Imagine a gentleman!spencer fic x f!reader we’re it’s like Y/N and Spencer go to a castle for the next Gentlemen’s smosh games video based in a 1910’s castle and like Y/N is getting dressed up cause we’re Spencer’s wife or something in the video and we’re like getting corseted up and he walks in on us and is like immediately like on us cause corsets like push up them bazonkas 🍒
PROPERLY LACED | Spencer Agnew x F!Reader
Summary: When Smosh Games films The Gentlemen’s Game: Castle Edition, you’re cast as Lady Agnew, Spencer’s onscreen wife. You expect some laughs, maybe a fake accent or two. What you don’t expect is your corset turning Spencer into a Victorian cartoon character. Between flustered flirtation, poorly hidden thirst, and multiple failed game rounds, Spencer is down—bad—and everyone on set knows it.
Word Count: 631
You’ve worked at Smosh for two years. You've seen it all—Slapsgiving, Shane in full baby costume, the aftermath of the fart gun incident—but nothing prepared you for this: The Gentlemen Game: Castle Edition. A full day of the cast playing the fan favorite games in their gentlemen’s characters to find the ultimate gentleman.
The crew decided to go all out. They rented a castle in Northern California for the weekend. Everyone was in full costume, including waistcoats, bustles, pocket watches, and feathered hats.
And you? You're playing Lady Agnew, Spencer’s onscreen wife.
It was Damien's idea. “If we’re renting a castle,” he said, “we must have a lady of the manor. It would be criminal if she weren’t married to Spencer.” The cast agreed so fast, you swore there was a group chat without you.
So now you're in the guest suite upstairs, standing in front of a gilded mirror in your lace petticoats, as a wardrobe assistant laces you into a corset that could crush a can of LaCroix. You gasp softly as she tightens the last string. “Wow. Okay. That’s... higher than usual.”
She giggles. “You look incredible.”
You glance at your reflection, marveling at the silhouette. Your breasts are practically sitting on the corset, full and high, your waist cinched beneath them. It’s dramatic. It’s elegant. And you feel kind of like a hot, historical cupcake.
You’re still adjusting the bodice when the door opens without a knock.
“Hey, have you seen my cravat—oh.” Spencer freezes in the doorway, like a full cartoon character freeze. Jaw slack, brows up, and eyes locked on one specific zone of your torso.
“Spencer,” you say, not unkindly, “close the door.” He shuts it behind him like he’s in a trance. You raise an eyebrow. “You okay?”
He blinks. Then clears his throat in full Gentleman character voice, “I… I apologize, my lady, but I seem to have encountered a most perilous distraction.”
You snort. “Perilous?” He nods solemnly, still staring. “You’re about five seconds from tripping over your tongue.”
“Can’t help it.” He walks toward you now, slower, like you might disappear. “You look like you were sewn into a dream.”
“Is that so?”
He reaches for your waist, hands settling gently, reverently, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you. “I am suddenly extremely aware that we’re supposed to pretend to be married for this shoot.”
You hum, tilting your head. “And how does that make you feel?”
“Dangerous,” he mutters, mouth near your ear. “Like I might lose the ability to stay in character for even one goddamn round.”
You giggle, leaning in to graze your lips over his cheek. “Then I guess we’re both in trouble.”
You feel his hands tighten ever so slightly at your waist, his breath catching. “Y/N,” he says, and there’s a sharpness to your name now, like a prayer being tested.
You press your finger to his lips, soft and teasing. “Save it for the ballroom, husband.” He groans softly as you step away, fanning yourself dramatically. “I’ll meet you downstairs, Spencer.”
He watches you go like you just walked out of his dreams. Down the hall, you hear him mutter, “Bazonkas… actual bazonkas….”
After the shoot, you couldn’t help but laugh. Spencer loses every round of the first board game, and everyone notices.
Courtney leans over. “You okay, bud?”
He glances across the table, where you’re sitting prettily with your corset and gloves and a smug little smirk. He clears his throat, “Yes, sorry, distracted by… strategy.”
Angela snorts, “You mean distracted by your wife’s tits?”
Spencer flushes, Amanda cackles, and Damien calls it the best plot twist of the episode.
You just wink at him over your fan, Lady of the Manor-style.
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