

Summary: A viral Smosh meme of your face in ‘Who Meme’d it’ triggers a wave of low self-esteem, which you expertly mask with a brilliant self-deprecating joke that fools everyone but your observant boyfriend, Spencer. Feeling bothered after seeing the clip, he commits to making you feel better, every time you’re doubting your worth.

Word Count: 2,700 ish

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, low self-perception.

Author Note: Req by Anon! I hope it’s as you imagined this would go, yall sorry if the joke is meh, I’m no comedian lol, happy reading :)

Ooooo nooo :(( so a Hurt/Comfort fic about self-esteem with Spencer, got it! Sure! Seems like this’ll be a short fic though, borderline drabble maybe lol

If you do, may I request a fic of him coming back to Smosh already MARRIED to someone that the Smosh cast and crew doesn't expect at all.

Plus, in this fic, there's rumours that had circulate about a famous actor/actress dating someone from Smosh (the information was wrong because in fact, that famous actor is MARRIED to someone who technically USED TO BE APART OF SMOSH but technically not anymore when the rumours began to show up).

So yeah, I'm basically asking for a famous!reader fic with Anthony cause I've been obsessed with this idea for so long. You can make the reader an actor that technically everyone at Smosh is obsessed with but then one day Anthony just reveals that he's married to that exact actor, much to everyone's surprise (except Ian, he's known for a little longer than everyone else).

Don't mind the capslock, I can't turn words into italics. If you do accept, I'll be over the moon. If you don't write for him, it's okay, I'm only coming front with an idea.

Sorry for just answering this now, but this seems like a challenge I’m willing to take! This would be my first time writing for Anthony so please give me time to research all the lore, personality, etc for this fic mkay? :3

So I can’t give a posting time for this yet but thank you so much for trusting my writing and requesting this ^^

Spencer Agnew x GN! Reader

Summary: You, a film enthusiast, hid your deep-seated fear of horror to please your excited boyfriend, Spencer, when he suggested watching a horror movie for date night. He was willing to compromise when he realized your reaction and the two of you spent the rest of the night snuggled on the couch, trading anxiety for laughter and reinforcing the sweet, comforting bond of your relationship.

Warnings: Written depictions of horror movie scenes but not a lot. More fluff than anything scary tbh.

Word Count: 4,000 ish

Author Note: This blog is still posting Spencer fics, folks, I swear 😔 Songs while writing, on behalf of Spencer’s my taste in music, ‘I want you to’ by Weezer and ‘Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy’ by Queen. I tried listening to Sleigh bells, not my cup of tea lol

******

The dating routine was perfect. It was a sacred, bi-weekly observance that defined the rhythm of your romantic relationship with Spencer. Every Friday and Saturday night, without fail, the world outside Spencer’s cozy, book-and-DVD-lined apartment ceased to exist. These were your movie nights, not just for passive viewing, but for active, passionate cinephile engagement.

You and Spencer bonded over film. That wasn’t just a shared interest; it was the foundation of your connection. You adored his thoughtful analyses, the way his eyes would light up discussing mise-en-scène or the thematic continuity between a director’s early short films and their blockbusters. He loved that you could argue eloquently about why the editing in Scott Pilgrim vs. the World was genius, or why a certain cinematographer’s use of negative space elevated a simple scene to high art. You both were film nerds, short and simple, and these evenings were your scholastic playground, complete with popcorn.

Tonight, however, felt different.

The atmosphere in the living room was typical: low ambient lighting from the string of fairy lights Spencer insisted on keeping up year-round, the heavy, cable-knit blanket pooled invitingly on the sectional sofa, and the intoxicating scent of freshly popped buttered popcorn filling the air. Everything was in place, yet your stomach was tight with a cold, creeping anxiety.

Spencer, oblivious and humming excitedly, was arranging the snacks on the coffee table. He was wearing his favorite grey Legacy worn-out hoodie, his curls slightly damp from a pre-movie shower, and a pair of thick, fuzzy socks. He looked like the epitome of domestic comfort, a vision that usually instantly calmed any of your day’s stresses.

“Okay, my dear Letterboxd enjoyer in film critique,” he announced, turning back to you, his hands spread wide. “Tonight, we venture into the unknown. We’ve done the highbrow Kurosawa, the classic Hitchcock, the controversial A24 indie—but tonight, we’re going deep. In the trenches of scary films. Tonight, we’re watching a true, foundational piece of modern horror: The Descent.”

He held up the DVD case, his expression a mix of pride and sheer enthusiasm. His eyes, already bright, seemed to sparkle as he anticipated your shared intellectual dissection of the film’s tension-building and psychological terror.

“It’s a masterclass in claustrophobia,” he continued, practically vibrating with energy as he slipped the disc into the player. “I’ve read about the director’s use of practical effects and sound design to really leverage the fear of the dark and isolation. We need to watch this not just for the scares, but for the craft. Frankly, I hear it’s supposedly flawless horror filmmaking.”

You managed a shaky, but hopefully convincing, smile. “Sounds… exciting, Spence. I’ve heard good things about its critical reception.”

Exciting. That was the perfect understatement. Exciting was when the coffee shop almost ran out of your favorite pastry and you’re getting the last one. Exciting was not watching a movie where women were trapped in a cave with pale, humanoid monsters.

The truth—the deeply embarrassing, secret truth you’d never dared to share with your brilliant, brave, horror-loving boyfriend—was that you were absolutely, utterly terrified of scary movies. Not just jump-scares, but the atmospheric dread, the psychological tension, the images that stick in your brain when the credits roll and the lights come on. You avoided them like the plague, preferring comforting re-watches of familiar dramas or the intellectual safety of documentary cinema.

But how could you possibly tell Spencer no? How could you squash that beautiful, excited light in his wide grey eyes, the one that only appeared when he was sharing something he truly loved with you? He had prepared for this, researched it, treated it as a serious piece of cinematic history that you, his equally serious film partner, must experience.

“I’m really excited to finally see it with you,” you lied, the words tasting like ash. “Let’s get cozy.”

You settled onto the couch, Spencer immediately pulling you into his side. He wrapped the heavy blanket around both of you, tucking it securely over your feet, and kissed the top of your head, a gesture that was meant to be comforting but only amplified the guilt you felt for deceiving him.

“Perfect,” he whispered, adjusting a throw pillow so you could lean against his chest. “The perfect setup for a perfect film.”

The lights went completely off. The only illumination came from the large screen in front of you.

For the first ten minutes, you were fine. The movie was establishing its characters, setting up the devastating emotional prologue that would lead them into the caves. You used this time to remind yourself that this was art. This was a study in human frailty. This was acting. You could handle this. You were an adult, a rational, intelligent person. You should be able to differentiate between the real scary stuff and the effects of bloody makeup.

But as the group of women descended into the cave system, the rational part of your brain began to melt away, replaced by pure, visceral dread. The combination of the pitch black, the echoing, wet sounds of the environment, and the incredibly tight, crushing camera angles designed to induce maximum claustrophobia, was working on you with terrifying efficiency.

Spencer, initially, hadn’t noticed. He was fully immersed. His arm was around your shoulders, but his posture was forward, his eyes glued to the screen, occasionally making a quiet, appreciative murmur about the set design or the lighting.

You tried to match his energy. You tried to comment on the symbolism of the cave entrance. You tried to focus on the technical execution. But then came the first true scare—a sudden shift in the score, a quick, shadowy movement in the background, a character’s panic-stricken scream.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t even flinch outwardly very much. But your body betrayed you in dozens of tiny, involuntary ways.

The first thing you did was pull the blanket up. Not just to your chest, but over your chin, practically covering your nose. You clenched your jaw so hard your teeth ached. Your heart rate, which was usually steady, had begun to beat a frantic, panicked rhythm against the cushion of Spencer’s chest, where your head rested.

Just breathe. It’s not real. It’s not real.

The movie continued its slow, agonizing descent into madness. The group was lost. They were surrounded by silence and shadow. Then the real antagonists—the pale, terrifying cave-dwelling creatures—made their first clear appearance.

You made a small, involuntary noise, a tiny gasp caught in your throat, and without thinking, you jammed the palms of both hands over your eyes, burrowing your face into the soft cotton of Spencer’s hoodie.

Spencer shifted slightly. “Whoa, that was a great reveal,” he whispered, still focused on the screen. He tightened his arm comfortingly around you, mistaking your reaction for a classic, shared jump-scare response. “See? The makeup design is incredible, and that cut was perfect.”

You kept your hands pressed against your face, your fingernails practically digging into your temples. You could still hear the soundtrack—the guttural snarls, the frantic, scraping sounds, the terrifying, high-pitched scream of one of the victims. Your imagination, fully unleashed by the suggestion of the sound and the brief image you caught, was now filling in every terrifying detail the movie merely implied.

You stayed there for what felt like an eternity, only lowering your hands when the scene shifted to a moment of quiet, desperate dialogue between the remaining protagonists. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the lingering image from your mind.

But the worst part wasn’t the monsters; it was the atmosphere. The constant, crushing darkness, the feeling of no escape, the sense that something horrible was always just beyond the frame.

Over the next twenty minutes, your behavior became increasingly erratic, a silent, internal panic attack playing out in small, visible gestures. You tried to watch, you really did, forcing your eyes open, but every time the score dipped or the camera lingered too long in the shadows, you were back under the blanket. You would hold your breath, then realize you were hyperventilating, and force yourself to take a slow, shaky breath. You were silent. Usually, you’d be whispering critiques or making jokes, but now, your throat felt tight and dry, incapable of producing anything other than small, terrified whimpers that you instantly swallowed.

Spencer finally noticed. He wasn't usually one to miss the subtle cues of his favorite person. He paused the movie—right in the middle of a tense sequence where one of the women was trying to crawl through a narrow tunnel.

The sudden silence was deafening. The only sound in the room was the quiet whir of the DVD player and the frantic thumping of your own heart.

He shifted, turning fully toward you. His hand came up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn't even realized had escaped.

“Hey. Hey, are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and concerned. “You’re freezing cold and you’ve been… really quiet. You haven’t said a word about the cinematography, that’s unlike you.”

You pulled your face away slightly, trying to compose yourself and find an adequate excuse. “Oh, I… I’m fine, Spence. Just really immersed, you know? It’s very effective filmmaking.”

He gave you a gentle, knowing squeeze. “No. No, you’re not. You’re shaking like a chihuahua, my dear. Your jaw is clenched, and you’ve spent half this movie trying to become one with the sofa cushions.” He lifted the edge of the blanket, pulling it down slightly so he could see your eyes, which were wide and dilated in the dark. “Look at me. What’s going on? Are you not enjoying this?”

The question was so kind, so direct, that the elaborate defenses you’d built up over the last hour instantly crumbled. The guilt, the fear, and the sheer exhaustion of pretending all hit you at once.

You pulled the blanket back over your head and began to cry, small, embarrassed, muffled sobs.

Spencer didn’t laugh. He didn’t get frustrated. He didn’t even try to pull the blanket away immediately. He just scooched closer, enveloping the lump that was you in a hug, his solid warmth a comforting anchor against the waves of panic.

“It’s okay,” he murmured against the top of your head, his voice filled with nothing but tender concern. “Whatever it is, it’s okay. Just take a deep breath, relax, and tell me.”

You finally lowered the blanket, your face blotchy and wet. You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, feeling completely mortified.

“I’m so sorry, Spence,” you choked out, your voice thin and raw. “I… I can’t do it. I can’t watch this. I’m really, really sorry. It’s the sound and the dark, it’s just… too much.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion. “Too much? I mean, yeah, it’s intense, but I thought you were up for a scary cinematic experience. You usually love analysing the psychological angle.”

You took a ragged breath and finally let the terrible secret tumble out.

