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aperrywilliams · 9 months

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My Inspiration (Spencer Reid x Fem!Artist!Reader)

(Not my pic. Credits to the creator)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Artist!Reader

Summary: You’re having a creative block, and Spencer is there to help.

Word Count: 3.1k

TW: Nothing I can think of. Fluff in the way I like it. Spencer is the best boyfriend in the world. Fight me.

A/N: I wrote this one for this request. Feel free to send me more requests.

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It's not like it didn't happen before. You were very aware of what a creative block was. In all honesty, you go through one every so often. This time though? It was taking a toll on you.

You have been spending two weeks working on your canvases without getting something you could call worthwhile.

It's not you don't have ideas to work with. You have plenty of them but nothing really to get you going. But you had compromised on having something for your friend's opening gallery exhibition. You thought a month would be enough, but now you lost two weeks, and the anxiety only increased.

It wasn't helping you were sulking alone in your apartment. Your boyfriend Spencer had left for a case in Los Angeles a week and a half ago, and the prospection of having a productive couple of days turned anything but that.

Today you were so adamant about getting something done that after tossing and turning awake in bed all night, you got up at dawn and locked yourself in your studio. Now it was 4 pm, and you didn't even remember if you had eaten anything during the day.

That also meant you left your phone in your room all day and didn't see Spencer's messages saying he was coming home.

When Spencer arrived at your shared apartment, he suspected you were working on something, and that's why you hadn't answered his messages.

But when he entered the room you were, he didn't expect to see you throwing your brushes toward the canvas before you, cursing profusely.

"Hey, what's wrong, love?" he asked you, concern dripping from his voice.

Hearing him talk brought you back, and you quickly turned to see him.

"Oh! Spencer! Baby! I didn't know you were coming home today," you tried to sound casual and chirping as you launched into his arms. It was a considerable contrast to the outburst happening just two seconds ago.

Spencer wrapped you in his arms, but after kissing your temple lovingly, he pulled back to meet your eyes. You saw the worry written in him.

"Something happened?" He asked you again.

You huffed in frustration. One thing was your creative block, but to worry Spencer about it was the less you wanted. You knew he had had a difficult week catching an unsub; why bother him with this kind of thing?

"It's nothing, really," you tried to dismiss, turning your gaze away from him and moving where your canvas was. You swore the empty textile was laughing at you.

"(Y/N)..." Spencer called you. It was enough for him to tell you he didn't believe you.

You have learned in your two years of relationship that Spencer can read you like a book. He would know something was happening, even if you tried to mask it. With a frown, Spencer took a look at your studio. He spotted several canvases at mid-finish scattered in a corner on the floor, a lot of messy draftings on your desk, and your smock seemed rumpled and dirtier than usual. If he needed to guess, you have been struggling with your work for at least a few days. But what gave you away was your tired face, the prominent dark circles under your eyes, and your messy hair. Feeling his eyes inspecting you made you feel terrible, and you didn't want to look at him back. Spencer took some steps forward and gently put one hand on your back to catch your attention. You shyly turned but were still afraid of looking up at him. He rested both hands on your shoulders.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?" he gently reminded you. "Is something related to those canvases?" he asked, although he knew the answer already.

"Yeah," you sheepishly replied. Your eyes shifted up until finding his gaze. You have been caught. What was the point of not admitting the truth? "I haven't been able to finish anything. I've been trying to direct my ideas for days, but I'm not getting anywhere. I have a creative block, and no matter how hard I've tried, I can't get enough inspiration to put my ideas on canvas," you sighed, defeated, with your lips quivering from the sudden urge to cry.

"Come here," Spencer quickly enveloped you in a tight embrace. You gave in and clutched to him as if your life depended on it, hiding your face in his chest. "It'll be okay. Maybe you need a little break," he suggested. "Why don't you rest for today, and we can do whatever you want. Take your mind off of it for a while. I think it would help."

It was a reasonable suggestion, but you were very stubborn. Spencer learned that early into your relationship. Parting from his embrace, you shook your head.

"No, Spencer. I can't. I need to finish this. I already promised Albert something for the gallery opening. I can't fail him," you explained, moving to your desk to grab a new sketch.

“(Y/N), if you have a block, it will not go away just because you push yourself to do it. Love, please, take a break. I promise it will help,” Spencer insisted, giving you his signature puppy eyes. How to say no to that?

Giving up, you strolled with Spencer to the living room and plopped on the couch. Before following your lead, Spencer asked, “Did you get lunch?”

As a cue, your stomach grumbled so loud Spencer could hear it. Your guilty face didn't help to disguise it.

“I thought so. Wait here.”

Spencer rushed to the kitchen, and a while later, he returned with a sandwich and a glass of water for you.

“Here, you need to eat,” he said, handing you the sandwich and sitting by your side. He settled the water on the coffee table.

You didn’t know how starved you were until you took the first bite. The sandwich and the water were gone just minutes later. Spencer kept a respectful silence, not wanting to bother you as you ate.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. Spencer frowned.

