/lit/ - Literature / Fanfic / Poetry

>>753
Moscow, late evening – I can call it “night”. Catteus sits inside his little room and looks at the display with the concentration of a neurosurgeon. Black Empress of Computing clacks under the schoolboy's fingers. Clack-clack-clack. Misprints are quickly backspaced, coherent text is appearing in posting field.
“So, I'll tell you. There is one repeating story in my dreams. I'm going through snow-covered park. In real life I often walk there when I'm depressed and don't want to return to my flat from university…”
Catteus throws a look at his table littered with school textbooks. Chemistry is lying awry, spreading its covers like a whore and telling Catteus' sight about fuarrrking scheme of the thermal decomposition of the nitrogen and its compounds. He's a little ashamed for his lie but when have someone ever listened to scholars at Mailach (Mailach aka Sosach (Suckachan) – the biggest European imageboard – Linalique.)?
“Sometimes I walk in that park at night after my Martial Arts training's ending. It is calm and quiet at this time, especially I never had problems with chavs.”
Hunched schoolboy stretches at his armchair, thrown his lean stickarms that look like biological pieces from unrealistic mantis over his head. With edge of sight he notices frowned and disturbing spring night outside. Night shows him his face: disheveled hair, bulging eyes, femineity that can be evidently seen in his manners and gestures. Yeah, the ideal man, he thinks and turns to the computer.
“I can always see her in my dream. She stands near tree and shivers from the insufferable cold because she is absolutely naked. She asks me to warm her up and stretches her hands to me opening her breast of the perfect shape for my sight. I embrace her and she softly replies my kiss. I see that dream every day…”
Really it's not. The guy invented this dream when accidentally got a nocturnal emission half a year ago. That day he gave free rein to his imagination.
“There is only one problem. She is. My. Sister.”

>>754
Dorotheus and Theodora's names were a product of their mother's luxuriant imagination. In his thoughts Catteus (as he undersigned in the Internet, easily mixed his first name and surname) was glad that he wasn't christened as Akakios or Theopist. (Dorotheus and Theodora are names that aren't often used in Russia of nowadays 'cause of their obsolescence – Linalique.) Strangeness of the names is supplemented by surname that was glorified by the one fervent revolutionary – Kotowski. I can surely say that the story of Dorotheus' REVOLUTIONARY fervent desire began about half a year ago when his parents left home for Europe to build their business and entrusted care of adolescents to their aunt. Shortly party of Dora and Dora – as the aunt called our protagonists infuriating Dorotheus, - bored her, and after only a week she went to Goa, taking the teens' word of honor not to overuse drugs and not to organize too dirty orgies. Bank card was full of currency, utilities and net connection were paid for four years in advance. As classic poet said… “Soup in the pot, loaf on the board, water in the well, mind inside the shell… Live as you know and don't wait for me”. The one problem teens had was to make the order of cleaning and cooking. In fact – Theodora had a problem to make Dorotheus follow the actual order.

“Heard about maniac?” Dora's low voice made Catteus to pause the attempt to catch the word “FUCK” from the lines of soup keys. (Al-Imgchani says about pasta in the form of alphabet letters. – Linalique.)
Dora was sitting at the head of the long table choked up with dishes, pizza boxes and various electronic trash including a drone with broken propeller. That day, as always, sixteen-year-old girl opted for naturalness of her appearance: long and uncombed for eternity hair was packed to ponytail with a plastic clamp, the third eye of pimple shone at her forehead; the last fact could confuse Dorotheus but anyway he could never stop to dream about her body. Dora's blue eyes gazed straight and without unnecessary emotions, she frowned once again masticating piece of fried chicken.
“Yeah” Catteus caught the fat letter of U but at the last moment it burst and partly got into rich array of symbols making the guy swear mutely. “Eugene noticed him when he was returning from school. He titles him as ~ Weeweejiggle.”
Dora chuckled and raised left leg to put her foot under butt. She always said that she feels convenience that way but Catteus knew that after seeing “Note…” she borrowed a few traits from famous yaoic detective including this detail. Catching the fuck in soup seemed too hard to Dorotheus, so the schoolboy was hurriedly eating poured.
“What will we eat tomorrow?” Dora threw fork and leaned back at creaky chair belonging to the times of mighty Soviet Union.
“Hmm…” guy who raised his head quickly stared at his soup again. “Rolls maybe…”
“Your rolls will withdraw us from the bugdet,” girl resentfully snorted. “We have eight thousand roubles to the end of month, and you offer to order rolls now?”
“Why must I cook at all?” Dorotheus touched off making a platinum barrel organ that became a routine at the last time.
“Why must I?” sister sceptically looked up the brother. “Now you must say that I…”
“Yeah, you're girl after all. Girls should cook,” Dorotheus said.
Theodora sniffed. Then slowly rose and went to the window, opened window leaf letting the stream of chill air come in. Then at the end turned to brother scratching right knee by her left foot's toes at ease. Dorotheus beheld sister's legs that were naked from feet to hips feeling that blood pressure in his corpuses cavernosum had begun to raise up.
“You are kinda a guy,” she began. “Served in the military?”
“Didn't served – wasn't taught?” Dorotheus laughed. “What a silly gender stereotypes. Army is for slaves, you know.”
“No, not about it. Do you know what will you eat if you'll be recruited?” Dora suavely asked noiselessly treading to Dorotheus. The girl never wore any footwear at home and, in fact, Dorotheus hadn't seen her at home in something that longer then shorts to the middle of hip.
“No, I don't… Blows with the tarpaulin boots?” the guy muttered feeling really not well.
“Bisques of the seven dicks,” Dora said maximally seriously putting her weight hand to the hushed brother's shoulder. “Two are cut, five jacked up. If you croak too much, I'll cook it for you now. Dishes are at your conscience, by the way.”
Saying that, sister carefully took drone from the table and left the kitchen, and Catteus had to impotently clench his fists and cuss out.