“Actually, I hate horror movies, Spencer. I am absolutely, ridiculously, pathologically terrified of them. I never watch them. I actively avoid them. I’ve never seen a single one by choice, ever, since I was a kid and saw five minutes of The Ring at a sleepover.” You squeezed your eyes shut again, bracing for his disappointment. “But you were so excited. You were talking about the director’s use of light and shadow and I knew you wanted to share this with me so badly. I didn’t want to be the reason we couldn’t watch it. I wanted to be brave for you, but I totally screwed it all up. I’m sorry. I just wanted to be your smart, cool partner who could handle all genres of film, but I guess I’m just a massive cowardly baby.”

The confession was followed by absolute silence, except for the lingering sound of your sniffing. You felt Spencer shift, and you opened your eyes to see his expression.

It wasn't disappointment. It wasn't annoyance. It was a look of profound, gentle tenderness and a hint of self-reproach.

He moved the remote, picking it up and hitting the Eject button. The disk drive whirred, and The Descent was unceremoniously expelled from the machine. He placed the DVD back in its case and put it out of sight on a nearby shelf.

“Hey,” he said softly, turning back to you and gently wiping your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You are my smart, cool baby who can handle all genres of film. But a good film enthusiast knows their limits, and they certainly know what makes them genuinely unhappy.”

He pulled you in, holding you tightly against his chest, rocking you slightly. You could feel the steady, comforting beat of his heart—a stark contrast to the frantic drum that had been beating in your own chest just moments ago.

“You don’t ever, ever have to watch something that makes you feel this scared just to impress me, okay?” he whispered, running a soothing hand over your hair. “If I was excited, it was because I was excited to share my passion with you, not to make you suffer. You tried, I love that. You tried to be brave, and that’s incredibly sweet, but there’s nothing wrong with having a preference. Horror is not for everyone, and that’s perfectly fine.”

He waited until your breathing evened out, until the last of the hiccups had passed. You felt a wave of profound relief wash over you—relief that the ordeal was over, and deeper relief that Spencer wasn't upset, only loving and supportive.

He eventually pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes twinkling in the soft fairy light. “Ah, dude, I feel like a complete jackass for not seeing it sooner. Don’t worry, though. Movie night is not over. Let’s just… change it to something milder. We need something that is the opposite of scary. Something that is ridiculous, over-the-top, comforting, and will make us laugh so hard you’ll forget about the creepy pale cave monsters.”

He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! A movie series that is genuinely beloved by film enthusiasts for its sheer commitment to parody, yet requires absolutely zero analysis. I promise it’s pure, joyful cinema.”

He stood up, walking over to his extensive DVD collection, and came back holding a worn box set.

“We’re binging the ultimate horror palate cleanser,” he announced with a grin. “We are watching all five ‘Scary Movie’ films.”

Within five minutes of the opening credits of the first Scary Movie, the creeping dread was naturally forgotten.

The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous and curative. Spencer didn’t even bother with the lights; the sudden splash of bright, hyper-saturated color and the iconic opening scene—a hilarious, spot-on parody of the opening of Scream—instantly broke the tension.

You finally laughed. You actually howled. The sheer audacity of the comedy, the willingness to be crude and utterly ridiculous, was the perfect antidote to the previous film’s crushing realism.

Spencer was, of course, the best movie partner in the world. He was leaning back, fully relaxed, his arm draped easily around your shoulder, periodically pointing out the brilliant, rapid-fire pop culture references.

“Look, look!” he cried, pointing at the screen during the famous phone call scene. “The way they copied the camera angles exactly, but the dialogue is just so fucking stupid. It’s brilliant. It’s a genius deconstruction of the genre tropes.”

You nudged him playfully with your elbow. “You’re doing it again, Spence. You’re analyzing the craft. Just laugh at the stupid blonde wig, you film snob.”

He grinned, pulling you closer so that your head was nestled comfortably just under his chin. “You underestimate me, I can do both! I can appreciate the satirical brilliance and laugh at the ridiculous jump-scares.”

As the plot of the first film unfolded, punctuated by increasingly silly sight gags and deliberately bad acting, you relaxed completely. Your racing heart slowed, your jaw unclenched, and the lump in your throat dissolved, replaced by a constant, delightful chuckle.

When the iconic ‘Whassup?!’ scene came on, you and Spencer looked at each other and simultaneously bellowed the line, dissolving into a fit of giggles that left you both gasping for air.

“See?” Spencer said, his voice husky with laughter, pulling the blanket tight around your shoulders. “This is the kind of immersive sound design I appreciate when I watch movies with you. The sound of your actual, genuine laughter, not the sound of cave monsters.” He pressed a warm kiss to your temple. “This is much better.”

As the first movie ended, you felt a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the thick blanket and everything to do with the man beside you.

Spencer was ready with the second disc before the end credits fully rolled.

“Okay, Scary Movie 2 is divisive among fans,” he informed you, as the next film started. “Some say it leans too hard into the absurdity and loses the sharp parody of the first one. I, however, appreciate its commitment to sheer, unrestrained physical comedy and genre-bending.”

This film, focused on parodying haunted house and supernatural films like The Haunting and The Exorcist, had you crying tears of laughter. The scenes involving the demonic possession and the ridiculous slapstick involving the butler, Hanson, were pure, unadulterated absurdity.

“Oh, the hand! The small, weak hand!” you shouted, burying your face against Spencer’s chest as the possessed character’s tiny, wizened hand tried to slap her.

“It’s pretty good, right?” Spencer cheered, squeezing you tight. “They took the most terrifying elements of the source material—demonic possession—and made it utterly pathetic and hilarious. The only thing exorcised is actual fear.”

You spent this movie in a constant state of snuggling, finding every silly line or visual gag an excuse to collapse against him, your bodies pressed together under the shared warmth of the blanket. He fed you popcorn piece by piece, pausing only to wipe a smudge of butter off your cheek. The earlier tension was so completely gone it felt like it had happened to different people.

The third installment, which targeted The Ring and Signs, brought a new level of meta-humor, and this was where Spencer truly shone with his commentary.

“Wait, wait, listen to the score here,” he whispered during a scene where a mysterious videotape was being discussed. “They’re using the exact same four notes from the original Ring score, but they overlay it with a tuba solo! It’s shit like this that’s just comedic genius! It’s taking the terror and making it sound like a marching band.”

This part was particularly healing for you, as The Ring was one of the films that had originally traumatized you in your youth. Seeing a pitch-perfect, nonsensical parody of the cursed tape and the creepy girl stripped all the power from the original images. You watched every scene of this film with your eyes wide open, laughing freely, triumphant over the memory of fear.

Halfway through the film, you stretched luxuriously, sighing contentedly.

“Thank you, Spence,” you murmured, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Seriously. This is exactly what I needed. And, seriously, I’m sorry I lied to you.”

He quickly pressed his lips to yours, a shut-up kiss, to be exact. “Shush. No more apologies. Your only job here is to laugh. And honestly? I prefer this. Watching you analyze a slow-burn psychological thriller is fun, but watching you let go and genuinely laugh at pure cinematic trash—in the best possible way—is ten times better.”

By the time the fourth movie started, the clock was well past midnight. You were deep into the comfortable, slightly delirious zone of a true movie marathon. The popcorn was mostly gone, and you’d switched to raiding the bag of gummy candies.

This installment mainly parodied War of the Worlds and The Grudge. The absurdity escalated further, now involving aliens, killer dolls, and hilariously misplaced celebrities.

You and Spencer had evolved from simply watching to providing running, competitive commentary.

“See, I love how they treat the aliens,” Spencer observed, his voice a little tired but still enthusiastic. “It’s like, they know the source material has this massive, world-ending threat, so they just make the aliens really petty and easily annoyed.”

“They’re tired commuters, Spence!” you countered, pointing at the screen. “They’re just frustrated by L.A. traffic! That’s the true horror of American life, not being able to find a parking spot when you’re trying to destroy the world.”

He laughed so hard he bounced on the sofa, causing the blanket to nearly slide off. He quickly pulled it back up, bundling you tighter against him, like a human burrito.

The cuddles were constant now. Your legs were tangled together under the blanket, your hands were interwoven, and every time one of you cracked a good joke, the reaction was an immediate, tender head-butt or a soft kiss. This wasn’t just a movie night anymore; it was a physical manifestation of your comfort with one another. The snuggling wasn’t a precursor to watching the movie; the snuggling was the movie.

The final film in the series began with a chaotic, meta-heavy plot that was mostly an excuse to mock films like Mama and Paranormal Activity. By this point, you were both deeply exhausted, your eyes feeling heavy, but the commitment to finishing the marathon was strong.

You were no longer sitting upright. Spencer was practically horizontal, and you were sprawled across his chest, your ear pressed over his heart, listening to the soothing rhythm of his breathing. The only things moving were your eyeballs, occasionally flicking up to the screen.

The jokes were weaker in this installment, and the humor relied more on celebrity cameos and truly baffling plot points, which only made it funnier in your current state of sleep-deprived giggles.

“I don’t… I don’t even know what that was supposed to be a parody of,” you mumbled, your voice muffled against his hoodie.

Spencer shifted slightly, resting his chin on the top of your head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s… it’s a parody of… cinematic exhaustion. It’s performance art about… how we need to go to sleep. We’ve reached the bottom of the barrel, and it’s beautiful.”

You reached up, tracing the line of his stubbly jaw with your finger. “Your real sleepy thoughts are starting to show in your analysis, Spence. But thank you for changing the movie and letting me be a baby, really.”

“Always,” he whispered back, his voice thick with affection. “You can be whatever you need to be with me. Scared, tired, loud, analytical, silly. All of it is my favorite part of you. I’ll collect it all like Evangelion action figures.”

He kissed your cheek, a long, sweet press of his lips that felt like a final seal on the evening’s moment of love and understanding.

As the final, chaotic credits of Scary Movie 5 rolled, you didn’t even bother to move. You were completely enveloped by Spencer’s warmth, surrounded by the remnants of the best kind of aftermovie mess: sticky gummy wrappers, an empty bowl of popcorn resting precariously on the coffee table, and the lingering, sweet scent of giggly laughter.

You listened to the gentle fade of the movie’s score, feeling the slow, heavy rise and fall of Spencer’s chest beneath your head. He shifted his arm one last time, pulling you flush against him, securing you in place for the night.

“Let’s just sleep here, my sweet, brave, wonderfully adorable film critic,” he murmured, his voice already drowsy.

“Okay, nighty-night, Spence,” you sighed contentedly, already half-asleep.

The movie marathon had been successfully completed. You fell asleep smiling, utterly secure in the knowledge that your love for Spencer was far, far stronger than any fear of cave monsters, and that compromise, humor, and endless cuddles made for the greatest film genre of all. You had started the night with a paralyzing fear of horror, but you ended it with the joyful realization that the only thing that truly mattered was sharing happiness with your loved one, no matter what movie was playing. The picture-perfect, heart-stuttering kind of loving position you currently shared with Spencer was the only terrifyingly wonderful thing in the room.

******

Author Note: Goodnight or Good morning, everyone! Hope we all sleep comfortably tonight~ _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):

Balanced, as all things should be.

Damien Haas x GN! Reader

Summary: Smosh stars and longtime roommates, you and Damien have been denying your obvious chemistry for a decade, much to the confusion of your fans and castmates. Everything changes on Damien’s birthday when your raw jealousy over a flirtatious woman leads to a messy confession of your secret romantic feelings for him.

Word Count: 7,900 ish

Warnings: Angst to fluff, a guy getting too handsy with you, and drunken confession.

