| Het Fic-A-Thon |
[Apr. 19th, 2006|11:15 pm] |
Title: The Mission
Author: Bellsie
Pairing: Cuddy/Chase
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine
Written For: angelmecool
3 things that must be included in the fic: Chase being charming(or atleast trying to be), Cuddy's nationality (whatever it is, you can make her a Swedish for all I care), Cuddy/Chase kiss in front of at least one person
3 things that cannot be included in the fic: angst, anything higher that a *light* R, Chase or Cuddy's ex
Author’s Notes: How overjoyed I was to get Cuddy/Chase. This was going to be the other pairing I wanted to have written for me. But a warning: I usually do angst. So, without angst I do really pointed sarcasm. I’m sorry. The fluffy bone was not inserted into my body. And this didn’t turn out as I plan.
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 26th, 2006|10:12 pm] |
Title: Acne
Author: Bellsie
Rating: PG-13
Beta: Thanks Marti!
Summary: God gave her acne.
Written For: Wiccagirl
Assignment number: 19
Assignment: Three things you want to see in your story: Can be as specific or as general as you want.
1. House/Cam
2. Angst (can end happy, but I want some drama.)
3. Cam friendship (Wilson, Foreman, Caddy)
Three things you don’t want anywhere near your story:
1. Stacy (aka the Devil)
2. Cam/ Chase (feel free to ignore that whole "drug induced shagging" thing)
3. OOC
Extra notes: I’ve spent a week fending off freaking pimples. I hate them. Thus the inspiration for this story.
Disclaimer: So not mine.
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| Chase/Cuddy Fanfic 50 table |
[Nov. 4th, 2005|09:04 pm] |
| 001. | Beginnings |
002. | Middles |
003. | Ends |
004. | First |
005. | Last |
| 006. | Patient |
007. | Hospital |
008. | Fear |
009. | Puzzle |
010. | Arrogance |
| 011. | Red |
012. | Grey |
013. | White |
014. | Black |
015. | Blue |
| 016. | Lies |
017. | Truth |
018. | Consequences |
019. | Denial |
020. | Acceptance |
| 021. | Friends |
022. | Enemies |
023. | Lovers |
024. | Colleagues |
025. | Strangers |
| 026. | Whiteboard |
027. | Cane |
028. | Piano |
029. | iPod |
030. | Coffee Mug |
| 031. | Sunrise |
032. | Sunset |
033. | Too Much |
034. | Not Enough |
035. | Time |
| 036. | Smell |
037. | Sound |
038. | Touch |
039. | Taste |
040. | Sight |
| 041. | Sweat |
042. | Tears |
043. | Blood |
044. | Surgery |
045. | Clinic |
| 046. | Life |
047. | Death |
048. | Writer‘s Choice |
049. | Writer‘s Choice |
050. | Writer‘s Choice |
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| Knitting for _vicodin |
[Aug. 30th, 2005|10:08 pm] |
Bellsie wrote "Knitting" for Ibilic, now _vicodin.
Three things she wanted to see in her story
1. House/Wilson snark
2. Smut is optional
3. House dealing with a strange/funny clinic patient
Three things she didn't want anywhere near her story
1. Wimpy Cameron
2. Wimpy House
3. First-person fic
Rating: PG-13-R...heavy groping
Author's Note: *Sighs*. I got caught up in writing "So This is Your Scrap of Dignity" and ended up applying my sarcasm (not well) to this fic...I know there isn't much House/Cameron action, and I'm sorry. I don't own "House." Marti did a great job beta-ing this, catching my mistakes.
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| So This is Your Scrap of Dignity V |
[Jul. 30th, 2005|10:36 pm] |
Author’s Note: Thanks to Marti for the help with this chapter and the ideas. I’m certainly not over writer’s block, so the chapters will be slower in coming.
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| STiYSoD Part II |
[Jul. 30th, 2005|10:31 pm] |
So This is Your Dignity II
Title: So This is Your Scrap of Dignity, Chapter 2
Author: Bellsie
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: "House" is not mine.