Tabloid sister-loving writers usually apply one stereotype: until some moment Character X treats Character Y like sister but not an object of his love. Despite this, Dorotheus began admire her since the day of his first single sexual practice (same as admiring his mother, later – aunt). Seventeen-year-old adolescent's libido is a complex of things; for the time being, thoughts in his head are only the thoughts. However, there also were no usual brotherly-sisterly feelings between them: the leading emotion that Theodora evoked in Dorotheus was an indescribable anger. Every trait of Theodora maddened him: her manners, her clothing style, her hobbies – instead of reading “Twilight” or doing handicrafts she read Knuth and assembled AVRs and Arduinos. In her turn, Theodora reciprocated – his visions annoyed her, she became frenzied about his pseudo-intellectualism and the fact he thought that his gender and birthright were an indulgence for any behavior including the most irrational. Dorotheus wondered why Theodora who spent so much time with him in childhood are such a stranger for him present day. “How curiosly” he thought washing a pan with adhered pieces of animal that suffered from its unbearable life at poultry farm less then a few weeks ago. The guy positioned himself as a vegan but really just positioned.

While Dorotheus was returning to his room, he habitually looked into the slit in the ajar door and saw Dora working. She hovered over the table with one of dozens of scattered microchips gripping switched-on soldering-iron in her hand and slowly soldered LED hookup biting her lips. A dribble heavily crossed her forehead, and Dorotheus who regarded technics and technicians with contempt couldn't take his eyes off of sister – every detail of her image represented something that human could hardly understood, that feeling that Dorotheus called as “observator of animated's joy”. After a half of awkward minute Dora turned her eyes to the aperture of door and saw over Dorotheus.
“I hope you washed all dishes.”
Cat mutely moved to his room feeling insane heartbeat and excitement – surprisingly not akin to sexual excitement. He locked the door. That moment he had the last method to relieve tension and fall asleep. Anonymism. He must do it again.
Catteus took already shabby but unbroken paper bag with holes for eyes (Oppressor Mask – paper bag with eye slots, symbol of the Anonymous Movement in Russia, picrelated. – Linalique.) out of bottom drawer, put it on his head, loaded the page of site that should be a secret from others by habitual pass, and fingers began to move over the keyboard.

“Sup, Night 2ch. There is one girl, and she is my sister.”
(2ch is the same that Mailach. Russian IB visitors say “Night Boards” because at night imageboards are usually clean from cancer. – Linalique.)

________________________________________________________

“What's the trouble? Just fuarrrk her!”
“Anon, you are unworthy of her. I think your dick is smaller that 35 cm; girls don't take you as a man. Solution at this link…”
“Another one incest-kiddy. You are REALLY frazzling me out. I visit 2ch to gaze at fresh whores, and you are bleating, smearing snot at my board. Go and suck your whiskered pop's cock if you like incest SO much. Why not, your relative. fuarrrking glitterboy.
“Man, don't do it! She will call the cops! My brother was imprisoned this way!”
“show her photo to us)))) 2chan-helpachan)))”

Catteus watched with astonished face. His thread was falling to the deepness of /b/ instead of unsuccessful efforts to bump it. At the end anti-incestor suddenly scuppered the topic by packs of CP, so it was deleted at once. Without any speech or another action guy relocated himself to bed and turned off instantly. Thought-out dream couldn't worry him.