summary: spencer’s been away too long, your nails are too long, and you’re getting a little desperate. good thing he’s always happy to lend a helping hand.
genre: fluff, smut | w/c: 2.1k
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, spencer calls reader sweetheart & sweet girl & angel, hand/finger/nail kink, masturbation (f; only attempted/discussed), fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, spencer cums in his pants lol, no use of y/n
a/n: based on anon’s request! p.s. if you zoom in on the far left photo you’ll see my sad photoshop attempt at the manicure I described lmao
You send Spencer the photo just before sunset.
It’s nothing fancy — just your hand resting on your thigh, fresh from the nail salon, skin still warm from the hot towel they wrap your hands in at the end of your appointment. The polish is indigo, with little gold stars forming teeny tiny constellations on each nail. They catch in the light when you move — you know he’ll appreciate that. You type out a quick caption and hit send:
You: new favorite set?
His response is almost instant, a flurry of three successive messages:
Spence: How do your hands keep getting more beautiful?
Spence: Also. Yes. Definitely a new favorite.
Spence: Wish I was there.
You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, debating what to send next. You want to say something clever — something flirty or offhand or designed to make him blush a little in public — but instead you just type:
You: come home soon, please
—
The TV hums low in the background, something forgettable you haven’t really been paying close attention to. You sit in the quiet for a while, curled into the couch like it might hold you tighter if you’re still enough. Outside, the sky is bruised and soft and growing darker by the minute. You keep staring at your hands.
Spencer always pays for your manicures. It wasn’t your idea — the first time you mentioned how expensive a full set was, he’d looked almost offended on your behalf and insisted you let him cover it from now on.
“Let me. You’re not just getting them done for you,” he’d said. “You’re also getting them done for me.”
And it’s kind of true. Spencer loves to watch your hands when you talk, like there’s a whole language he’s learning just from your fingers. He traces your knuckles during movies, plays with your rings when you’re standing in line, thumbs over the backs of your hands while you read, threads your fingers through his and presses them down into the mattress when he’s on top of you. He holds them like they’re precious artifacts. Like they’re rare.
You’d gotten this set done a few days after he left for a case out in Denver, and much to both of your chagrin, it ended up being a bad one that would keep him in Colorado for much longer than expected. You hadn’t realized how much of a problem your new nails would be until later that night, when you were wound tight and lonely and craving something warm and familiar. You’d lit a candle. Touched yourself under the blanket. Tried to make it quick.
But it hadn’t worked. You’d scratched yourself twice and gotten the angle wrong three times, and by the time you gave up, your whole body felt edged and annoyed.
You’ve tried again since. Twice, each attempt more frustrating than the last. You can’t say it out loud — I can’t get myself off because my nails are too long — without feeling ridiculous, so you don’t tell Spencer when he calls you each night from the hotel.
You press your hands between your thighs and exhale slowly, willing the ache to dull.
It doesn’t. You know it won’t.
Not until Spencer’s back, not until his hands are on you again, not until you can tell him in person how frustrated you’ve been — half-ashamed, half-hoping he’ll find it as ridiculous and kind of hot as you suspect he might.
But for now, you just sit with it.
The polish catches the light. The stars on your fingers shimmer. And you wait.
—
After a long ten days without him, Spencer finally calls you from the jet to let you know he was landing and would be at your apartment soon. You barely say anything on the call — just a soft “okay, baby,” because anything more might unravel you with want. The line goes quiet for a moment until he says he misses you, and you say it back, and then the silence stretches again like it always does when neither of you wants to hang up first. Eventually, he does. Reluctantly.
You don’t move until you hear footsteps approaching the door.
He lets himself in with the key you gave him months ago and drops his go-bag to the floor. You rise slowly from the couch and walk to the entryway, taking in how his messy curls framing his forehead, suit jacket slouched and travel-wrinkled, dark circles beneath his eyes like parentheses around something unsaid. You can see how the case wore on him, the heaviness of whatever weight he’s left carrying even after it’s over. But the second he sees you, his posture softens.
You don’t say anything at first. You just meet him where he stands and wind your arms around his waist.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he left.
“Hi,” you murmur.
He hums it back into your shoulder. “Hi.”
You stay like that for a while, his arms tightening around your back and his lips pressed to the side of your neck, like he needs to confirm you’re really here — still warm and real and his.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to look down at your hands.
“Let me see.”
You raise them instinctively, fingers spread. You watch his expression shift — first curious, then sweet, then something that edges towards arousal before he tamps it down with a swallow.