Author Note: Req by Anon! While writing, I was listening to Entropy by Beach Bunny (yep I’m a big fan of this band) and Radio by Bershy, loving that song rn like I could just imagine Reader being Invisigal watching Robert (Damien) and Blonde Blazer (Stranger lady) talking lmao also HAPPY EARLY BDAY TO OUR BOI DAMIEN YAYY!

Pls don’t ever perceive me & my blog, Damien _(;3 」∠)_

******

The tension was a tangible thing, a shimmering heat haze that only you and Damien seemed perpetually immune to. Everyone else—the Smosh cast, the crew, and most crucially, the millions of fans—saw it, documented it, and shipped it relentlessly.

You, Damien, and Shayne had been an inseparable trio since you were teenagers. The story wasn’t new; it was an artifact of shared childhoods. This was your life. A constant, low-level hum of shared history, inside jokes, and deeply interwoven professional paths. It was a life built on sketch comedy, dressing rooms, long nights memorizing lines, and even longer nights sharing cramped, temporary houses and apartments in Los Angeles.

History between the three of you was long, deep, and utterly undeniable. It stretched back to the dizzying days of Disney Channel, where all of you met on the set of ‘So Random!’. The three of you quickly clicked, navigated the bizarre, accelerated growth of being minor public figures together. When the show eventually ended, you did everything to get by, slowly transitioning into the next phase: YouTube.

When Anthony transitioned out of the sketches, and the Smosh Family as it was known began to form, it was an unspoken surety that wherever Shayne and Damien went, you would follow, and vice versa. Smosh became your adult playground, a place where the juvenile energy of your Disney years could be honed into sharp, often deeply chaotic, comedy.

You and Damien had been roommates for more than a decade in total. At first, it was a chaotic group house with various people coming and going, including Shayne for a significant period. Over the years, careers shifted, partners entered the picture, and one by one, everyone else moved out—seeking more space, moving with their partners, even you and Damien briefly lived separately because of relationships. But you and Damien always went back to live together again.

The two of you found the rhythm of cohabitation too easy, too comfortable to break. The house was now what you and Damien called home, a familiar sanctuary. Your lives were completely intertwined: shared grocery runs, mutual knowledge of each other’s laundry habits, and the silent, universal understanding of when the other needed coffee or space. It was a closeness that transcended friendship, but because it had always been there, you were both too blind, or perhaps too terrified, to categorize it as anything else. You were just two pieces of the same puzzle, permanently slotted together.

This proximity, undeniable current of chemistry had not gone unnoticed. Not by your friends, and certainly not by the internet. Smosh fans were detectives, artists, and, most noticeably, avid shippers. The algorithm, it seemed, was determined to expose the romantic tension neither you nor Damien would admit to. But the evidence was everywhere.

In the Try Not To Laugh format, your interactions were gold. You could deliver a joke that was frankly mediocre—a tired pun, a recycled observational bit—but if it was directed at Damien, his reaction was always explosive.

“I didn’t know why I was so scared of you replacing me on ‘So Random’, you can’t even get the role of Chad on Sonny with a Chance anyway.”

“And I was like, ‘What, Damien? Bird flu? Well, I sure hope those birds are feeling better soon’.”

“In the old days, I would wake up in the morning at six and through the wall, Damien’s loud customer support voice would instantly give me retail jobs flashbacks, so that’s the story of us first thinking that, maybe, just maybe, we should start getting into therapy.”

Damien didn't just spurt out water and laugh; he folded over, tears streaming, sometimes falling entirely out of his chair. It was a laugh so genuine, so unrestrained, that it seemed to belong to someone who had been holding it in for years, waiting for a specific person to release it.

At a Smosh Games video, both you and Damien were one of the players to play a ‘Which One Would You Pick?’ game, focused on putting out a card and explaining why the judge of that round should pick your card. That video was one of the most damaging pieces of evidence. The camera would, more than often, invariably catch you completely checked out of the activity, simply watching Damien. Sometimes he would be doing an absurd bit, twisting his face into an impossibly exaggerated expression. Other times, he would just be sipping water, influencing his card to Courtney, or calmly explaining a board game rule. Your gaze, however, was consistently soft, lingering, and utterly devoted. It wasn't the look of a friend watching a friend; it was the look of an artist watching their muse. A tender gaze of something far more intimate than friendship.

Your physical interactions were the most difficult to deny. You were constantly touching. Damien resting his hand on your knee at a Reddit Reading video. Your hand patting him repeatedly on the small of his back as you walked past each other in a Challenge Pit. Damien’s arm slung casually over your shoulders during thumbnails and group photos. You often adjusted Damien’s collar, brushed imaginary lint off his jacket, or leaned into his personal space while telling a secret. To anyone watching, it was the easy, casual intimacy of a long-term couple.

The entire cast had a running gag about it. Shayne, who was usually the one sitting between the two of you in your natural habitat, was often the victim. “Viewers call me the cockblocker,” he’d declared once, dramatically. “Said I’m here to hinder my two obviously platonic coworkers from making out on camera—which they have done approximately zero times—but the tension is so thick it’s violating my personal space.”

Everyone saw it.

Everyone but them.

Damien genuinely believed this was just how close friends who had known each other since adolescence behaved. He was a caring, affectionate, deeply loyal person, and you were simply his favorite person in the world.

You, on the other hand, were terrified. Terrified that the intensity of your actual, secret romantic feelings would be exposed, ruining the perfect, comfortable dynamic you had built. So, you performed the role of a best friend with such dedication that you had convinced Damien, the world, and most dangerously, yourself, that it was all just platonic chemistry.

“You’re just too good at getting him,” Courtney had observed once, during a break in filming. “It’s like you have a manual for his soul.”

You’d just shrugged, sipping your water. “We’ve been friends for, like, fifteen years, Court. And roommates for half of that. We basically know each other's breathing patterns by now.”

“Yeah, but it feels like you two are more than roommates,” they’d pressed gently. “And his reaction to you... that’s not just a friend laughing. That’s pure joy.”

And that was the core of the problem. Everyone saw it.

Yet, despite this cinematic perfection—this overwhelming, undeniable evidence of romantic tension—you were both utterly, profoundly, and hilariously dense.

“We’re best friends!” you’d insist to anyone who dared ask, usually accompanied by an eye-roll. “We were teenagers together! Dating him is like dating my own brother.”

“They’re my ride-or-die,” Damien would affirm, typically during a stream. “We’re like those two old people you see bickering in the park about what to feed the pigeons. It’s all normal behavior around best friends, guys.”

The densest material in the whole universe, the center of a black hole, pales in comparison to how dense the two of you are to each other’s feelings. The tension was there, like the hum of an unnoticed refrigerator in a quiet room, always present but never addressed. Until his birthday, the 23rd of November.

******

The weeks leading up to Damien’s birthday was a blur of Smosh projects, but for you, it was stressfully dominated by one thing, the perfect gift for Damien.

​You were sitting in the snack room with Shayne during a short lunch break, agonizing over the purchase. Shayne, who was supposed to be helping, was instead acting as the world’s most irritating relationship coach.

​“So, you’re telling me you’ve been his best friend for fifteen years, and you’re still stressing about a gift?” Shayne asked, munching on a sandwich.

​“It’s Damien! You know he’s a great gift giver, but he’s impossible to shop for!” You hissed, scrolling frantically through your phone. “He either already has it, or he doesn’t want it. I need something meaningful, something that says, ‘I see you, Damien, and I celebrate the spooky creature that you are.’”

​“Meaningful, huh?” Shayne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m sure he’d love a framed picture of the two of you, with a little diamond ring taped to the back of the frame.”

​“Shayne! Stop it, this is not the time!” You swatted his arm. “I was thinking… something customized. Remember how he always talks about that ridiculously niche, awful TV show from the late 90s? The one with the marionettes?”

​“Vaguely, yes,” Shayne replied, amused.

​“A couple months ago, I managed to find an artist who can custom-made a miniature, perfectly accurate marionette of him. It’s terrifyingly detailed, right down to the little tattoo streaks on his arm and his specific beard shape.”

​Shayne actually looked impressed. “Okay, that’s actually really thoughtful. And very creepy. So it’s perfect for him, actually.”

​“I know right? I sure do hope so.” You sighed in relief. “It’s arriving tomorrow. But this is the problem: it’s too good. It feels like a lovers gift, not a best friend gift.”

​“Come on, you practically share a life insurance policy. You’re allowed to give him a great gift,” Shayne reasoned. “Besides, you spent three times the amount on my last birthday, and I still think you hate me.”

​“You’re wrong,” You said flatly. “I spent two times the amount. As my other best friend, you should know that.”

​The thought of the gift made your mind drift to Damien. Lately, he had been subtly more affectionate. Yesterday, after a particularly draining script read, he had approached your desk at work and simply stood there until you looked up. Then, he’d just given you a long, unexpected hug—a full, weight-shifting, squeeze-you-tight hug—before murmuring, “Rough day. Needed that. See you at home,” and walking off, leaving you feeling unbalanced and warm.

******

A few weeks before November 23rd, the birthday that loomed large on your calendar, you found yourself sitting across from Damien and Shayne in the brightly lit, acoustically treated corner for the Smosh Mouth podcast.

The theme that week was 'The Damien and Shayne Show: Longterm Friendships'

“Hi, welcome to Smosh Mouth, I’m Shayne,” Shayne began, his voice taking on the professional, slightly exaggerated radio host tone he always adopted.

“And I’m Damien Haas, the one that’s not Shayne. And joining us today, we have a very special guest who is one of the foundational stones of both our professional and personal lives: the one and only, our best friend.”

You waved awkwardly at the camera as he introduced you, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the combined focus of two of your closest friends and thousands of unseen viewers.

“It feels weird being interviewed by the two of you,” You admitted, laughing. “Like, you know all the embarrassing stories about me already.”

“That’s the point,” Damien said, leaning forward, resting his hands on the wooden table. He was wearing a soft black shirt with white countless cartoon eyes that pretty much encompasses his personal style. “We’re here to give the audience a peek behind the curtain of our long-lasting friendship, which I think, this is the first time we’re officially talking all about it on camera.”

The conversation flowed easily, the three of you falling into the familiar rhythm of your shared history. Shayne steered the ship, a natural facilitator, while you and Damien became the primary, often tangential, commentators.

“So, the first time we met was at a table read in the set of ‘So Random’, right?” Shayne prompted.

“You guys already met, and then I slowly came into the picture on my first day of the table read,” you confirmed. “I was terrified. I was like, fresh out of—well, nowhere—and as I walked in, I bumped into this tall guy, and I spilled my water all over him.”

Damien laughed, clutching his chest dramatically. “It was a love-at-first-spill! A first meeting that seems like the start of a disney channel series. Both of us were scrambling to apologize to each other, and the apology was so long and rambling that I felt obligated to spend the entire day with you just to stop you from making that guilty puppy face all day.”

“He’s not wrong,” You chuckled, shaking your head. “And so I also met Shayne, and we quickly became the trifecta of chaos on set.”

“Yep, and it makes perfect sense for us to hang out more outside the set after that,” Shayne summarized. “And then the roommate situation happened. I mean, I was only living with you guys for a year, but the two of you stuck together, even until now. How has that been for both of you?”

You immediately pointed at Damien. “Actually, there was a brief moment where we lived separately, you know, with relationships and all.”

“Oh yeah, that’s true,” Damien nodded seriously. “For some reason, we always go back to living with each other though, we experienced the coming and going of other roommates but I genuinely appreciate having you as my roommate. You kept a great tab on the shared utility bills, everything is clean, and you’re not scared of all the spooky stuff I have laying around.”

You flushed slightly at the genuine compliment, trying to play it off with a joke. “Honestly, I think I said ‘Get out of my room’ to him more than his sister did in his entire life.”

