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Name:
Theresa
Nickname: Tchan
Age: 16
Birthday: January 14
Zodiac Sign: Capricorn
Chinese Zodiac: Rat
Location: Philippines
Nationality: Chinese
Languages: English, Chinese Mandarin, Chinese Hokkien, Tagalog, German
and a little Japanese
Guardian Angel: Harahel
sites:
Collective: /Silver Abyss/
Wallpapers: /Sated/
Art: /2 Pens, a
Muse and a PaperClip/
HnFC: /The Hiei no Fan Club/
blogs : /ficblog/ /LJ/
Completed Fics:
Fragile Dreams
- MitKo
Tiny Red Vials -
RuHana
Ficlets:
Under the Glow of Lights
- MitKo
Seeing the
Dawn - Spartacus
Leading the Ten
Thousand - Xerxes
Works in Progress:
Roman slave - Mitko
In Bed - MitKo
Bathroom scene - FukuJin
Locker scene - MakiJin
Kainan game - RuHana
Silent Misgivings - SenRu
Want to Be Written:
Alexandros x Polynikes
Whore! Hana, Winter-cold-room RuHana, DeadRan!RanKen, hospital!RuHana,
vendomachine!FukuJin
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Species
of the Male Kind:
Sendoh Akira, Mitsui Hisashi, Fao Rafine, Oliver Woods, Sasame,
Lantis, Eagle, Inugami, Maki Shinichi, Ian Bostridge, Edward Norton
Manga/Anime Series:
Slam Dunk, Weiss Kreuz, Pretear, MKR, Arislan, B't X, Yami no Matsuei
Sounds for the Ear:
JS Bach, Bond, Enya, Ricky Martin, Vanessa Mae, Itzhak Perlman, Ian
Bostridge, Barbara Bonney, Renee Fleming, Dido, Siam Shade, Celtic tunes, Jacky Cheung
The Writing Geniuses:
Ellen Kushner, Umberto Eco, Steven Pressfield, Karen Marie Moning, Marsha
Canham, Mary Renault
On the Winamp List:
Farinelli - Alto Giove
Slash Numnums:
MitKo, RuHana, MakiJin, FukuJin, MakiSen, SenKosh, FaoRon,
SasameHayate, DracoHarry, LantisEagle, NarsusDariun, TatsumiTsuzuki, RanKen
Evil Bunnies:
hospital!RuHana, winter/room!RuHana, romanslave!MitKo, vendomachine!FukuJin,
messy!MakiSenFukuJin, lime!RuHana (behind closed doors) |
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ver06: Urban Ruin
>>Life in Dichromatic BlissCurrently features Mamiya Oki's Ja-dou, the image is taken from
the front cover of volume 1. Don't ask me about the plot, for this is another one of
my tendancies to get lovely piccies and slap them onto blog layouts without knowing a whit
about the series. Blame Sheila.
Layout made with Adobe Photoshop 6, and brushes
taken from Nocturna.net and Relique.net, the original image is taken here.
About Pythagorean Allegories
Pythagorean Allegories is Tchan's
fic blog, where snippets of irritating plot bunnies that HAD to be written, fic ideas and
occasional full-blown fics are periodically posted. I cannot promise a regular
posting schedule, as I am on the whim of my 2 useless and naughty muses who'd rather be in
bed and have sex. Sad to say but true. |
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[ Friday, January 25, 2002 ]
Ah well. Since I'm posting in my fic blog, might as well attempt to come up with whatever pathetic snippet I can scrounge / chug out of my demented mind. Hehehe. I wrote part of a tentative Micchan fic, and wahlah. I'm actually writing in Micchan's point of view. Writing in Micchan's point of view is hell. He does not agree with me, he seems to hate me, and I so like working with Kogure's mind much better than our resident Angst-filled mind that is Mitsui. Though he is a hotling next to Sendoh, but I still don't want to touch that mind and whatever lurks there. Heh. So excuse the crappy quality if ever, because I can't write straight snippets on blogs, because my habit has always been to work at it in Word before posting. T_T Maybe I should attempt to resurrect that FukuJin. It's going nowhere.
Kitamura was lagging behind, as usual. The scoreboard flashed 56-78 in favor of Takeishi; it came as no surprise to him, for Kitamura was never really that good in the two years he'd stayed with the team. Even with Akagi's 190++ centimeter presence around, they never seemed to do better than winning a few games.
Takeishi held the ball, as was expected, their volatile captain dribbling and zipping like mad through the polished floor of the Kitamura gymnasium, scoring what seemed like his twentieth basket. The scorer flipped another two points down, bringing the score to 56-80, widening the lead of Takeishi.
Two more minutes. Takeishi players flocked to maul their captain. The witching hour at [ 06:44 p.m. ] |
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[ Friday, January 25, 2002 ]
Of course I totally hate it when Livejournal goes down and I can't post anything, read anything, or blog anything. (Was that just the same with letter a?) Especially when I'm in a hurry when I have around less than half an hour on the comp because I'm going out. Not that anyone will chance upon here to read this entry anyway, so I'd just keep babbling till I get bored of myself.