His thumb grazes over your ring finger. “These are… unreal.”
“You picked the design,” you remind him with a soft smile. “Sort of.”
“I told you I like stars. I didn’t realize you’d get a whole galaxy just for me.”
You shrug. “You pay, I impress.”
He smiles and lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing each fingertip like a habit. You feel those kisses everywhere.
“How was the flight?”
“Fine,” he says as he shrugs his jacket off. “Mostly. There was some turbulence. I didn’t sleep.”
You nod, even though he doesn’t need a response. The closeness is enough.
But when he leans in to press his forehead to yours, when he closes his eyes and exhales like the hard part’s over, you don’t relax the way you normally would. You’re warm, and full, and grateful he’s home, but there’s still something tight in your chest. In your belly. Lower.
He senses it instantly.
His hands still at your waist. His brow furrows just enough. “What is it?”
You hesitate. You could lie, say you’re just tired or overworked or don’t feel well. But the truth is sharp behind your teeth and strangely tender at the same time.
“I’ve just been a little… frustrated,” you say.
He stills. “Frustrated how?”
You glance down at your nails, then back up at him.
“I, um, got them done right after you left. They’re a lot longer and pointier than usual. I didn’t think it would be a big deal, but I haven’t…” You gesture vaguely. “Been able to… you know.”
Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. “You haven’t been able to… to touch yourself, this whole time?”
You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s harder with longer nails. Awkward. I gave up. Maybe I should just give in and buy a vibrator.”
His mouth opens, then closes as he processes the words. “You waited?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly. “This isn’t, like, a guilt trip or something. I don’t want you to feel guilty.”
He blinks. “No, no, I’m not feeling guilty, I’m feeling… lucky.” Then quieter: “And, okay, maybe a little like a negligent boyfriend.”
You smile, a little sheepish. “Not at all. You were out solving murders. That takes precedence.”
“I would’ve solved them faster had I known.”
You laugh, and he wraps you tighter into his chest.
After a pause, his voice comes low, reverent. “Let me fix it,” he murmurs. His fingers tighten at your waist, and his eyes don’t move from yours. “Come on.”
He walks you backward to the bedroom, his palm warm over the back of your neck like he’s trying to keep you grounded. He kisses you once before you sit back against the pillows, and again after — soft, open-mouthed — as he settles between your legs.
“You sure?” you whisper, even though you already know the answer. “You’re probably so tired. It can wait, really. I’m fine.”
He huffs a breath against your collarbone like it’s laughable. “You, my sweet girl, are not fine. You’ve been walking around like this for over a week. Of course I’m sure. Let me do this for you, please.”
You lean back on your elbows as he lifts your shirt and kisses the newly bared skin, slow and thorough. The reverence in his hands makes your stomach tighten. Like he’s not just touching you for the sake of it — he’s reacquainting himself. Like he missed you with his whole being.
As he peels your underwear down, his gaze catches on the shimmer of your nail polish again.
He parts your thighs slowly. Kisses the crease of your hip before shifting again to kiss your jaw. And then, with a careful breath, he drags two fingers between your folds and lets out the softest, most ruined sound you’ve ever heard him make.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”
You want to say yeah, no shit, Sherlock, I told you I’ve been frustrated, but then his fingers dip in and curl just right and your mouth goes completely slack.
He watches your face like he’s cataloging it. Each shift of your expression, every twitch of your hips. He keeps his fingers slow, consistent — long strokes that press deep and purposeful, curved just slightly until your thighs start to tremble.
“You’re so tight,” he breathes. “So wet, sweetheart. You needed this.”
You nod, helpless. “Spencer—”
“I know.” His thumb moves to your clit, light and rhythmic. “Let me take care of it. I’ve got you.”
The build is fast — shamefully fast. You’d almost be embarrassed over how fast it is if it wasn’t for how sure you are that Spencer loves it. His fingers never stutter, never pause, and when he leans forward and kisses you again, you whimper his name.
“Come for me,” he says, soft and certain. “That’s it, angel. Want to feel you come around my fingers.”
And you do.
Your hips jerk forward, mouth releasing a sound you barely recognize as your own, and you feel yourself clench. He slows the pressure and rides the rhythm through it, eyes locked on yours until you collapse back against the mattress, gasping.
But Spencer? Spencer doesn’t stop. He simply adjusts, changes his position, presses a few kisses to your stomach. Then lower. Lower.
You jolt when you feel his mouth over your center.
“Spencer—oh, fuck.”
He looks up at you from between your thighs, curls already messy, mouth flushed.