Both Shayne and Damien laughed.

“Really? I said you’re a great roommate and your reply is that I’m like that one annoying little cousin barging into your room to play with your Nintendo DS?” He looked at you, feigning an exaggerated frown.

“Oh right, Shayne,” You turned to Shayne with a playful smirk, “I lived with Damien for so long, how do you think I survived it without learning to tune out most of his rants?”

Shayne started wheezing as you continued, “You could say ‘that sucks, dude’ and ‘damn, that’s wild’ for a gazillion times, Damien will still keep going about how Kingdom Hearts was born because Square and Disney were located in the same building and the executives met on the lobby or something.”

“Actually,” Damien raised his index finger and pushed his glasses like an anime character, “They talked about it on the elevator, guess I needed to talk a gazillion more times about it until you remembered, buddy.”

You groaned playfully, “You see, Shayne? If I had money in this economy, like, if I had a choice then why would I torture myself like this?”

Shayne is a literal ball of helium gas leaking out as you and Damien kept on bantering with each other, the video wasn’t even a Try Not to Laugh format. He had a feeling more edits of the two of you being shipped are increasing after the video released.

“That’s a great financial choice though, gotta save pennies whenever you can, you know. And I like spooky things, I like to torture myself so why not just live together with you.” Damien countered.

“Honestly, though,” Shayne interjected, his voice rough from laughing and crying too much, “I lived with you both for a while, and the thing that always struck me—and this is something the fans pick up on—is how much effort you put into each other’s happiness, even in the smallest ways. Like, the other day, I saw you painting his nails black, without him even asking.”

Damien nodded slowly, looking at you with that soft, full smile again. “It’s that. It’s that constant, telepathic care we have though. I was just thinking of painting it again when you just showed up with a black nail polish. Shayne, we’ve seen each other through everything. Breakups, career highs and lows, that one time we tried to dye each other’s hair purple and it turned more like pink. It’s a partnership, right? A life partnership, just…platonically.”

The word ‘platonic’ hung in the air, a tiny, charged echo in the quiet studio. You felt your palms start to sweat.

“Right. Exactly,” You agreed quickly, maybe too quickly. “It’s like… we’re family. We know too much about each other. I wouldn’t trade our friendship for anything in the world.”

Shayne held up his hands, laughing good-naturedly, but with an edge of exasperation. “Okay, okay. The sheer amount of perfect, conversational back-and-forth between you two right now is making me feel like a third wheel in this podcast. The viewers are screaming, I can hear them through the screen. We have to address the elephant in the room.”

He turned to the camera. “For the millionth time, folks. Despite the chemistry, the accidental hand-holding, and the fact that they literally share a house, what is the official status between the two of them?”

Damien gave a dramatic sigh and threw his hands up. “I’m sorry to break the hearts of hundreds of thousands of shippers, but no. We are just… perfect friends. A beautifully pure friendship. We would’ve dated a long time ago if we liked each other in that way, right?”

He glanced at you, meaning it as a rhetorical, jokey dismissal of the shipping. But the way he turned to you, seeking confirmation, made the breath catch in your throat.

“Absolutely,” You confirmed, giving a firm, slightly strained smile. “Couldn’t think of a better way to explain it.”

Shayne made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a groan of defeat. “You two are exhausting. Anyway, moving on. This episode should actually be out near Damien’s birthday. Happy birthday, man.”

“Yeah, happy birthday, Damien! Prepare yourself for the best gift I’ve given you yet!” You quipped as the segment ended, Shayne moving on to other topics.

After an hour, the podcast wrapped, but the energy between you didn't dissipate. As you were un-mic-ing, Damien leaned in close to whisper.

“Did you really prepare a gift for my birthday?”

His breath was warm against your ear. It was a completely innocent question, seeking reassurance from a friend, but the proximity, the private moment, felt electric.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been stressing about it for so long,” You whispered back, pulling away perhaps a millisecond too late. “But you’ll love it. I promise.”

​Damien’s smile was wide, genuine, and immediately made you feel a little flutter in your chest.

​“I know I will,” Damien said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Anything from you is the best.”

You felt a tremor run through your chest—the familiar ripple effect of having been too close to him, of having successfully played the role of the platonic best friend while your internal wiring was completely short-circuiting. You quickly gathered your things and hurried out, needing to reset before the next shoot.

******

The morning of November 23rd arrived with the crisp, bright indifference of a Southern California autumn day. More importantly, it was Damien’s birthday.

The Smosh offices, usually a bustling hub of creative chaos, had been transformed into a low-key, celebratory venue. Balloons bobbed around the room, a ridiculously large, rectangular sheet cake sat in the middle of the large conference table, and the entire Smosh family—cast, crew, writers, and producers—were milling about with plastic cups full of energy drinks.

​Damien, the birthday boy, was radiant. He looked genuinely touched by the effort, his black sweater vest and white button-up shirt clashing perfectly with the colorful festive streamers.

​When it came time for gifts, the cast gathered around the conference table. Damien opened a few fun, gag gifts and some genuinely nice things.

​Then, it was your turn. You approached the table, carrying a small, custom-made box.

​“Happy Birthday, my guy,” You said, your voice suddenly quiet amidst the crowd noise.

​Damien’s eyes lit up the moment he saw the familiar, slightly distressed brown box. “Ooh, this looks mysterious.”

​He carefully peeled back the wrapping paper to reveal the custom marionette. It was a perfect, tiny replica of himself, right down to the little details you had specified before to Shayne.

​A collective, amused gasp went around the room.

​Damien stared at it for a long, silent moment, his expression slowly shifting from shock to pure, unadulterated emotion. He gently lifted the marionette out of the box by the strings.

​“Woah, this is… this is the most thoughtful thing I’ve ever received,” he murmured, turning it over in his hands. “It’s spooky. It’s perfect. It’s so niche. How did you even find someone to make this?”

​“Best friends have superpowers, remember?” You joked, but you couldn't help but smile at his genuine reaction.

​Damien put the marionette down, stepped around the table, and pulled you into a massive hug. This wasn't the quick comfort-hug from the other day; this was an earnest, all-encompassing embrace.

​He squeezed you tight and whispered directly into your ear, “Thank you. I seriously love it.”

You hugged him back just as fiercely, resting your chin on his shoulder. You could smell his familiar cologne and the comfortable warmth radiating off him. In that moment, with his arms around you, the rest of the crowded room, the shipping comments, the denials—it all melted away. This was a safe space for the two of you.

​When you finally broke apart, the moment had clearly been noted. Courtney, sitting nearby, gave a small, exaggerated cough and covered their mouth with their hand, exchanging a highly amused glance with Shayne. You and Damien immediately stepped back from each other, a slight flush rising on both your cheeks.

​“Alright, alright, enough mushy stuff!” Ian announced, cutting the tension by raising his glass. “To Damien! Now let’s get this party started and eat some cake!”

As the evening wore on, the group, as was tradition, decided to transition from the low-key office environment to the high-energy, louder environment of a club in downtown L.A.

The club was everything the Smosh office was not: dark, thumping with bass, and smelling faintly of sweat, expensive cocktails, and regrettable life choices.

You, eager to shake off the lingering, confusing tension from the morning birthday celebration and the general weight of having a secret crush on one's roommate, dove headfirst into the party atmosphere. You danced wildly with Angela, shared a loud, shouted conversation about obscure video games with Spencer, and ordered your first drink—a deceptively fruity concoction.

You were mid-twirl, a ridiculously catchy 80s synth-pop track pumping through the speakers, when your eyes flickered toward the bar area—a sanctuary of relative quiet where the lighting was dimmer. Damien was there, of course, leaning against the polished wood counter. He was talking to the bartender, probably asking for sparkling water or an elaborate, fruit-heavy mocktail—something that looked festive but was completely non-alcoholic.

Then, she appeared.

She was stunning. The kind of woman who looked effortlessly put-together in the chaotic setting of a nightclub. Her dress was sleek, her makeup flawless, and her body language radiated confident, smooth intent. She approached Damien with the kind of directness you had always admired (and lacked) in the dating world.

You watched, frozen in place, a silent movie unfolding across the club floor. The woman smiled—a flash of perfect teeth. Damien smiled back, the friendly, open, genuinely pleased-to-be-acknowledged smile he gave everyone.

She leaned in, saying something that made Damien throw his head back slightly and laugh—a smaller, more contained laugh than the one you could reliably trigger, but a laugh nonetheless. Then, she reached out and rested her hand gently on his upper arm, patting his shoulder with a familiarity that implied she was either a dear, old friend, or someone highly interested in becoming one.

The casual, proprietary touch ignited something sharp and cold inside your stomach. It wasn’t just a pang of sadness; it was a brutal, physical wrenching.

Jealousy.

The realization was a punch to the gut. It was an emotion you had successfully avoided for years. Damien had dated, of course. He’d had a few serious relationships that ended amicably. You had handled all of them with the appropriate, supportive distance of a best friend. You’d offered advice, helped him pick out gifts, and consoled him when things ended. You’d always felt a mild, distant ache, but never this raw, territorial sting.

This felt different. This felt like a threat to an equilibrium you hadn't even realized you were fighting to maintain. This woman was new, unburdened by ten years of complex history. She could look at Damien and see a handsome, kind man, not a roommate who needed to be reminded to do the dishes. She didn't have to navigate the terrifying friend-zone barrier. She could just flirt her way to his heart. She’s totally his type.

Your internal monologue began to spiral.

‘It’s fine. He’s allowed to date. He’s allowed to be happy. He’s Damien. He deserves to be happy with someone who can actually hold his hand in public without having an existential crisis about it.’

But the rationalizations were paper-thin against the image of her hand on his arm. It was a small gesture, but it felt like a declaration of war. It felt like she was staking a claim on the one part of the world you considered your own.

You spun around to face the dance floor, grabbed a passing server, and ordered a tequila shot. Then another. And then you decided a vodka soda would probably be a better idea for sustained oblivion.

Your goal shifted from enjoying the party to actively trying to forget the attractive woman at the bar who looked far too comfortable next to your Damien—No, your best friend Damien. You drank too fast. The sharp, cold jealousy began to dull, replaced by a warm, reckless numbness. You leaned into the buzz, determined to override the confusing, painful feelings with sheer, unadulterated party energy.

The bass in the club started to vibrate deep in your chest. The lights blurred into streaks of neon. You were laughing too loudly, swaying a little too enthusiastically. You were visibly, aggressively drunk.

A guy, clearly sensing the easy target, drifted over. He was handsome, but in a generic, forgettable way, with a practiced, predatory smile.

“Hey, you’ve got amazing energy,” he shouted over the music, leaning close. “Wanna dance?”

“Sure!” You slurred, your balance immediately shifting as you tried to move. “Let’s… let’s do the macarena.”

The guy laughed, amused by the drunken absurdity, and pulled you to dance near him. You were too far gone to care about his identity, only about the desperate need to move and feel nothing.

But the guy’s initial charm quickly curdled. His hands started to wander. A little too low on the back. A lingering touch on the hip that wasn't part of the dance. Your drunk brain registered the transgression instantly. The fuzzy numbness lifted just enough to replace it with cold, hard anger.

“Hey,” You snapped, trying to pull away, but your body wasn't cooperating, and your speech was thick with alcohol. “That is not okay. Keep your hands on your own… your own person.”

The guy just smirked, thinking it was playful resistance, and tightened his grip, pulling you closer.

You were about to unleash a tirade of slurred, furious words—the kind of messy outburst only extreme drunkenness can produce—when a sudden, firm grip locked around your arm.

It wasn’t a gentle guidance. It was a pull. Strong, fast, and completely non-negotiable.

You were yanked out of the dance floor’s center of gravity and spun around. The guy stumbled slightly, caught off guard by the unexpected force.

