Sea Salt and Bone Ash Heavy on My Tongue - pt. 1
Writing Masterlist
This is part 1 of 2. Part 2 is currently still a WIP, so hopefully that will be up at some point soonish! This fic is inspired by this drabble from a few years ago - enjoy 💚
Sailor!Ghoap x Working girl!Reader
TWs: prostitution, allusions to past abuse, use of degrading names for sex workers
Divider by @/strangergraphics
The man between your legs moves with the tide, hips rolling as he rises and falls, sinking himself into your waiting body. The taste of him is still sharp on your tongue, brine and crashing waves trapped between your teeth.
“C'mon, lovey, take it all, jus’ like tha’.”
Droplets of sweat rain down from his unruly mop of close-cropped golden curls to land between your breasts. When he leaves, you'll wash the salt from your skin. You'll dip your cloth into the little wooden bucket you keep on the table and scrub until your skin is mottled and raw, all traces of him sluicing away with the dirty water.
“Oh, Simon!”
You moan because he expects it, because he likes hearing his name fall like a pearl from your lips. It's a reward, a tempting hook to keep him coming back. And it makes it easier to funnel his coin into your pocket.
He's sweet on you.
He's sweet on you, and he's kind, which is more than you can say for most of the men who've found their way to your door. He's never raised a hand to you, never called you a whore or a slag, not even after he's had his fill. You aren't sure if he remembers you're here because he pays for you. Has he forgotten he pays silver for the use of your body? That he rents the privilege of burying himself to the hilt and spilling over?
He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, white blond lashes framing dark irises that remind you of sun-baked river clay. He's a sailor, that much is clear from the rope burn on his forearms, but when he's looking at you like this, you like to think he might have been a vicar if the wind had blown him further inland. There's something worshipful in his gaze, a thankful reverence that he's here with you. This broad man with his calloused palms and crooked nose is a kindred spirit - you suspect he's known more than one closed fist. Just like you.
“Tell me, please, need t’ hear ya say it.”
What can you do when he looks at you like this, desperate for any scraps of affection you care to cast down? He's a man laid low, worshiping at the altar of his holy maiden, begging to be allowed to hope. So, you finish him, just like you always do. You pull him in, pressing skin to aching skin, as you breathe your words into his ear.
“I love you, Simon.”
And that's all it takes. It was funny the first time, three little words felling such a large man. But the more he visits, the more he pleads for your love, the guiltier you feel. His head is buried in the crook of your neck, great heaving gasps billowing across the planes of your collarbones. Relief - he's got what he wants, and you're almost free. He'll tidy himself up and leave again, sailing far away, leaving you to fade away as the land vanishes behind him. The ship will disappear, your guilt flowing out to sea behind it.
You'll be safe from the weight of his stare.
“Yer always so good to me, love.”
He sets a stack of coins down on the rickety bedside table, stamped pieces of metal clinking together like weighty prison shackles. You're not a tender bride, no blushing maid laying with a lover. He's paid for your time and now he's off again, rushing out with the tide, leaving you behind. You almost flinch when he reaches down to brush your cheek, but you force yourself to lean into his touch. No man wants to look at a sad wharf rat - tears are a luxury reserved for wives and daughters. You're neither.
“Ya gonna wai’ for me, yeah?”
You make yourself soft for him, sighing sweetly as you nuzzle into his palm.
“I always do.”
His eyes sparkle like molten copper as the corners of his lips twist up into one of his rare smiles. He's a serious man, your Simon, and you tuck his joy away into a secret corner in your heart. He leans in, pressing a final kiss to your temple. Then he's gone.
You count your coins and fill your wash bucket, using your little sliver of soap to erase the scent of him on your skin. He's gone. Relief feels hollow in your chest, less satisfying than you expected. When the sun finally sets and you're lying in bed, the sounds of the other working girls and their men trickling through the cracks in the walls, you dream of a different life far from this place. You drift off, a coin held tight in your fist.
You miss him.
John blows in on an evening breeze, windswept, smelling of sunshine and salt air. It doesn’t take long for him to pull you into his lap, sighing as he holds you close, like a ship finally home at port, peppering your face with kisses as he squeezes your waist.
“How’s ma bonnie lass? Dry yer tears, hen - yer John’s home now.”
He angles your head up, his beard scratching as he sucks a mark into the tender skin of your throat. You can feel his tongue and teeth working together to pull out the rich purple hues only he gets to create, painting the canvas of your skin in a rainbow of lust. When he's done, he leans back to inspect his handiwork, a pleased hum buzzing low in his chest. You twine your fingers into his dark hair. It’s longer than it was the last time he’d been in port, a strange mishmash of long and short where his usual style has grown out. He’ll visit the barber tomorrow, but tonight, he’s here for you.
“Ah need ye, darlin’.”
