this is just a question and I definitely don’t have anything planned out, but are fic commissions, like 1k fics, a thing? I was thinking of building a little nest egg on my ko-fi because I’m kind of a poor college student so maybe if I have time I can just write like a 500-1k word fic for a donation on my ko-fi (they set the minimum as $3), and of course write thank-you ficlets for the people who’ve already contributed to my ko-fi, but then there’s the issue with the work and the characters not being mine because I’d be writing Check, Please fics, and I know people do art commissions but I feel like it’s different with words??? Like if it’s not allowed I definitely won’t do it, I just have no idea what the protocol is. any thoughts?
(#21 off the Super Sappy Prompts list: “I’m better when I’m with you.”)
It’s an experiment based on a hypothesis based on a coincidence. They’re sharing a room on a roadie, and Nursey has been stuck in a dry spell for a week and a half now. The words just haven’t been coming the way he wants them to, and he’s starting to feel dried out, like all the creative juices have been wrung out of him by school stress and lack of sleep. Maybe it’ll never come back. Maybe he’s just done. All washed up by the tender age of twenty.
He’s not even trying to write as he watches Dex from across the room, tracking his fidgets and expressions as he sits hunched over his laptop frowning at the screen. It’s been a while since he and Dex have been in the same room for an extended period of time – a fortnight, about. Dex has been on a project, and Nursey started isolating himself about when the drought hit. But it was nice to sit with him on the bus today, and it’s nice to dump his bag near the bed and just relax, hands behind his head, and drink in his presence. It feels like something he’s been missing for far too long.
Nursey’s not sure what it is that makes the words start coming back, but it’s like a cloudburst on a hot day – a few lines, scattered drops against a parched sidewalk, then all at once he’s drowning.
He writes for four hours that night. His poems are full of microchips and anger, all about the gray morality of man against the rigidity of binary code, and by one a.m., when he should really be getting his beauty rest for tomorrow’s game, he’s starting to formulate a theory.
The theory is that maybe being in Dex’s proximity jumpstarts his creativity. In a phrase, Dex inspires him.