Won't be watching SD tonight. Dangit. But if I remember correctly, the four of them won't be playing yet so we'd probably just agonize the entire episode longing for Anzai-sensei to laugh that jolly Hohoho and finally decide to LET them step on the blasted court, which I doubt I'd survive through the waiting period, so I guess I'm fine with missing tonight's eppy. Gonna be at Dish for our class president's birthday party. Heh heh.
Great. Now I'm being interrupted.
Back. Agh. I still haven't gotten used to the taste of salabat (ginger tea) nor does it agree with me even after a month of consumption. Bleah. My taste buds hate it. *_*
Went home late today. Now I know how a whore feels like. 0_0 Hahaha! Try being cast as a "dancer" for a Moulin Rouge-ish class production, then later being told that "dancer" is equal to "prostitute". o_o so hello to Tchan the Prostitute, complete with slinky dance movements to bare and share the legs. T_____T Heh. Kinda tired from all the dance rehearsals, and it was majorly embarassing today among all days simply because other people from other sections happened to be at the MPH working on the Science Congress Exhibits -- of course Tin had to be around too to laugh her @$$ off at the sight of me swirling my skirt around. @_@ I swear I shall never agree to another role they claim "dancer". *_*
Yareyare. Dangit, it's so much harder to type at pitas than in LJ. So to everyone who finds that LJ is down, you'll probably be finding me here. But what the heck. At least I can enjoy the last few days of this layout. :D My creative streak is back! *hugs and kisses it* Don't_ever_go_away_again. I hate being on a season dry. T_TThe witching hour at [ 06:34 p.m. ] |
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[ Saturday, January 19, 2002 ]
Here's my first fic entry for the year: Very short, because I'm currently stuck at the last line because I have no recollection as to what exactly conspired next and am awaiting darling Cindy-neechan's plot outline to help me out. *waves* Thanks honey. This one's for you. Gonna be working on this more, once I figure out the blanks in between. Writing canon is helluva job, I tell you. Writing behind-the-scenes scenes That Never Happened were so much easier than doing a piece based entirely on what you see on tv, embellishing and stuff.
Leather shoes slammed onto the gym floors with a loud bang, the sound magnifying tenfold from the acoustics given by the high roof and echoing for what seemed like an eternity throughout. The once-excited atmosphere was interrupted as twelve heads turned towards the source of the noise with alarm, himself included breaking off mid-sentence before he could finish their usual battle cry before practice officially started.
Men – several of them in fact, literally blocked the sunlight that streamed through the open gymnasium floors. Several tall, strapping men who looked as though they flayed human beings for sport, most dressed in uniform, and one particularly hulking one in a sleeveless shirt that emphasized the size of his biceps.
Then there was another one who exuded an aura of leadership; hair dark and long reaching just a little below his shoulders, eyebrows dark slashes, starkly contrasting against pale skin and framing bright blue eyes. And yet he seemed strangely familiar, but he paid him no heed.
He felt anger, as his eyes traveled down to linger at the sight of dirty black shoes scraping against polished wooden floors. Anger replacing the feel of dread creeping down to knot his stomach, a sense of foreboding that loomed in the air as they were faced with this group of what appeared to be another gang.
“Take off your shoes!”
His outburst was largely ignored.
The witching hour at [ 10:03 p.m. ] |
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[ Sunday, December 30, 2001 ]
Yare yare. So I caved and ditched the Alichino layout with only less than a month of its upload. XD I can't help it. How'd you like the new layout? XD It was supposed to be way up for January, hohoho, or at least till I finished my FukuJin, but heck nooooo..Tchan caved.
Yes, I'm not being coherent. XDThe witching hour at [ 12:11 p.m. ] |
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[ Monday, December 24, 2001 ]
Short MitKo ficlet, and this is intended to be my Official Christmas present to everyone ^_^ It's unbetad so forgive my lack of verbal correctness, desho? ^_^ It's just very short, just a snip of a scene, and it's not even officially MitKo, pre-mitKo I suppose. =D I fully intend to write maybe a FukuJin snip as well, well, let's see what happens. =D Heck, none of their names have been mentioned anyway, and the only name I mentioned is totally made up, so maybe if I never told you this was a MitKo, you wouldn't know it'd be a MitKo? I'm not making sense. Oh, read on anyway. =D Comments to my LJ.
Slam Dunk and all it's characters belong to Inoue Takehiko.
Oh, and Merry Christmas. =D
****
Under the Glow of Lights
There he was again.
Standing there amongst the spectators, he could see him, bathed under the soft glow of luminous lights. Dark brown hair trimmed short, starkly contrasting against pale skin, rimless glasses that seemed to emphasize quiet beauty of eyes. A sweet, gentle smile that touches his lips every time a basket is scored. Why, among the endless sea of faces, had he noticed the dark-haired boy was beyond him. That he would remember one face among countless others, that one particular face would attract his eye, amidst the chaotic hubbub and din that surrounded the court.
He saw him at every game.
