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historia-vitae-magistras · 10 months

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"Petty" for the wip game

This fic is actually complete. Short but thorough. I have a friend who really liked his Maria with my Matt, and this was his Christmas present one year, so it's old and kinda cringeworthy and kind of smutty, and I don't really stand by it anymore, but it's kind of nice, I think.

Vancouver, 1995

“I never noticed you don't own a rosary,” Maria asked him one morning. She lay in a beam of buttery yellow sunlight, and he thought of technicolour marigold altars. A riot of colours he wanted to paint her body in, maybe outlined in a bright, crystalline, sugar-skull white of the sheets. She is gold, in her real sunshine. “Or even keep one on the wall.”

“I'm not that Catholic.” He shrugged.

“Sure you are, tabernako,” The pads of her fingers rested on his thigh for a long moment. He thought she might want to go again, that the seven orgasms weren't enough, but she tapped him thoughtfully instead. His profanity was Catholic, sure. But he didn't know how to say that. It didn't mean he believed in much.

“I think the first thing I can remember my father giving me is a rosary,” She said. “White ivory and gold. It's in a museum now, in the capital.”

“It sounds beautiful.” He replied lightly.

“Antonio's a piece of shit, but he has good taste,” Mari stretched, her entire body arching in a way that made him itch to paint. “At least the Catholics have an aesthetic.”

“I think I've got a higher rate of protestants than you, though.” Matthew pointed out. “I'm not so Catholic anymore.”

Mari laughed like the porcelain bells that he often saw on the porches of her neighbours. “You apologized when I only came six times. If that's not Catholic guilt I don't know what is.”

He snorted and shrugged again. “Just making up for what you spend on dairy when I come over.”

“You do consume more crema than anyone I've ever met. Even for a white boy.” She pondered this a moment. “Mostly white boy. Whatever. So you don't have them? Or you've never had them. The worry beads, I mean.”

“I have one.” He said, standing and opening the old trunk at the end of the bed to take it out from where it still lay. Father had never approved of it. Black and wooden and plain, he'd carved it from Scottish oak scraps while stuck in bed after the handover.

“It's pretty.” She said. It wasn't, and they both knew it, but he thanked her anyway.

“Monsieur Bonnefoy gave me one when I was born.” He said. “Black stone beads. It had his bulla in the center. Rome gave it to him, I guess. It was set under a plate with the virgin stamped in iron to attach it. To keep me safe.”

“Thoughtful of him.” She said dryly. "Strange how they're always squabbling over the sons of Rome."

He flushed, thinking of France's invasion in the 1860s. “Sorry.”

“What happened to it?” She said, batting his apology away with a wave of her hand. She rolled onto her back, her hair a cloud of wildfire smoke around her golden face, and he pillowed her head in his thigh and leaned against the headboard, playing with her hair. She liked that, she'd said once because he didn't mess with the pattern of her curls. “In a museum in Ottawa?”

“No,” Matt said. “He took it back. It was in their agreement, his and Father's. Monsieur Bonnefoy took his name and his protection back. Property too, but his politicians had already taken that back when they fled anyway. So my rosary and a few little odds and ends went back in a box. I had a set of apostles spoons from Uncle Alasdair he took back too, even though my uncle was my godfather.”

“That's petty.”

“That's Monsieur Bonnefoy for you.” Matt shrugged.

“I suppose at least you're not still paying him for the privilege of being colonized.” She said.

“Did your father take anything back?”

“You mean besides the pile of silver he dug out of me?” She raised a brow.

“Ah,” Matt said, feeling guilty all of a sudden. Maybe he was Catholic. “I just kept Elizabeth on the money and Dad's content.”

“Aren't you a lucky one,” She teased. “Now, why don't you get back down there and make your brother jealous all the way from Japan.”

“Well,” Matthew grinned, his angsty bullshit mood gone in a moment. Her thigh was warm when he kissed it. “He did say we had to get to know each other.”

“I'd—” She gasped. “I'd say we're getting…” The little intake of breath she made was better than praise. “To know each other.”

Send me a word, if it’s in one of my wip documents I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in

#the ask box || probis pateo #Maria and Matt || Al mal tiempo buena cara #my writing || cacoethes scribendi

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historia-vitae-magistras · 1 year

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sorry for this dumb horny question but who (or what? because i won't judge) is matthew's best fuck?

OH That's a very interesting question. When he and Jan were good they were good. That sex was mind-blowing. Matt sucks cock like he was born to do it (tbh probably the trait Francis is most proud of when he hears about it third hand) and Jan was a happy, happy man for a very long time. Jan was also very good at fucking Matt so hard he had enough serotonin or dopamine for months. Man's prostate got worked over in a kind of way Matt could walk straight all weekend.

He gave Maria a pretty good time. She fucks him for the bit in the 90s because someone said he should count as Latin American just to spite Alfred and his goddamn economic wheeling and dealing to make them the worlds weirdest threesome . (No seriously its been four times someone told me I count as Latin American just to say fuck off to the Americans in a group and like.... on a technicality I fucking guess but its a very strange mind screw.) Don't ask me if it was memorable because his entire body was on capsicum related fire or because he the kind of sunburnt so painful it starts to feel a bit like nutting or if they actually clicked but it'd been awhile since either of them had fucked so it just happened.

Katya is probably the most intense. There's almost something religious about it, his bare back in black earth, her riding with her head thrown back and her body soft against him, fingers interlaced with earth and sky and sun all around them. They fuck soft, they fuck hard, they fuck against trees and in fields and on the floor and on the counter and on the table and the sofa. They often go so long without each other that when they do finally get to it, it's like dumping petrol on a fire they're going up in the horniest flames. He fucks her, she fucks him, it doesn't quite matter for those two because no matter where in the world she is, she's in him, a part of him. Sometimes I think that for nations, they fuck like the gods did at the dawn of the world. Before onion domes and Orthodoxy or cathedrals and Catholicism, the trees were the temples and blood, earth and lovemaking was the language of the gods. Sometimes they fuck and the garden will grow. Somethings they fuck and the ice will ease up. Sometimes they fuck and the old world is new and the new world is old. People use the phrase 'I saw god' for when someone comes so hard their world view is changed. For the best times, for the very best times between Matt and Katya, god can stay in his distant heaven because all he'll see is her.

#the ask box || probis pateo #Jan and Matt || the bells of liberation echo into eternity #Maria and Matt || Al mal tiempo buena cara #Katya and Matt || the soil of our souls #nedcan #mexcan #ukrcan

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historia-vitae-magistras · 11 months

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