It was Damien.

His face was etched with a mixture of concern, annoyance, and something colder that you had never seen directed at you before—a fierce, protective anger. His eyes, usually so soft, were narrowed and dark.

“We’re leaving,” Damien stated, his voice tight and dangerously low. His grip on your arm was still tight—a little too tight, actually, pressing into a tender spot.

“Hey, man, what’s the deal?” the guy protested, moving to follow.

Damien didn't even turn his head. “The deal is they’re with me. And they’re done for the night. Go. Away.” His tone was absolute, radiating a protective authority that brooked no argument. The guy, perhaps sensing the latent, suppressed fury in the normally gentle man, backed off with a shrug.

You, however, were not intimidated. You were drunk, emotionally wrecked, and now physically in pain from the iron grip on your arm. The protective gesture, while intended to save you from a handsy creep, felt like a cruel irony.

“Let go of me, Damien,” You slurred, trying to yank your arm back. The pain was real enough to sober you momentarily. “You’re hurting me. I can handle myself fine.”

Damien’s expression flickered to regret, and he immediately loosened his grip, though he didn't release the arm entirely. He just held it gently now, maneuvering you through the crowd toward the exit.

“I know you can, but right now you can’t,” he said quietly, keeping his voice level despite the chaos surrounding them. “You’re barely standing. And that guy was a creep. You shouldn't ever have to deal with that, especially on my birthday. I should have been watching.”

As soon as you stepped outside, you realized it was pouring rain—a rare, heavy shower for Los Angeles that night. Damien had grabbed his jacket, but you were instantly soaked.

He pulled his keys out from his pocket, trying to navigate the slick, dark parking lot toward his car. The rain plastered your hair to your face, mixing with the sweat and the sheer alcoholic fumes radiating off you.

You ripped your arm out of his grasp, finally gathering enough drunk adrenaline to confront him.

“Watching?” you slurred, stumbling to a stop by a lamppost, the rain hitting the asphalt around your feet. You pointed a wobbly finger accusingly at him. “Why should you be watching me? You should have been hanging out with the beautiful woman at the bar who was actually interested in you! She seemed nice. You should have stayed and gone home with her! I don’t need you to be my… my ride service! I’m fine! I can handle myself fine!”

The look on his face was one of extreme pain and utter exhaustion. He started to step toward you, his arms open in a gesture of surrender and care.

“No, stop it. She was just saying she’s a fan. I was only looking for you,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm against the noise of the rain.

“Why?” you cried, the rain washing away your tears, making them indistinguishable from the water streaming down your face. “Why me? Why do you always choose me? It’s your birthday! You’re supposed to have fun! You’re supposed to date! You’re supposed to find someone who you don’t have to share a stupid, cramped house with! You’re supposed to have a life that isn’t just… me!”

The pressure of the denial and the alcohol finally cracked your resolve. You threw your hands up in a gesture of drunken, hopeless surrender.

“It’s annoying! Because everyone is right! Everyone sees it! And I’m so sick of pretending! I’m in love with you, you idiot!” you screamed, the words lost slightly in the sound of the rain, but crystal clear to him. “I’m in love with the way you laugh and the stupid characters you play and all the inside jokes only you and I know! I love you! I love living with you! And I hate that I’m scared of losing you, so I’ve been fighting my feelings for fifteen years! But I can’t pretend anymore! Just… tell me how you feel, or take me home and leave me alone!”

You finished the tirade with a dizzying cough, the sheer effort of the confession sucking the last bit of energy out of your body.

Damien stood frozen for a beat, the rain pouring down on his head, his vest completely soaked. His expression was a volatile mix of shock, relief, and deep, profound happiness.

“I didn’t know, I—" he started, finally stepping forward.

But it was too late. The world tilted violently, the lights of the parking lot swimming in your vision. Your knees buckled, and your body went instantly slack.

The last thing you felt was the solid force of his arms catching you as you pitched forward. The scent of his familiar cologne mixed with the fresh rain.

“Wait! Hey! Are you okay?!” he yelled, the sound muffled and distant.

You were out cold, passed out from the emotional drain and the excessive alcohol, completely safe in his arms in the middle of the rainy parking lot. It took a moment for him to shift his position and carry you in his arms to the car, awkwardly maneuvering to unlock and open it. He hoisted your limp body into his car, securing the seatbelt around your sleeping form.

Damien’s heart was hammering against his ribs. He held your unconscious weight, his confession hanging unfinished in the humid, dark air of the car. He felt a ridiculous mix of intense worry, profound relief, and sheer, utter exasperation.

‘Of course. Of course, this is how this conversation ends.’

He sat there for a long moment, just holding you, listening to the rain fall against the windshield, letting the reality of your mutual confession—scattered, drunken, and entirely one-sided in its reception—sink in. You love him. He loves you. The years of agonizing, emotional tension had been mutual all along.

He gently shifted you, carefully adjusting your seatbelt before pulling back into traffic. The drive home was a slow, silent torture. He kept glancing over at your slumped form, a protective arm instinctively outstretched during every turn.

When he finally pulled into the driveway, the rain had calmed to a steady drizzle. Damien turned off the engine, got out, and opened the passenger door. He gently unbuckled your seatbelt, looping one arm under your knees and the other around your back. He lifted you with surprising ease. You were dead weight, breathing shallowly against his neck.

He carried you inside, the familiar layout of your shared house suddenly feeling different, charged with unspoken declarations. He carried you directly to the living room sofa.

He set you down gently, folding a pillow under your head. You immediately flopped sideways, groaning softly, still out of it. He knelt, carefully pulling off your soaked outer jacket and discarding it on the floor. Next came the wet, sticky shoes. He then went to his room, grabbed his thickest, softest fleece blanket—the one he always used when reading—and tucked it securely around your shivering frame.

He stood up, wiping his wet hands on his jeans, watching your peaceful, if slightly puffy, sleeping face. He needed to go change, to process, to scream into a pillow about the emotional rollercoaster of the last hour.

As he turned to leave for his room, a cold, weak hand shot out and clamped around his sleeve.

“No,” you slurred, your eyes still mostly closed, your voice a low, gravelly mumble. “Don’t go. Please don't leave me alone. Not right now.”

Damien’s resolve crumbled instantly. He looked at the face of his best friend, his secret crush, his newly revealed mutual secret crush, and realized he couldn’t leave you in this vulnerable, alcohol-induced state.

He sighed, a soft, defeated sound, and pulled a nearby ottoman closer. He sank onto the sofa next to you, still partially damp, and grabbed the TV remote.

“Of course, don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, flipping through YouTube to find a low-volume, familiar background video—something about a bird documentary. “I’m right here. I promise. Just rest.”

He settled back, the low light of the screen casting flickering shadows across the room. You immediately shifted, your head tucking into the space between his shoulder and his chest. Your arms, still weak but purposeful, wrapped around his torso, holding him in a tight, slightly damp embrace.

The scent of your hair, slightly of your shampoo that morning and residual club perfume, filled his senses. The physical intimacy was so familiar, yet tonight, it was entirely new. It wasn't the casual, friendly touch of the past. It was a request for sanctuary, and he was happy to provide it.

You snuggled closer, your breath evening out, but then you mumbled again, the alcohol-induced filter completely gone, speaking straight from the depths of your subconscious.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, your voice heavy with sleep. “Afraid of seeing your face in the morning. When you realize it’s all a mistake. I’m afraid I’ll ruin the longest, most important thing in my life. I don’t want to see you look at me and not feel the same. I just want you to be happy. Please, be happy. But I’m so selfish that I want to be the reason why.”

It was the perfect summary of a decade of shared denial and mutual terror. The confession wasn’t just about love; it was about the crushing weight of the fear of change.

Damien gently ran his fingers through your hair, his throat tight with emotion.

“You’re not selfish,” he whispered, his own confession welling up again. “You’re just confessing your feelings. And I promise you, I feel the same way. Every single bit of it. I love you too much to ever look at you and think it was a mistake. We’re going to be fine. We’ve always been fine. It’s just a relationship upgrade.”

He waited for a response. He wanted to hear the laugh, the silly comeback, the final confirmation.

Silence.

This time, the silence was deeper. Your breathing was slow, heavy, and even. You were completely, truly passed out.

Damien smiled sadly in the dark. He kissed the top of your head—a tentative, gentle, first-ever kiss that meant everything and nothing, since it went unregistered.

He waited another hour, until he was sure you were fully stable. Then, with painstaking care, he gently detached himself from the sleeping body. He picked you up again, carried you to your own bedroom, and tucked you snugly into your bed. He left a tall glass of water and two ibuprofen on the nightstand.

He closed the door and retreated to his own room. But sleep was impossible. He tossed and turned, replaying the words in his head: the jealousy, the pain, the profound, mutual confession, and the drunken blackout on him, twice. He thought about the attractive woman at the bar, the easy out he had refused, and the simple, undeniable reason why: because of his feelings for you. He stayed awake, watching the rain stop, waiting for the dawn—and the terrifying, wonderful, awkward conversation that had to come next.

******

The morning arrived with a blinding, terrifying clarity.

You woke up to the kind of headache that felt like a tiny, aggressive construction crew was renovating the inside of your skull. You sat up, instantly regretting the motion, and then the memories hit—a painful, chronological montage of the night before.

The jealousy. The drunkenness. The confrontation. The ride home. The confession in the rain. The emotional declaration on the couch.

‘Shit. Holy shit. Absolute fucking shit. Me and my big fucking mouth.’

The shame was absolute, a cold knot in your stomach. You had done the unthinkable: you had essentially puked out a decade’s worth of repressed feeling onto your best friend/roommate in a slurred, emotionally manipulative flood.

What if Damien had just been humoring you last night? What if he was just being protective, the caring friend, and now he was downstairs packing his bags, terrified of the disaster he lived with?

You saw the water and pills on the nightstand, a silent confirmation that he had been there. You swallowed the pills and the water, then slowly, agonizingly, got out of bed.

The house was too quiet. The anxiety was a physical weight on your chest. You crept out of the bedroom, fully expecting to find an empty living room or, worse, a meticulously packed suitcase and Damien staring at you with a disappointed face.

Instead, the soft smell of orange juice and frying butter hit you.

Damien was in the kitchen, humming quietly to himself, meticulously flipping pancakes on the stove. He was wearing a fresh, dry grey bunny T-shirt and his favorite pair of sweatpants. He looked like the picture of domestic, unbothered tranquility.

He glanced over his shoulder as you entered the room. His humming stopped. The smile he gave you was small, cautious, and incredibly tender.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said softly, turning off the heat. “I made breakfast, and I think you need these more than I do.” He gestured to a plate of perfectly cooked pancakes.

You wanted to retreat, to hide under the nearest table. You leaned against the door frame, feeling fragile and exposed.

“Damien… I…” You started, the words catching in your dry, cotton-mouth throat. “I am so sorry. For everything. For the club, for drinking too much, for being a mess, and especially for… what I said. You don’t have to answer. We can just pretend it never happened, and I can move out, and we can still be friends, and—”

“Stop,” Damien said gently, putting the spatula down. He walked over and gently touched your forehead, checking your temperature. “You’re fine. You’re just hungover. And no, I won’t forget it. You can’t just drop that on me and then tell me to forget it. I’ve been waiting for you to say something like that for… I don’t even know how long. Sit down. Eat. We need to talk, and we’re going to do it when you have food in your stomach.”

You sat at the kitchen island, the silence heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. You picked at the pancakes while Damien poured a bit of maple syrup on it, which felt perfect.

After a few minutes, you looked up, steeling yourself.

“The woman at the bar,” you said, needing to address the catalyst first. “Did you… did you get her number?”