Author’s Note: More concrete and less poetic than House’s musings, but this is Cameron. Every other paragraph is a rhyming couplet. Just another note: I have no beef against God, but apparently House and Cameron hold grudges against Him, so it's interesting for me to delve into that.
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| So This is Your Scrap of Dignity |
[Jul. 16th, 2005|09:47 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  blank | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Dignity, Bob Dylan | ] |
Title: So This is Your Scrap of Dignity
Author: Bellsie
Pairing: House/Cameron eventually
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: “House” isn’t mine.
Author’s Note: “House” isn’t mine…So I got this brilliant idea…iambic pentameter for House and rhymes about a phone…I can’t decide if it’s misguided brilliance (the ego!) or a lack of things to do. I opt for the latter. But this isn’t iambic pentameter because I’m a terrible stressor and so you get this. Misguided attempts at rhymes in prose. No, there is no rhyme scheme except for the last line and the aside. They’re supposed to rhyme. Any other rhymes are simply there to humor me…and some of you. It’s a multi-chapter and it’s H/Ca (duh!) Enjoy.
His mother whispers quietly...
Heaven's not a place that you go when you die
It's that moment in life
When you actually feel alive
--Spill Canvas, “Tide”
It’s a cruel invention, and oh, how it bespeaks passionate condescension. Flying ships and sailing planes…see the world turn and spin.
(Make up patients to diagnose…his confessions to sin.)
Pick it up; a voice materializes from his past to haunt this present.
(He needs her one hundred and ten percent.)
“Will you be here in the future?”
(So, the guy tore out his frontal suture…)
And he speaks in tongues (curses, mostly) as he holds the receiver and asks clichéd Shakespearian questions to the 9 a.m. daylight. A horrible device that he rarely uses, but for now it must suffice. Face to face communication diminishes with advances of Bell’s annoyingly antiquated creation.
(All of this—it’s just the laws of primal civilization.)
The Nike slogan floats through the air and he feels a twitching in his jaw. With the absence of this tic he becomes a hypochondriac and a hypocrite. Oh, hypo-this, hypo-that, he wants to destroy the phone. But he can’t because it’s his only tool to evade being alone.
(Aha! Skin lesions equal fibrous dysplasia of bone.)
Sunday mornings belong to God, but he belongs to no one, man or an immortal sod. He fancies himself as a genius with a noticeable allegiance to painkillers and easy-to-find convenience. He rhymes to himself to comfort long lost English teachers. You’ll never amount to nothing…ah; double negatives permeate through the nation.
(So, the woman pursues the man. The joyous effects of westernization.)
Little squares filled with numbers…leading to nowhere and infinity, blank space and full lines; he continues to fall. The path to her is written on a scrap of a gum wrapper, no bigger than it must be, waste one day turns into interplanetary paste.
(What can be derived from a momentary lack of taste?)
So, touch and push the buttons, (harder than necessary) just the way he wants to touch her and just the way he pushes her. It rings and rings for a year and half it seems (is it time to go Christmas shopping to get garish things?) There’s a beep and her voice, mechanized by technology, hidden by the reverberations of his breath.
(Can she handle muscle death?)
He hates this frivolous impediment. His voice now, husky and arrogantly self-confident.
(Still thinking of symptoms and such…there will always be unfortunate incidents.)
“Riddle me this, whom do atheists worship on Sundays?”
(He wonders if she likes Monet.)
When he slams the phone down he ends the conversation that he realizes he’s been carrying on with himself. He hopes she hears the slamming of the phone (and doors later). But hopes are for people whose God dictates will through a delicate figurine He calls the Pope.
(Allergic to oft-taken dope?)
Churches fill; he’s all alone. Margaritas…still too early to drink. Never to early to contemplate the brink of the universe and, if we reach it will we fall? He knows no answer and figures he’ll drink to that. Excuses and reasons to provide himself—eternal critic and unforgiving cynic. Laws of gravity and physics need not apply; he’ll take his decadent alcohol supply.