This was the fifth game so far by his count that the same boy stood at the same spot, watching them with outmost fascination and curiosity. Sometimes he saw the boy openly cheering for them, and sometimes he could feel the boy’s eyes boring into him, and surely enough, he often saw that the boy’s gaze would often be upon him. Their eyes would meet, sometimes, but the boy would always immediately turn away, to look at somewhere else but at him, a guilty expression always on his face.
The referee whistled, breaking him out of his thoughts, reminding him that he was in the middle of a game. Penalty shot. Minekura would be taking a free throw. Good. This would give him time to breathe. The ball was given, dribbled, then shot, a flawless swish through the net, bouncing once, twice as it landed on the floor.
Minekura gave him a thumbs-up sign. He grinned back. The game was in the bag.
The game was nearly over. They led by 12 points with thirty seconds left. Minekura passed him the ball, the rough texture of the basketball connecting with his hands, the feeling as familiar as the rays of the sun touching the sky everyday. He dribbled, once, twice, thrice, eluding the frantic Center’s blind attempts to steal; he reached the three-point line. Time to have a little fun - he landed, crouched a bit, and jumped, sending the ball into a graceful arch towards the hoop. Another flawless swish. The game was over.
The crowds cheered. He felt good, as he did after finishing every game with a victory. His teammates flocked to surround him, swatting him heartily on the back, ruffling his hair. Then he remembered his object of attention-he glanced towards the spot where the boy had been standing.
His mystery spectator was gone.
His lips curled into a smile.
He would meet him later. Some other time.
The witching hour at [ 06:34 p.m. ] |
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[ Sunday, October 19, 2014 ]
Argggh. Here's the pathetic short snip of that MitKo fic. Feeling uninspired, and strangely unable to express myself properly. Probably gets tweaked a million times in the future, well... here goes. o_O Don't kill me ^_^; Especially if I start sounding redundant. o_O Comments to my LJ. =D
**
Mitsui could feel his lover climb into bed, the subtle squeak from the end of the bed betraying his lover’s careful attempts not to disturb him; not that he was asleep in the first place. Another soft rustle as the sheets were pulled back to allow entry, his lover squeezed himself into the empty space beside him, pausing a moment to remove his glasses to place it on top of the nightstand which stood conveniently beside the bed.
He could feel his lover snuggle himself comfortably against him, body against body sharing heat alike, drawing the sheets back to cocoon the both of them. Silky legs felt warm as they wrapped around his, entangling, entwining until they were almost inseparable.
He shut his eyes and feigned sleep; he usually did. Careful to keep his face devoid of any expression, he proceeded with his nightly pretense of sleep. He could feel his lover’s gaze boring into him, soft brown eyes probably burning holes through his skin from the intensity with which he studied his face to see if his sleeping form was genuine -which in this case was not.
He felt ashamed, for he knew that his lover knew of his charade, yet he did nothing.
He heard the soft exhale of breath, then a soft defeated sigh. It was the same sound he heard every night and the same sound he always dreaded to hear; it was the mark of his lover’s disappointment, the very sound scalding him with pinpricks of guilt. To know that oneself was the cause of a loved one’s pain, was well enough to give him nightmares for decades.
It was the same every night. He wondered why he kept up with the pretense. This was the fourth straight week they had been living together and this was his fourth straight week of feigning sleep. He couldn’t bring himself to touch his lover, aside from the occasional embraces and the chaste brow-kisses that he indulged himself with.
He had an almost urgent need to keep his hands to himself. It was something unexplainable, yet he couldn’t ignore it; it was a silent battle he fought within himself. Though he needed his lover, needed his touch, needed desperately to gather him into his arms to hold for the night - he couldn’t. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.
What he would do to be able to shrug off all his fears, to kiss away the frown from his lover’s lips.
His goddamned fears.
He had fallen again that day, during practice. He had felt his knees weaken, his eyesight blurring, felt all his strength and energy leave, as though some invisible force had sucked him dry of his very life. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, until he finally collapsed in the middle of the court. Everything had gone black, and it bothered him. Two hours of practice - it was a shorter term of straight playing before he tired, than his usual.
Everyday, the time seemed to shorten. The periods, in which he could play, he could feel constricting, contracting. It was a dangerous scent in which he smelled the nearing end of his playing days.
He felt an absolute disgust with himself.
He cursed himself. Cursed his body.
He felt afraid.
His stamina bothered him.
It scared the shitload off him.
How long would he last then, should he make love to his lover? An hour? Half? Less than half? He didn’t even want to begin to contemplate. It was a stupid fear, but a fear nonetheless.
He was afraid to fail.The witching hour at [ 08:34 p.m. ] |
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[ Saturday, October 18, 2014 ]
Meeeeep. There you go, I updated. The reason why it's blank was cuz I archived the page yesterday, and according to my flimsy foreknowledge pitas doesn't blank your page until you post something after archiving.
Pretty much posting so the layout won't skeddadle and spiral out of proportion....heh, posting so there'd be something in here.
Be coming out with the MitKo inna while. =DThe witching hour at [ 12:59 p.m. ] |
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