Damien sighed, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. He looked weary, like he hadn't slept at all.

“No, of course not. I didn’t. When she started getting… too touchy, I made an excuse and came to find you. I didn’t even remember her face, honestly. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own head about other more important things.”

He pushed off the counter and walked to stand opposite of you, placing both his hands on the island counter, leaning toward you. His gaze was steady, intense, and full of the raw emotion he had held back for years.

“But here’s the actual truth about yesterday. When she put her hand on my arm, the only thing I felt was… it was very uncomfortable. Because I kept thinking about you. I was thinking about your thoughtful gift for me, or how you always touch my elbow when you want to get my attention, and how your hugs give me a boost to continue my day, those are the best part of my entire week.”

He paused, gathering his courage. “I rejected her, because my heart is already occupied. And it has been for a very long time. It’s occupied by the person who has been my roommate and my best friend for more than a decade, who I’ll willingly make breakfast for the day after my birthday.”

You felt tears prickling your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of overwhelming relief and staggering joy.

“Everything you blurted out last night,” Damien continued, his voice softer now, almost a loving caress. “All the fear of ruining the friendship, all the wanting to be the reason for my happiness—I feel it too. I was terrified of saying anything. I thought my best friend would think I was a creep for having these feelings after all this time, or that I’d just ruin our roommate situation, our job, our friendship. So, I hid it. I denied it. I laughed the hardest at your jokes because it was the only way I could channel that much energy and happiness toward you without having to admit I was deeply, hopelessly in love with you.”

He reached across the counter and gently cupped your hand. His touch was warm and comforting.

“When you passed out in the car, I was literally mid-confession. I had finally gathered the courage, and then… you passed out on me, twice. I stayed up all night, because I had to decide if I could go back to the way things were. And I can’t. I don’t want to be just your roommate and best friend anymore. I want to be more than that.”

You squeezed his hand, your voice deep with emotion. “We don’t have to go back to that, I want to be the reason you look so genuinely happy. In every Try Not To Laugh, I think that whenever I hear your laugh, ‘That’s my favorite sound in the world, and I made it.’ I want to see your face in the morning every day, too. And I’m so happy that you’re the one who got me out of that terrible conversation yesterday. I love you, Damien. I have for a long time.”

The tension, the ten-year-old, suffocating tension, finally broke.

Damien’s face transformed, losing the stress of the sleepless night and gaining the incandescent light of pure, unadulterated happiness. He didn't hesitate this time. He rounded the island, pulled you out of the chair and into a fierce, solid embrace that lifted you slightly off the ground.

“I love you too,” he whispered fiercely into your hair. “I can’t believe it only took you being brave enough to blurt your feelings out when you were drunk.”

He pulled back just enough, a goofy grin decorating his bright face. His hazel eyes met yours—no denial, no fear, only the overwhelming, joyous recognition of mutual love.

“Consider it my other birthday gift, boyfriend,” you murmured, the title feeling natural, exhilarating.

“And happy birthday to me, for finally getting the best present in the world,” Damien replied, his voice thick with emotion.

He closed the final, terrifying inch of boundary that had separated you for a decade. The kiss was perfect. It wasn’t rushed or chaotic; it was soft, reverent, and full of the easy, comfortable familiarity of two people who already knew everything about each other’s heart. It tasted like orange juice, milk, butter, and a promise for a future where you never had to worry about the shipping edits again.

After a long, wonderful moment, Damien pulled back, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Pancakes are getting cold,” he whispered, his eyes bright. “But I think we need to add a new rule for the house: a good morning and good night kiss.”

You laughed, a clear, happy sound that Damien knew he would cherish more than any laugh he’d ever gotten on camera.

“Agreed. Now, come eat breakfast with me. I’ll pour the maple syrup for you.”

******

Author Note: Hope you enjoyed the fic and it was what you imagined, Anon! I needed to churn this out before I missed Damien’s bday lmao now to go back to devouring Dispatch content

Damien Haas x GN! Reader

Summary: You and Damien were back to the bustling, modern city life. Desperate for the truth, both of you went on a tangent to reunite. Now, life goes on with the challenge of restarting it all again, without the pressure of historical norms.

Word Count: 6,400 ish

Author Note: WAIT! Have you read the main story yet?? Alright, moving on then… Cloud 9 by Beach Bunny and Dandelions by Ruth B are the perfect songs for this, idk why but I listened to it repeatedly while writing lol

******

The near-fatal assassination attempt only solidified the commitment between Duke Damien Hasmont and his Confidential Aide, that is you. Your relationship transcended titles; you were lovers, life partners, intellectual equals, and the secret architects of the North’s future. The current realm only knew of the unbreakable, intensely private commitment the Northern Duke’s had for his genius strategist. For the next decades, the vast, rugged North became a haven of rational governance and burgeoning prosperity, all thanks to the unified two-player co-op synergy of its leaders.

Years under the Duke's leadership ushered in the North’s Golden Age. The territory that was once known as the cold, desolate, barren lands had become the epicenter of intellectual and economic revolution. You both worked in silent, seamless synchronization. Duke Damien had the authority and charisma of a leader; you had the ideas and modern blueprints that can be adapted to fit the current environment of the North's. Both of you were widely known as the individuals to introduce concepts of Standardized Education and Public Sanitation Systems, by building schools and collaborating with physicians to normalize a hygiene daily routine among the masses to avoid diseases. You used the Northern temperatures to your advantage, using ice blocks to restructure the food logistical system, leading to unprecedented efficiency. Every innovation was cloaked in the acceptable language of the era, so it was quickly accepted and implemented by the people.

In the quiet hours of the night, you and Damien’s use of modern terminology kept your memories of your previous world, and the romance, alive.

“I still can’t believe Elias thinks the warm water from the hot springs we built came from dragons living inside mountains and we’re essentially bathing in a dragon’s bathwater.” Damien would whisper one night, laughing softly while reviewing topographical maps.

“I know, right? He would do well in the modern days, selling tickets for people to try out bathing in a dragon’s bathwater that has rejuvenating abilities.” You'd reply, resting your head against his shoulder.

“...Knowing people of our original world did sell and buy bathwater, I think you’re spot on.”

The profound love that blossomed between the both of you was the North’s best-kept secret. Rumours would sprout occasionally among the people yet ultimately most thought of you two as colleagues, a servant and their master, or even best friends… but never lovers.

******

As the years advanced and Damien’s dark hair began to silver at the temples, the practical reality of succession set in. The North’s stability depended on the continued application of modern principles, and neither you nor Damien could rule forever. Damien had no direct children, and the current line of succession was weak, traditional, and prone to corruption.

You and Damien began a side quest of a meticulous, years-long search. You weren't looking for just a bloodline; you were looking for a mind capable of understanding complexity and embracing radical change.

You found him in the rural, forgotten branch of the extended Hasmont family: Ludwig Hasmont, a quiet, intensely intelligent orphan who, at the age of fourteen, was already obsessed with mathematics, patterns, and organization—concepts that bored his peers.

Damien brought Ludwig to the Fortress under the guise of an apprenticeship. You immediately recognized a nascent modern mind. The boy was skinny, serious, and deeply skeptical of the world.

From the start, the mentorship was less professional duty and felt more like covert parenting.

It wasn’t easy at first, educating an heir and becoming caretakers of a child, especially one that had a complicated background of not trusting anyone near him. At the dinner table, which was always just the three of you in Damien's private dining room, Ludwig would often sit stiffly, intimidated by the grandeur. You and Damien would subtly tease him, sharing coded glances and small jokes that made him somewhat relax. You hoped he would start warming up to you and Damien, possibly maybe even treating both of you as his parents in the future.

One evening, Ludwig dropped his spoon, scattering food across the polished wood. He froze, terrified of the Duke's reaction.

You simply picked up the utensil. "It's alright, Ludwig," you said, handing it back. You then leaned in to whisper. "Damien would never be mad at you, especially just because you dropped something. He used to drop a bag of precious jewels when we were traveling through the snow, and all of us had to retrace our steps and dig for hours before we found it."

Ludwig slowly smiled as Damien defended himself, “Hey, my inventory was full and I purposefully did that to lighten the load, maybe make space for a diamond sword or something else more precious.”

You chuckled, knowing he was referencing a modern game feature, but translating it perfectly for the boy. "Yes. The important lesson here is that we learn more about your character when you handle minor setbacks with grace than when you conquer mountains. It is alright to make mistakes, because that is how we learn to be better in the future.”

You and Damien tag-teamed Ludwig's education. Crucially, you both made a pact: no modern terminology. Ludwig had to be able to articulate these advanced concepts using the established language of the realm to ensure the longevity of the reforms, so he could communicate his ideas to the people without any language barriers.

You ensured he felt safe and loved. When Ludwig struggled with loneliness, you and Damien made a promise to spend more bonding time with him. One particular day, you spent all night making little paper notes resembling Pokémon trading cards, you figured Ludwig could use a bit of a hobby, something to take the stress away from the pressure of taking care of a vast territory and its future.

The next day when arranging for a picnic bonding time with Ludwig, while he and Damien were busy, you hid the notes in various places in the garden. Between a tree branch, behind a bush, under the flowers, and other hiding places that were not too hard to find. As lunch hour arrived, Ludwig and Damien walked to the garden to find you sitting on a cedar picnic table, surrounded by plates of sandwiches and pastries.

You ushered them to sit down, “Come on, sit, sit! I thought both of you could use some fresh air and a surprise lunch in the garden. I made it all myself, so I hope you’ll like it.”

Both of them sat down across from you. Damien took a sandwich for himself, “You should’ve told me though, you did all this yourself? You did a really great job, but let me help too next time, okay?”

You nodded in agreement as you chose a ham and cheese sandwich for Ludwig since he was just being silent, which he thanked you as he took the plate from you.

The three of you spent the time eating while having conversations about how Ludwig’s adapting to the lessons, which of the subjects is his favorite, what skills he wanted to learn in the future. He seemed grateful yet still hesitant to actually share all of his feelings, but he was open to communication.

As lunch was finished, you turned to Damien, “Damien, you remember those little mythical animals your father used to play with you? Those things called Pokémons?”

He looked questionably at you but still answered, “Uh… yes? Pokémon? I thought you said we shouldn’t-”

“Well, I think that Ludwig should learn about them too! So I hid a lot of paper cards all around the garden, why don’t you and Ludwig try to find all 35 of them?”

Damien gaped at you, his eyes sparkling like he didn’t believe what he just heard coming out of your mouth. Meanwhile, Ludwig looked at you both quizzically but Damien suddenly took his arm to make him stand up, excitedly dragging him away to a patch of flowers.

You smiled softly from your seat as you watched them find your hidden cards one-by-one, Damien explaining animatedly to Ludwig about each card’s stats and fun facts. Ludwig was listening earnestly while holding the card with both of his hands, it seemed like they’re really bonding over Pokémon. Damien looked the opposite of a stoic Duke whenever he’s geeking out and it warms your heart to see him sharing his interests with Ludwig.

Following that day, you would make time and sit with Ludwig, sharing stories of your own past before being Damien’s aide, emphasizing the importance of finding your home. Damien, who usually projected formidable stoicism, would interrupt his meetings to ensure Ludwig's well-being was not overlooked, treating the boy’s happiness as the most critical state affair.

As the years passed, Ludwig grew into a brilliant, disciplined young man. He saw you and Damien not just as a Duke and his Aide, but as his parental figures—the kind, caring, and secretly hilarious people who had given him a future. He learned to read the subtle humor in your shared glances and the strange little melodic hums you occasionally let slip.

By the time Ludwig reached twenty-five, he was fully prepared. He was formally named the heir, poised to continue the enlightened governance of the North.