(This plan cannot go awry.)
So he’ll wait for the call from the damnable telephone and hope to God (and other such deities) that she’ll respond to a riddle he finds heartbreakingly sad.
(What makes him so abysmally mad?)
But he won’t admit and “you must acquit!” His crimes are numerous and he has no sympathetic pleas…just sarcasm and its eternal glee. Take her hand and drop it down…she deserves someone who wears a crown. (She deserves and could acquire any man…let the record show the variable is he: House, of course.)
(And it’s Cameron being propelled by that centrifugal force.)
A patient’s dying somewhere, so he runs disease through is head. Viruses, bacterias, and all the like, his friendly companions. Tea for five today, he muses. “Good evening, Vic, Cane, E. Coli, and AIDS. Meet the infarction and my insurmountable charm.”
(He must be lying about the acquisition of that rash on his arm.)
It takes mere minutes, but it seems like an eon because the journey leads to an end that he always forgets is coming. Pleased to introduce the glorious inevitable.
(…)
It rings. |
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| Pain |
[Jul. 15th, 2005|12:28 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cheerful | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Garden State | ] |
Title: Pain
Author: Me!
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: Ah, PG-13ish
Disclaimer: Episode titles of other shows, Lewis Carrol stories, House, Counting Crows...please, none of it's mine.
Author's Note: It just started comin'.
If dreams are like movies, the memories are films about ghosts.
--Counting Crows, Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby
She runs every jagged cliché through his hair and wonders how high he must be. Her head kills her (as it always does for various reasons), but perhaps she can sponge the Vicodin remnants off his lips. Plundering tongues (Captain Hook), exploring hands (Francis Drake), and delusional thoughts (John Brown) crowd this space God meant for two. Inane historical figures…God, she loves history. Maybe that’s why her husband dies even in her fantasies—the past is unchanging; she realizes she must accept the pain that thrives upon this parasitic relationship.
“Take my hand,” he tells her in a thousand useless daydreams. But just not now.
She thinks of DNA and genes as they fall onto the bed. When he pulls her clothes off, she moves onto the law and muses.
She recollects spending a summer watching her father preside over trials. She thinks of how reasonable doubt and human sympathy allows guilty people roam free and how false charges and vendettas make innocent people fester in jail (Twelve people deciding fate…something so intrinsically wrong, yet so traditionally right). Law requires a detachment of emotions—her sister’s field, not hers.
And her father’s gavel pounds in her ears and thumps through her brain. Alice in Wonderland…“I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date!” What could ever be so important? This life provides entertainment but none that beckons her like it somehow entrances the rabbit. (Isn’t the rabbit a symbol of something? She asks her pained mind. No response.)
She listens as he runs over the medical aspects of sex. Like Diana explaining her newest network shows, he must resort back to medicine. Ah, so he has a comfort zone…
So, she embraces the pain like it’s an old high school friend. It let’s her remember the past…he felt cancer…hurts more than an infarction. But it allows her to forget its name and address the next day. Spin, revolve, and spin.
She notices that he tolerates the pain like it’s a relative who’s worn out their welcome. And his nasty Rottweiler (aptly named Vicodin) chases them away when he can’t stand it anymore. Scare, crumble, and scare.
Mantras permeate through her head: crime rates and EKG measurements. Potassium pills and xenophobic xylophones, forced alliterations, pain, pain, and…oh…pleasure.
;’;
There are deep ruminations and reminisces on nothing as she lies next to him. She contemplates the pain and refuses to swallow Tylenol because she likes to feel the lump of irritated electrical impulses move up and down her brain—pulsating behind her eye. Why does it hurt? Can’t you think it away? (Stop thinking.) Can’t you wish it away? (What are wishes?) Can’t you make it GO AWAY? (Stalwart threats that are empty and hollow…)
And she can never be like the man who sits next to her—he hates philosophizing about pain.