“Why are you sorry?”

“You just came back, and you’re taking care of me. It should be me doing that to you,” you sheepishly explained.

“(Y/N), you don’t have to apologize. I’m your boyfriend, and I’m happy to do something for you,” he smiled at you, taking the tray from your lap and leaving it on the coffee table so you could settle more comfortably on the couch.

Crisscrossing your legs, you let out a deep sigh.

“I just feel awful. I’ve been trying to deal with this, but every day seems harder than the previous one. I don't know if it makes sense, and I don’t know why this time it feels worse,” you tried to explain. Spencer nodded.

"Well, it is a common occurrence, even if it doesn't feel like it. A recent survey indicated that 31% of creative professionals suffer creative blocks due to tight deadlines and 30% due to the unwillingness of clients to take creative risks,” Spencer informed you.

“Tight deadlines, uh? It wasn’t a tight deadline two weeks ago,” you argued. Spencer shook his head.

“Don’t do that,” he requested. You narrowed your eyes.

“Do what?”

“Take it as it is your fault. It's not.”

You huffed.

“But I think it is! I mean, I’m stuck here, and it's not that something bad is happening to me or someone is stressing me out. So it has to be my fault,” you shrugged.

“It's not. You know that. It had happened before, right?”

“Yeah, but this time- I don’t know. I - I feel so useless. Like I am a failure. And I don’t know what to do,” you whined. You hate being all fuzzy with this, but the lack of sleep and the stress didn't help to be calm about it. Spencer scooted to your side, grabbing both of your hands with his and tracing soothing patterns on them.

"Well, some studies have shown there are three elements to focus on when trying to overcome creative block and get productive again. The first is to veer from pursuing meaning to making meaning, which implicates identifying and engaging in meaning-making activities, not only making art. Second, you must get out of your head and actually do work, engaging in a recursive process where you can learn what the piece is about, making it rather than by planning, dreaming, and obsessing about it. Finally, to develop a genuine sense that it is okay not always to be perfect. The researchers say most people tend to know this conceptually but still have not allowed themself it at a deeper level."

You hummed, taking in his words.

“Sounds easy,” you mumbled incredulously. Spencer chuckled.

“I know. Easy said than done. But we can start with the second one. And that means you are not authorized to back to your studio until tomorrow,” Spencer informed you.

“What? No! I can’t do that. I need-“ Spencer softly squeezed your hand to stop the rant you were about to initiate.

“(Y/N), I don’t even go to try to guess when was the last day you slept enough, but I can see it, and if you want to get out of your head, you need to sleep. I promise you will return to work soon, just not today, okay?” Spencer shifted on the couch to lie full on it, opening his arms for you.

Spencer was right; you knew it. So you stopped fighting against it. Pouting, you accepted his offer and cuddled with him. Felling his embrace dissipated any reluctance you could still have on you. Softly stroking your back, Spencer lulled you into sleep in no time.

The time you woke up, the first thing you noticed was you were wrapped in a cozy blanket. The second: Spencer wasn’t there with you. Still dizzy from the sleep, you sat to check your surroundings. On the coffee table, you saw a piece of paper with your name on it. Narrowing your eyes, you took the piece of paper and unfolded it.

It was a note in Spencer’s handwriting.

‘My love,

I hope the nap was good. I needed to run some errands, and I didn't want you to wake up just yet.

If it is okay with you, I want us to have a special dinner tonight. So get ready and meet me at nine in the park across the street.

Always yours,

Spencer.’

A smile tugged at your lips. You checked the time, and you had one hour to get ready and meet Spencer.

At nine, you were crossing the park to where you knew Spencer was. When he saw you coming, he stood from the bench, grinning at you.

God, you loved that smile on him.

“Hey beautiful, how was your nap?” he asked, reaching for your hand. You gladly complied, interviewing your fingers with his.

“Pretty good. I must say I was a bit disappointed when I didn't see you by my side, though,” you pouted dramatically to what Spencer chuckled.

“About that, I hope I can make it up to you tonight. Shall we?” He asked, signaling to the street ahead.

“Sure. Where are we going?”

Spencer shook his head.

“Nu-hu. I can’t tell you. It's a surprise.”

You guys took a cab to Penn Quarter and then walked for a while. You still couldn’t make it where you were going. You were passing a neighborhood full of restaurants and places you could visit, but Spencer didn't slow down the pace until you reached a big old building. Looking up and down the front, you recognized it then. It was the Smithsonian American Art Museum.

“What are we doing at the SAAM?”

“What do people do at a museum?” Spencer teased, a grin plastered on his face.

“Yeah, I know. But most people can’t visit after 7 pm,” you pointed. That didn’t make to go away Spencer’s smile.

“Most people can’t make a call and ask a favor from a friend who works here,” he shrugged. “Come on, let's go inside.”

