carlyndra: Hello there. Are you still taking fanfiction requests? And if so, what are your limits?
Hello, beautiful carlyndra!
I have been so busy with my other writing that I’ve not had much time for fanfic, but I do still take requests on occasion.
I write short fics, 500-1000 words, and will take just about anything for Sherlock (except Johnlock), Hannibal (except Hannigram), Doctor Who, Being Human (UK), Star Trek, and classic Holmes.
I’ve nothing against Johnlock and Hannigram, but I feel writing those are too much for me, personally. :)
thecutehamilton: It was the early morning hours of November 24th, 1801. Philip had been fading all night, and more rapidly than ever in the past few hours. He lay in bed, entirely too still, struggling to force air in and out of his lungs. It took him a long time to open his eyes and focus his gaze on his parents, who had been sitting at his bedside all night. Looking right at his father, he rasped out weakly, "D-don't...let me...die..."
Alexander dug his nails into his hand - he didn’t want his son to see him crying over this. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to help Philip - it was too late, there was nothing that could be done. The wound was mortal, anyway - it was a miracle that Philip had survived this long. “I- I won’t.” He spoke quickly, he could hear his voice breaking.
Philip’s breathing was shallow and barely happening at this point, and, fading in and out of consciousness, he barely heard his father’s words.
Nine breaths left.
But he loved the sound of his voice. Mother said something as well, but, he couldn’t make out any words.
He shook his head slightly, with effort.
"No…" That word had been even more difficult to form. He wasn’t even sure if he was responding to his father or trying to argue with the inevitable.
Hamiltons were good at arguing. Like father, like son. Oh, Philip, you could have been great.
This is how it feels to die, isn’t it? It really hurts. And not just because of the obvious bullet hole.
I’m sorry, Mother and Dad.
Hurts too much to think.
He pulled on Philip’s forearm, and there was no response. There was no pulse, and the breathing that had been so painfully audible just seconds ago was gone. “Philip, answer me!” He shouted, even though he knew why Philip wasn’t responding. He wanted to call out his son’s name again, just in case he could bring him back, and he did - but it came out completely incoherent, and he fell, sobbing. Alexander wished someone would shoot him.
This is so unbelievably effing good I can’t even begin to describe it. To think that Alexander thought this only to later die in a duel from a gunshot wound…
Kudos to you both. This is incredible.