So, she uses her ESP(N) to tell him he’s not alone (but he is. How can she be comforting?) Her pain magnifies, eases, and stretches. Her head hurts.
Maybe she thinks too much. God, can’t she ever fall asleep without meaningless thoughts? She wants to cuddle (she fears rejection.) She wants warm safety (she knows cold insecurity.) Take this Sabbath day and the one with the bad haircut. Lines and lines, poetry and fiction…he’s tantalizingly close and…
Close your eyes and let your mind drift.
And it’s the pressure of fingertips (NOT her own) on her temples that make her wary…he speaks (leaning close)…his breath does not soother her hot ear.
“Care to introduce me to your imaginary friend? I’m not afraid of threesomes. Wilson, Stacy, and I…ah, the good ole days. Maybe you can coerce Chase—”
“Dr. House,” she breathes and speaks in the word (she eats it in her tangible Alphabits…H-O-U-S-E made of wheat.)
“Meet my headache.”
“Dr. Cameron,” he smirks, “meet my infarction.”
END |
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| There are Words for This |
[Jul. 10th, 2005|10:16 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  bouncy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Crickets | ] |
Title: There are Words for This
Author: Bellsie
Pairing: Vaguely House/Cameron
Rating: PG
Author’s Note: Just started writing itself…reviews are wonderiffic.
;';
There are words for this, but he doesn’t know them—he doesn’t remember. They’re primal and carnal and built into one’s system, but he can’t remember. Doesn’t know. Refuses to accept. Psychiatrists and psychologists babbling into his ear. She’s standing there and he’s falling with her hand…
And cut to a few months later…
…When he sits by himself (no, not by himself, with his Vicodin, scotch, and cane—more loyal than any dog) and drowns in softly played Pachelbel and loudly sung Paper Lace songs. It’s her face he sees and it’s her face that he throws the bottle at when Pachelbel dies and Paper Lace wails. He curses himself when the scotch shatters and he’s left sitting there…
To be forgotten only weeks later…
…When he hears (never sees—she hides things well) about her emotional descent. She shatters like the scotch’s bottle, but she’s more delicate and buying a new Cameron fixes nothing. He contemplates sending a strand of her hair off to some remote location in France where they claimed to have cloned a human, but he decides that she’ll get over it. People always do. Because…
Minutes pass…
…And it’s silence in the room. Patients die, but patients do not die like this. Patients do not die like this. Patients die because they screw up; they don’t die because vengeful morons pull damn plugs. DNR’s and proxies mean nothing to him. Signatures are superfluous. But this too shall pass…
To find them all years removed…
…He’s forgetting things he shouldn’t and she’s disappearing into his age. He can pray, but he won’t because praying doesn’t change the fact that time moves forward and that next year his body’ll be full of another year’s wear. Wilson talks to him, but his retorts aren’t witty. It’s a forgotten word that makes the sting disappear. It’s the lack of inflection. General Hospital’s plots fade into confusing complication. Foreman’s on the phone and he forgets the man’s first name. Soon he’ll forget her face, Cuddy’s, Wilson’s, Stacy’s…
Please don’t go…
…But he’ll disappear one day into nothing. Fade away into small pieces and time and history…and will anyone even remember him? She will, but she’s gone. She’s somewhere…(where? He can’t remember…it’s there…he knows it is…what’s the damn word?)...
When everything ends…
…There’s a beautiful face staring at him. It’s gorgeous. Perfect skin, slightly graying hair. And a man’s face next to hers. His gray hair is steel. And the woman looking at him with a glance…he can’t describe. He can’t describe anything. Another woman. A black man. Another man. He can barely distinguish genders. Or are they colors? What day is it? And what does this metal think with sharp spikes do? Sentences escape him. Words catch in tangles of plaque in his mind. He doesn’t know this, though. He is losing himself to his mind. Slowly falling, blackness. Goodnight. |
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