After greeting the guard who let you in, you walked down a long corridor to a set of stairs. You went up to the second floor, and without letting go of your hand, Spencer led you down another hallway to a smaller room. This was illuminated with a warm light. Several paintings were hanging from the wall—some you immediately recognized.

It couldn’t be. Right?

You knew the museum would run an exhibition about the history of color, but it wasn't scheduled until a few weeks more. You have been hyperventilating about it for months, and now you were looking at some of the pieces you knew would be there.

“Spencer? Those are-?” You could barely articulate.

“Yes. I would like to say these are all the pieces for the exhibition, but some haven’t arrived yet,” he explained, surveying the room.

You were so dumbfounded that you didn't know what to say, so instead, you jumped into Spencer’s arms with such force that you nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. That’s when you notice the center of the room. There was a little table set for two, with a bottle of wine, glasses, and candles lighting. He followed your line of sight and grabbed your hand.

“I thought we could have dinner here too so we can have more time to appreciate everything, don't you think?”

You grinned, still amazed by everything but mainly by the man before you.

“Spencer Reid, you are something else,” you mumbled before resting your palms on his cheeks to bring his lips to yours. You kissed him with your heart and soul. You didn't recall someone doing for you something like this before.

When you parted, he rested his forehead on yours.

“I must assume that you liked the surprise,” he concluded. You laughed, patting his chest.

“Don’t get cocky on me, Dr. Reid. You still have to give me the description of each piece in this room,” you anticipated making Spencer smirk.

“Yes, ma’am. But first, dinner,” he announced, signaling the table.

While you ate dinner, you couldn't stop looking around you. You were surrounded by so much talent and beauty that it could have been overwhelming, but the truth wasn’t like that, quite the opposite. The beauty of each piece adorning the walls accompanied the beauty of a unique moment with the wonderful man sitting in front of you. Was this finding meaningful? Partly yes.

After dinner, hand in hand, you walked the length of the room, examining each piece. And just like you requested, Spencer had something to say about each one.

"Did you know people have been painting for as long as 30,000 years? The Early Cave paintings were drawn with red or yellow ochre, hematite, manganese oxide, and charcoal and may have been made by early Homo sapiens as long as 30,000 years ago. These would have been ground to make up a primitive paint substance. Other ingredients used were animal blood and fat,” he explained, as you were looking at a replica of a primitive painting.

"Before the emergence of linseed oil in the paint, artists had to mix the dried pigments into a paste using egg yolk. Can you imagine that?”

You laughed at his expression.

“I would say it was a waste of food,” you quipped, making Spencer chuckle.

You moved to another piece that showed an artist from the XIX century painting on a canvas, with a bowl next to him.

"Artists used to store their paint in animal bladders. The bladder was fashioned into pretty purses until the paint tube was invented in 1841,” Spencer informed.

“Yuk!” You complained. “I didn't know that!”

“Sorry, I won’t develop more about that in the future,” he apologized, moving to another painting.

“Thanks, baby.”

You kept walking and admiring each piece. There wasn’t any rush, and you even forgot about your creative block. On the contrary, this was flooding you with ideas and energy.

"Linseed oil was in short supply during World War II, forcing paint manufacturers to research other options. This led to the invention of artificial resins, which were cheap, held the color well, and lasted a long time. The resin was patented in 1915 by Otto Rohm from Germany. It continued to be developed until it became widely available," Spencer explained, pointing to a canvas comparing linseed oil and resin.

“Thanks, Mr. Rohm. My job is better, thanks to the resin,” you pointed appreciatively. Spencer nodded.

The tour continued, and you swore you didn’t want it to end, but at some point, your focus wasn’t anymore on the paintings but on your boyfriend.

You should have been paying attention to the piece of art in front of you. It was the reason Spencer brought you here, right? But you couldn't avert your gaze from him, mesmerized by how his eyes sparkled, explaining why Rembrant never could use green in his paintings. Spencer moved his hands enthusiastically, eager to share every detail he knew with you. You couldn't help but stare at him wet his lips every time he finished a sentence, the way his nose scrunched up when he tried to read the description in the foot of the paint. The way mindlessly his fingers played with yours as you walked hand in hand by the gallery.

Then it hit you. You could have done this by yourself, and you would never feel your heart so full as you had it now. It wasn’t the exhibition itself. It wasn’t the act to witness the beauty of each piece what you needed to get inspired and overcome your block. You needed to feel it, and for that, Spencer was the missing piece. Your love, your biggest fan, the man who believes in you and loves you for what you are and not for what you have done or not.

That’s what true inspiration is—experiencing your own life in the deepest, feeling the pain, the happiness, the love, and wanting to tell the world what’s for you through a canvas.

The realization made you smile and be grateful for the most important person you had the luck to love. That’s why Spencer saw you staring at him and asked if something was wrong; you shooked your head and, after kissing him passionately, whispered:

“I love you, Spencer Reid. My heart is yours, and the world will know it.”

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