“Put your hands in my hair,” he says, voice low. “I know it’s what you’ve been waiting for.”
You groan. “You’re such a cocky—”
He licks a slow stripe through you before you can finish the statement, and your back arches clean off the bed.
His fingers stay inside you — deep, curling just right — and his mouth covers your clit with obscene dedication. Tongue and lips and hands and pressure so steady it borders on unbearable. Your second orgasm builds sharper, thinner, a frayed wire stretched between nerve endings. Your thighs start to shake again and he presses in deeper, sucks a little harder, moans loudly against you when your nails graze his scalp.
You feel it in your whole body — his hunger. His focus. The way he wants this for you more than anything. You’re not even sure if you’re breathing.
“I’m—” you start, but you can’t get the warning out in time. Besides, he already knows.
You come again with a cry that tears out of your throat, and this time it overwhelms you — your body writhing, hands pulling at Spencer’s hair hard enough to make him groan. You’re too lost in the moment to notice how lost he is alongside you.
And then, as your limbs shake and your head falls back to the pillow, you hear a low, choked sound that didn’t come from you.
You glance down, dazed.
Spencer’s still between your legs, breathing heavy. He looks completely boneless, cheeks red, eyes half-lidded and glazed, limbs trembling a little, a combination of his sweat and your slick glistening on his skin. Then it hits you — you’ve seen that face before.
“Did you just…” You blink at him. “Spence, did you just come in your pants?”
He rests his forehead against your thigh and nods, clearly trying to catch his breath, clearly a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to.”
You start to giggle. It bubbles up through your chest, soft and stunned and fond beyond belief. “Oh my god, you totally humped the bed. Does getting me off really turn you on that much?”
He groans again, this time in embarrassment, but he’s smiling. “You were… god, you were just so perfect. And the way you pulled my hair and scratched my head… What was I supposed to do, not lose my mind?”
You smile and comb your fingers through his hair again, gentler now, your nails grazing his scalp. He hums.
“So,” you murmur, “would it be cruel to say I might keep my nails like this a little longer?”
Spencer kisses your inner thigh, still breathless. “Cruel? No. Cruel would be not letting me do this every time you need it.”
—
At some point you end up tangled sideways across the mattress, half under the covers, one of his legs still dangling off the edge.
Spencer’s cheek is pressed to your hip, his eyes fluttering closed every few seconds, hair mussed beyond recognition. You’ve managed to wriggle your underwear back on — barely — but he hasn’t made any attempt to move.
“You good?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the crown of his head.
“Mmhmm.”
“You sure about that? You came in your pants and then passed out,” you tease.
“I did not pass out,” he mumbles. “I’m resting. You’re comfortable.”
You smile and let your nails trace gently over his scalp again. He hums.
“You really missed this, huh?”
He opens one eye, gaze lazy and warm. “I missed you.”
His sincerity hits you. Your cheeks heat up, and you manage a soft hum in response — your chest is a little too full to find the words to speak properly.
He finally shifts, crawling up beside you and nuzzling into your neck. You wrap your arms around him and let your nails scratch lightly at the base of his skull, just enough to make him shiver.
“Seriously, though,” he says, barely a whisper now. “Keep your nails long like this. Please? I’ll take care of you.”
You kiss his hair.
“Anything you want, Spence.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
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Imagine Ilya competing on a celebrity version of Nailed It! because he gets really into baking in his retirement but he's also so bad at it.
He believes his kids deserve homemade treats (just like his Mama used to make) and he's determined to be the Best Papa Ever. His kids love him even though somehow the Russian tea cakes are always burned on the bottom. Crucially, Ilya's mama was also a terrible baker, so the cookies taste just right to him, and he's just like "you fuckers are all wrong, these are perfect cookies" while the kids giggle and Shane yells "Swear jar!" from across the house.
The kids nominate him for Nailed It! and Ilya is like "FINALLY I will prove you fuckers wrong" (I'm suddenly very attached to Ilya calling his kids "fuckers" lmaoooo it's funny To Me don't @ me)
But the only thing he proves is that he was made in a lab to thrive on a chaotic reality show with Nicole Byer.
Ilya has to make a wedding cake and sculpts two terrible looking hockey players out of modeling chocolate for the top. It looks like they're holding their dicks, but Ilya swears that they were supposed to be hockey sticks. Nicole Byer can't even talk because she's laughing so hard.
(For those unfamiliar with the show's premise: "Home bakers with a terrible track record take a crack at re-creating edible masterpieces for a $10,000 prize. It's part reality contest, part hot mess.")