******

You and Damien lived out a beautiful, full life together, partners to the end. Your love matured into a deep, comfortable certainty—a shared silence that contained centuries of memories, jokes, and triumphs. The wrinkles deepened around Damien’s hazel eyes, but the youthful temperament and nerdy knowledge never faded.

In his late seventies, Duke Damien’s strength faded. He officially named Ludwig his heir as the next Duke Hasmont, ensuring the continuation of the Northern legacy.

He passed away in his private chambers, the last of his energy focused entirely on you, his beloved aide. Ludwig and his little family respected Damien’s wish and gave the two of you the privacy. You held his hand, your own old and wrinkled, the familiar hazel eyes of the man you loved looking back at you one last time.

"This life was one hell of a run, my love," he whispered, his voice weak. He reached up, touching your cheek with a shaky hand. "Look at Ludwig, we did great raising him. We persevered living in this era together. We hit the final save point, well… I’m glad I’m the one going first."

He forced a weak grin—the familiar, goofy smile that had always melted your heart—and whispered his final, loving, and reassuring words:

"I wouldn’t have survived this far without you, and if there’s an afterlife…I would hope to spend my whole life with you, all over again."

And with his final breath, the light left his eyes.

The loss was devastating. A physical tearing away of your anchor. You mourned not just a Duke, but your lover, your other half, the only person in the entire world who understood the meaning of 'geeking out.’

Life must go on, you continue living with the motivation of your shared accomplishment all these years with Damien. You oversaw the state funeral and the smooth transition of power. Ludwig, now the Duke Ludwig Hasmont, was a formidable and capable leader.

You remained at the Fortress, acting as Ludwig’s Chief Consultant and Mentor. He treated you with unwavering reverence, often seeking your counsel in the evening, sharing his burdens and triumphs like a child to a parent. He had a loving wife, the gentle Lady Felicia, and his children adored you, calling you their grandparent and hanging on to your every bizarre story.

A few months after Damien's passing, your own strength waned. You knew your work was complete. You had ensured the legacy of enlightened governance would continue.

You spent your final evening in your study, sitting in Damien’s favorite chair, a heavy fur blanket draped over your lap.

Ludwig accompanied you there, surrounded by his wife and three young children, with the Pokémon cards you drew all those years ago, held in their little hands. He knelt beside your chair, tears streaming down his face, holding your old wrinkly hand.

"I am devastated to see you leave me like Father did," Ludwig choked out, "I am forever grateful for that day you took me out of the orphanage and gave me a new passion in life. I will make sure this new world that you and Father built… is prosperous for many years to come. A world that cannot fall."

You smiled, the relief absolute. Your life's purpose was fulfilled. Damien’s wish for prosperity was secured. You felt Ludwig’s wife and the warmth of his children nearby, the perfect, loving family you and Damien had indirectly raised.

You lifted your gaze to Ludwig, your voice a faint whisper of profound contentment.

"Your father would’ve been so proud to see the Duke that you’ve become, Ludwig. You are our perfect son, more than we could ever have imagined. The Northern territory... has a wise ruler, you have fulfilled your father’s lifelong wish… and we will always love you as our son."

With a final, deep breath, the familiar flash of light and the dizzying sensation of falling took you. Your last thought was of Damien, and the hope that you’ll meet him again, wherever that will be.

******

Damien awoke with a choked gasp, the smell of dust entering his nostrils. He was lying on a dusty production floor, surrounded by the debris of a fantasy sketch. The ancient, rusty prop sword lay a few feet away.

“Dude, are you okay?” Shayne shouted, concern etched on his face. “You just fell all of a sudden, I thought it was too real to be a bit. What happened?”

Damien’s mind was a frantic hurricane as he sat on the floor, staring at his hands. His young, unwrinkly hands.

‘Was it all a dream?’ He wondered, Shayne’s concerns were not getting through his head as he slowly stood up. He was like a mindless puppet as Shayne dragged him to a seat, frantically scrambling away to search for a glass of water. Damien sat limply on the soft sofa, ‘But that can’t be, it felt so real. You felt so real. I lived eighty years as a historical Duke with someone, that person… they had to be real.’

Damien felt that he just experienced a time-skip, a cosmic glitch of sorts. He refused to believe that all he had experienced was just a dream. He needed to find out if you really exist. But how? He couldn’t just post on the internet that he’s looking for an aide to serve a Duke online, he’d just seem completely crazy. He needed to drop hints, however and wherever he could, just to put out a signal that he remembered. On the slight hope that you are real and are looking for him too.

He regretted only knowing your first name and profession in this world, but you knew that he’s Damien who's working in Smosh, so he should use it to his advantage. He began his secret, coded search, weaving the unique phrases and shared jokes of your historical life together into his modern public persona.

At first, he started on a Smosh Mouth video. Damien and Shayne were filming a Pokèmon-based podcast with Tommy as a guest. The topic branches from when they got into Pokèmon, which series was the best, to favorite Pokèmons.

“Let’s talk about our favorite Pokèmon!” Shayne redirected the topic.

“Yeah, let’s go into it. Chansey over here, right?” Tommy glanced at Damien and gestured with his hand to him.

“Well, yeah. Chansey’s the big fave of mine. I’ll send Selina a picture, so you guys can see my Chansey setup.” Damien took out his phone and texted Selina the picture of his Chansey merch in rows of shelves.

Tommy took Damien’s phone, “This is very cool! Dude, okay, so I’m going to describe this for the people listening, there is one, two, three, four shelves of just Chansey merch.” He explained as he scrolled left and right.

“It’s just Chansey memorabi— Woah hold on, what’s that one Mamoswine doing there?” Shayne pointed to a Mamoswine plushie, sitting in the uppermost left corner of the highest shelf. “I did not expect you to like Mamoswine, to be honest…”

“Oh, that! Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t really into Mamoswine at first, but now it feels precious to me. I have a very fond memory connected to it. It reminded me of hunting through the snow and finding a wild Mamoswine that looked straight out of Ice Age, you know?”

“Dude, what do you mean? Did you go hunting with your dad as a child or something?”

“…Sure, let’s go with that. But, I’ve always liked Chansey!”

Shayne asked Damien how he felt about Chansey’s evolution and the topic strayed away from Mamoswine, but Damien felt happier, he succeeded in giving one hint of you into the world.

The next instance was his post on Bluesky, four pictures of his Halloween costume as Allan from Smiling Friends, with the caption:

“I actually wanted to be Jon Snow, had a feeling my hair would look fitting in fur cloaks and leather. Been busy with everything lately, so Smiling Friends Allan it is! Have a happy weeen”

******

On a particular Twitch stream of his, he played ‘Baldur’s Gate 3: Dark Urge’. He was arranging his heroes for a fight when his viewers realized he was more focused on the chat than usual.

“I really love my Dark Urge run right now, in Baldur’s Gate 3 or as Angela called it, Boulder’s Gate.” He laughed, “So, anyway, battling but having it turn-based is great, imagine if you have to strategize in real time? Veeery stressful!”

A tip notification came in as Damien watched one of his heroes loot from a chest.

“Okay, got some pretty great goodies here. Um, ShyLikeACat dropping sixty-nine flipping bucks! Nice.” He did a Shaka sign to the camera, showing the back of his palm with his thumb and pinky fingers raised. “That’s a very generous tip, thank you for that! Um, saying, ‘Hey, Damien, love your content, I’ve been feeling sick today so I’m watching you stream and listening to my comfort songs. Can you recommend any of your classic songs to listen back to? Thanks!’”

He glanced at the camera, brows scrunching slightly, “Hey, I’m sorry to hear that, that’s super not fun. But yeah, I hope you feel better, ShyLikeACat, it sucks to be sick. Comfort songs, huh? Well, honestly video game soundtracks are always a comfort for me, but since I was a teenager—an angsty teen, if you will—and even now if I want to hear something on repeat so many times, it’s gotta be My Chemical Romance and Panic! At The Disco, specifically the A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out album. I could recognize anyone humming ‘I Write Sins Not Tragedies’ from a mile away, honestly.”

Realizing he was pausing the game for quite some time, he redirected it back to playing, “Um, so, yeah, ShyLikeACat, hope that helps! Thank you again for the generous tip, hope you feel better soon.”

Damien kept dropping hints here and there, he waited like a madman, tormented by doubt, but driven by the unwavering certainty of his love for you. He knew you were the only person in two dimensions who would recognize the specific, ridiculous combination of internet jargon and inside jokes. He scanned comments, twitch chats, DM’s in his every social media accounts, all for the hope that his aide was real and getting his signals.

******

You opened your eyes to a cold, sterile environment. The smell of disinfectant. A low, persistent beeping. Your head throbbed, and your right side ached—a dull pain like you’ve fallen a few feet.

"Oh, thank god," your coworker, Roderich, sighed in relief beside your hospital bed. "You really took a tumble down the stairs. That Roman coin is cursed, I swear. But it’s safely put away now and you’re also safe. The doctor said it’s just a mild concussion, you're lucky."

You were back in the modern world. The world of proper hygiene and modern innovation. But the eighty years you spent as the Confidential Aide felt more real than the hospital bed you lay in. Damien's final whisper echoed in your mind. The decades of being the Aide, the mentor to Ludwig, the lover to…Damien—it all rushed back, colliding with the reality of the hospital room.

You were back. You were young again. But where was Damien? What happened to him? You needed to confirm if what you had was a dream, or was it a real thing that happened. Living as a Duke’s aide in a historical era seemed crazy to think of as more than a hallucination, but a feeling in your gut told you to investigate Damien in this world.

As soon as you were discharged, you went straight home and to your laptop. You typed the only keywords that mattered: ‘Damien Haas Smosh’

There he was on the screen. The face, the laugh, the shoulder-length brown hair—the man you loved, now young again, but looked unmistakably like the Duke of North you spent your whole life with.

You devoured his recent content, searching for anything that could make a connection. You found them: the Mamoswine plushie, the Jon Snow Halloween post, his twitch stream of a fantasy historical strategy game while mentioning the song that brought you together.

You were almost sure of it, he is your Damien, your Duke of the North, your lover that was by your side for decades and helping you raise Ludwig. He was alive, and more importantly, he remembered everything. He remembered you.

The hope enveloping inside you was soaring, desperate, overwhelming. You found his schedule on a social media post that he’ll be attending a convention this Saturday, participating as a panelist, discussing his voice acting role for Jerry from the Date Everything Game.

This was your chance, you had to attend. You packed a bag, bought a ticket, and prepared to face the final, most terrifying confrontation of your life: proving that your impossible, historical love was real, in the modern world.

******

Saturday came, you arrived at the convention’s entrance, wearing a comfortable yet the most flattering outfit you had. The convention floor was a sea of humanity—noise, people in cosplay, and the crushing familiarity of your old life. You felt dizzy, dressed in modern clothes, feeling like an imposter.

You walked mindlessly, crossing the merch booths and found the area for the voice acting panel, slipping into the back row. Your heart was practically a frantic drum against your ribs.

On the stage, under the bright lights, sat Damien. He was fielding questions, laughing, and effortlessly entertaining the crowd. He looked exactly like the man you had fallen in love with in the North, only younger, happier, and without the terrifying weight of a ducal title.

You watched him, a wave of profound sorrow and desperate relief washing over you.

“It was a great experience voicing Jerry, I’m glad he’s getting love from the fans. I’ve played the game myself, and aside from that, it was really cool to see Jerry come alive on my screen. Date Everything is such a unique concept and it deserved all the hype it’s gotten.” Damien nodded, answering questions, as he scanned the crowd, his eyes—those same intense, knowing hazel eyes—snapped directly to yours, just for a breath, but it was enough. The look was sharp, anxious, hopeful. For a fraction of a second, the light in his eyes changed; they held the weary, knowing gaze of the Duke who had loved you for eighty years.

The world stopped.

He saw you.

For one long, breathtaking moment, there was no crowd, no convention, only the shared recognition of two souls who had built a kingdom together. His eyes widened, and a profound, visible shock rippled across his face, instantly wiping away the professional grandeur and replacing it was the exhausted, relieved man who had once summoned the best physician in the North just to save your life from poison.

He opened his mouth, but his attention was immediately pulled back from another question. He turned his head away and the moment was gone.

Self-doubt slammed into you.

‘Was it really just a dream?’ You wondered, suddenly overwhelmed by the scale of the world and his success. ‘Was he just looking into the distance? Maybe I just dreamed a fantasy with a famous person in it. He’s everywhere on the internet and I’m just a museum curator. I shouldn’t be so delusional.’

You panicked, your memories of the previous historical world and current modern life overlapping. You couldn’t tell which was real and which wasn’t. You turned and left the chaotic room, seeking a deserted area to have a moment of silence with your thoughts.

You found a quiet refuge outside, near the building’s main exit—a small, hidden, ornamental fountain area tucked away from the main convention. You sat on the stone ledge, head bowed, staring at the soles of your shoes, trying to reconcile the eighty years of your previous memories with the few days of modern life. It felt like you’ve been sitting there for hours.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over your legs.

Standing a few distances in front of your own shoes were a pair of black sneaker shoes—not the polished leather boots of a Duke, but modern and casual.

You slowly looked up. Standing above you was Damien. He had left the stage, somehow navigated the bustling crowd of convention-goers, and found your hiding spot. He wasn't wearing his fur cloak and leather armor anymore. He was just standing there, breathing hard, wearing a comfortable grey graphic bunny t-shirt and black jeans.

He looked at you—the young, modern you, the person he had desperately searched for. His face softened, breaking into a tearful, incredulous grin that melted away every trace of the Duke of North and his professional Smosh persona.

"I knew it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

He took a careful step closer and settled onto the edge of the fountain, his knee brushing yours. He looked down at the ground, collecting himself.

Then, he looked up at you, and his gaze was steady, unmistakable. He used the only language that could erase all doubt.

"I was imagining an eternal afterlife is where we’ll meet again, but it seems our story was never destined to be as romantic as in the movies, it always comes back to geeky conventions and Pokèmon references." He held your shaky hand, “I’m sure you’ll tell me that our son Ludwig is perfectly handling everything as the Duke, my Aide?”

You shed a tear out of the corner of your eye. The Pokémon references, your son Ludwig, the Aide—it was a perfect convergence of your shared lives.

You laughed, a shaky, relieved sound. "Now he’s teaching his children how to play with Pokèmon cards, just as you had taught him as a child, Your Grace."

Damien let out a low, desperate, joyful cry. He rose quickly and pulled you to your feet, wrapping his arms around you, holding you tighter than he had in decades.

"It IS you," he grinned, laughing and sobbing into your hair. "Oh my god, I love you. I miss you every day for the past three months I’ve been back. I knew it. I know I hadn't lost you."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands cupping your face. "I searched everywhere. I posted every niche, specific, inside joke we ever shared. I needed you to know that the Northern Duke was looking to get his Aide back. I need you beside me again, I can’t imagine my life without you."

"I saw all the hints you posted," you choked, tears streamed freely down your cheeks. "It gave me hope that whatever happened in that world, it was all real. I also missed you, Damien. I missed us."

He gently brushed the tears from your cheeks, his touch soft and protective, just as it had been the moment he pulled you from the altar decades ago.

He leaned in, and kissed you.

It was a kiss of release, of desperate relief, of absolute, soul-deep love that spanned centuries and dimensions. It was passionate, intense, and blissful—the reunion of two partners who had built an empire, lost it, and found each other again in a world where they could finally, truly be free.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

"We won, my love," he whispered. "We got another save file to play. Welcome home."

"Home," you agreed, smiling at the man who was both the terrifying Duke and the endearing content creator. The Roman coin, the rusty prop sword, the eighty years in the cold North—it was all worth it for this moment. To relive your love with Damien again, in your original world as just yourselves, not a Duke and his Aide.

"We have a lot of content to unlock in this co-op gameplay," he said, his eyes shining with the promise of a future that was finally, truly yours. “Getting a First Date Achievement should be the first task on our list, wouldn’t you think so?”

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Damien," you replied, gripping his hand tightly. "The game is officially back on."

******

After a few weeks of reuniting with Damien again, he invited you to move into his apartment, claiming the space felt empty without your presence anyway. The first few days were a blur, it made both of you feel like a normal modern couple. You moved into his spare room, which quickly became your room, as Damien helped clear out half his closet and dresser space.

The greatest pleasure was the simple, shared domesticity that was impossible during his reign in the North. There, every outdoor event was political, every private moment stolen and guarded. Here, you had privacy, freedom, and an abundance of resources.

Cooking became your favorite nightly ritual. You’re grateful for the work of the kitchen maids in your previous life, but it was better to use the vast recipes of the internet through your phone to create simple, hearty meals. Damien would assist you in preparing dinner every night, sometimes hindering the process with a few kisses here and there.

One evening, while preparing a simple pasta dish, Damien, slicing garlic, muttered, "I have to admit, our time together now feels so relaxing, I think I’ll only start to grow gray hairs in my sixties."

"Yeah, I get that," you agreed, expertly dicing tomatoes. "In our previous life, we could never do something like this. The chance of being interrupted by the head chef or a panicked messenger with an important report was always there. Now, the greatest risk is just burning the sauce."

After dinner, the ritual shifted to the couch. Damien initiated your intensive catch-up on his favorite entertainment, beginning with the monumental task of watching Game of Thrones. You snuggled close, wrapped in a blanket—a closeness that felt both new and eternally familiar.

“Watching this series really made me feel happy to see it from a screen, and not experiencing it myself,” Damien confessed one night, pulling you closer as the episode displayed a particularly brutal betrayal.

You traced the line of his beardy jaw. “They really missed the mark on the true nature of governance, though. Too much drama.”

You’d spend hours analyzing the show, applying your historical knowledge and experience to fictional medieval warfare, pausing only to steal kisses or simply revel in the pure, quiet joy of being together without a crown or a crisis hanging over your heads. The shared silence, the casual touch, the absolute understanding in his eyes—it was the true reward for eighty years of ducal service.

******

That Saturday, Damien declared it was time for you to be introduced. You were ready to meet his co-workers and friends—the brilliant, chaotic, and kind people who made up his modern family.

You felt a familiar nervousness, the kind you hadn't experienced since your early days as the Confidential Aide.

"You’ll be okay," Damien softly comforted, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze as you walked into the bustling Smosh office. "They’ll love you, I promise. You’ll warm up to them, lickety-split."

The Smosh headquarters was a marvel of modern, collaborative space—all bright lights, open areas, and cameras. It was the antithesis of the North’s methodical, closed-off Fortress, but equally efficient in its own way.

Damien introduced you to everyone with an overwhelming wave of pride.

"Hey, everyone! Let me introduce you to the love of my life."

The team was instantly warm and accepting of you as Damien assured. They saw the sheer, undeniable joy radiating from Damien, and the way your two personalities clicked—finishing complex jokes, sharing unspoken glances, and always gravitating toward each other.

"Honestly, Damien," Shayne commented, observing the two of you talking quietly, "This is the first I’ve heard of this but it's like you found the missing piece of your consciousness. I didn't even know you were missing one."

"Well, you’re not the only one who can find the missing piece in their life, Shayne," Damien mocked playfully, slinging a confident arm around your shoulder.

That evening, the entire crew headed to a local pub to invite you for a Trivia Night. Damien was insistent you shouldn’t be in a different team than him. In the end, the team was "The Final Forms," composed of you, Damien, Courtney, and Shayne.

The first few rounds proved that your combined cross-temporal knowledge was a genuine superpower. In the topic of World History, you and Damien easily carried the team, identifying obscure facts and the names of minor historical figures. In the round with Sports and Tiktok, you both deferred entirely to Courtney and Shayne, who proved themselves masters of this modern domain. Rounds after rounds where other teams are going down, The Final Forms surged ahead.

You didn't win the overall prize, by ultimately losing the final pop culture round, but you came in a strong second. The celebration felt like a triumphant victory. The entire Smosh team toasted your incredible, synergistic performance.

"You two are terrifyingly in sync," Courtney announced, raising their glass. "It's like you've been partners for your whole life."

"NSYNC?," Damien asked rhetorically, looking at you with a soft, proprietary love. "This I promise you, Courtney, we are so in sync." His reply gained an eye-roll from you.

******

Driving home in the late-night quiet, the buzz of the trivia win lingered, but the car soon settled into a reflective silence. You looked out the window at the towering, impossible glass structures of the modern city—a different kind of empire than the one you left behind.

You gently placed your hand on Damien's arm, the contact familiar and anchoring.

"They are wonderful, Damien," you said softly, referring to the Smosh team. "But the success tonight... it just reminds me of how complete our previous life was."

Damien squeezed your hand and pulled the car to the curb in a quiet, residential area, parking it. He turned to face you fully, his expression open and filled with understanding.

"I know what you're saying. We experienced a whole life together and you’re feeling a gap now," he said, his voice low and sincere. "And I can relate. Every time I see a child on the street, I think of Ludwig. I think of the long nights teaching him everything and playing cards with him."

He reached out and took your hands, his hazel eyes holding eighty years of shared grief and purpose.

“That life we lived full of love was real. That was us. That was the family we built with the constraints of historical norms,” Damien insisted. “And that love, that capacity to be an aide, a duke, a mentor, a parent—that didn't disappear when we came back here. Those skills are fully unlocked and ready to be transferred here, to our new life.”

He brought your hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles gently.

“We secured the North’s future with Ludwig. We fulfilled our promise to that realm. Now, we can secure our own future,” he vowed, his voice thick with emotion.

“We can build a family here. We can have a child again—whichever way you want it, and we can raise them without the pressure to be a Duke, to see them evolve as a wonderful human being in this free world. They could be a museum curator like you, an astronaut, anything they want to be.”

He gently cupped your face, his touch protective. "We are two people who dedicated a lifetime to preparing one child for a future of stability. We can absolutely do it again, this time as genuinely ourselves, without a ducal title hanging over our heads. We can be parents again, but you and I, we will always be a family."

Tears welled up in your eyes—not of sorrow, but of profound, overwhelming gratitude. Damien understood the core of your grief: the loss of the beautiful, impossible family unit you had created.

"I love you, Your Grace," you whispered, using his historical title one last time as a term of deepest endearment.

"I love you, my Aide," he replied, using yours.

He leaned in, and kissed you—a long, tender kiss full of promises and new beginnings. It was the absolute, blissful confirmation that the best parts of your shared past would define your future.

When he finally pulled back, he smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Alright, now let’s go home and continue binge-watching Game of Thrones.”

Both of you drove the final distance home, no longer feeling like a transmigrator, but a couple who had simply returned from a long, successful journey.

Lying in bed that night, safely wrapped in Damien’s arms, you closed your eyes. The image of the aging, satisfied Ludwig, surrounded by his loving wife and children, floated through your mind. The legacy was safe. Your promise was kept.

Here, in the arms of the man who was your Duke, your co-conspirator, and your love, you knew you were home. This is your fate, and you’re more than happy to live through it all over again.

******

Tags: @color-my-stars-blue @solarbxby @ashlyn-sk

Author Note: I DID IT! OMG I’m so happy with how this ended. I love this story so much it hurts. I’m bad with names so if you know the Hetalia the Anime, you’d understand the names. Hope you enjoyed reading! _(:3 」∠)_