His hands are greedy, working the fabric of your chemise down your shoulders until your breasts spill out into his waiting palms. For half a breath, he weighs them carefully, watching the flesh dimple and ripple between his fingers. In his hands, you're spun glass, and he handles you with a gentleness that belies the whirlpool frenzy you know races beneath his skin. He's eager to pull you down with him, to drown you in ecstasy. His thumbs trace the outline of your areola before spiraling inwards to brush across your nipples. He strokes tight, fevered circles until they're peaked and aching. He's so focused on you, on your pleasure, an artist's eyes watching his muse, creating new masterpieces in his mind. When you start to squirm, he leans down and sucks a nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth.
“Ah!”
You jolt in his lap, a worm wriggling on a hook, your sighs of pleasure stoking the fire already burning between his legs. His hunger always surprises you; John’s a good-looking man, handsome enough to keep a family in every port if he had a mind to. But you’ve seen the golden crucifix that hangs at the base of his throat, watched it glint in the candlelight as his hurricane passion shakes your bed. You’ve heard him pray well-worn church words in a mumble before he drifts off to sleep. He’s faithful in his own way. Not faithful to you, of course, but he honors his god, and that counts for something.
John Mactavish is closer to the men you've known all your life - loud, boisterous, and bawdy when he's been missing a woman's touch for too long. And yet… There's something about him that reminds you of another sailor who frequents your bed, an intensity in his stormy eyes that makes you squirm. He's too keen on you, forever calling himself “your John”, casting his anchor into waters too deep and dark to traverse safely. He wants just as badly as Simon does - he’s simply better at hiding it.
You sometimes wonder at the likelihood of these two oddities making their way between your sheets. Very well-paying oddities at that. They always leave far more than a bit like you is worth, stacks of silver coins you hide beneath the floorboards as soon as they leave. You’ve gotten into the habit of counting them in your mind as you drift off to sleep, trading sheep for calculated sums. Each time one of your men visits, you get a step closer to freedom, a step closer to a warm bed and clean sheets that don’t smell of lust and sorrow.
“Where’s yer mind gone, mo chridhe?”
“Hmm?”
John’s hands are gentle as they still your hips, pulling you down until you’re resting your full weight against him.
“Whit are ye thinking?”
The words are soft, tender, like he really wants to know, like he cares about what’s in your mind as much as he wants what’s between your legs. The gorgon-headed part of yourself whispers that he can't mean it, all men lie, even ones like John. But the clarion call of truth rings in his words. He’s genuinely curious.
“I’m thinking about a different life.”
The words are pulled from you almost without permission, John’s honest curiosity the wind in the sails of your confession, pulling you out of your safe inlet into open ocean.
“Aye?”
His eyes are burning, and you can feel a tremor in his hands as they smooth over the fat of your hips. He’s fighting to tamp down some kind of emotion, but you have his full attention. His intensity, the keen way he’s staring, sends a warning bell clanging in the back of your mind. You’ve stumbled your way into a riptide. You need to find your way back to shore, to safety, and you need to do it quickly.
“Oh, well, if you must know,” you sigh out a coquettish giggle, pressing down and grinding against the hard length you can feel straining his breeches. Then, you lean in, pressing your breasts into his chest, relief washing over you when you hear his sharp inhale.
“I was thinking how lonely I’ve been while you’ve been away, Johnny.”
You lay a hand on his stomach, feeling the muscle beneath you contract and shudder. He's warm and solid under your palm, the downy trail of dark hair on his abdomen enticing you to follow where it disappears below the waistline of his breeches. He whines as you pause to undo his buttons, a soft, needy sound just for you. You take his cock in hand, giving him one firm stroke, and his hips jerk up to meet you.
“Mo chridhe,” he moans, head tipping back as his eyes slide shut. “Oh, mo leannan, please…”
His words peter out, and the tide sweeps back in. Your feet are back in the sand, and you're in control once more. John's blushing, crimson red from the tips of his ears down to the center of his chest. You press closer, leaning in to whisper in his ear.
“Do you want to cum here?”
You stroke his stomach with your unoccupied hand, watching the muscles dance and jump under your fingertips. Then, you shift your weight, moving until you’re whispering into the opposite ear.
“Or maybe you'd like my mouth.”
You lick a stripe up the side of his neck, salt and the taste of wind bursting to life on your tongue. He groans, pressing his head back as far as it will go to allow you more access, throat exposed and vulnerable. This feeling of control, of power over him, is more intoxicating than any drink you've ever tasted, sweeter than any honey cake ever could be. He won’t take more than you allow - he will follow wherever you lead. You want to torment him. You could make him thrash like a dying fish in a shark’s teeth, and you know he would let you. Rising to your knees, you grip a fistful of his auburn hair tight as you jerk his head up.
“Open your eyes, John.”
He fights to follow your order, to look at you through the haze of pleasure. A broken, pained sound slips out from his parted lips as you pump him once, twice, before pulling back. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers creating indentations on your skin as he works to keep breathing. You tug the hem of your chemise up until you’re bare before him, and he becomes a drowning man clinging to flotsam. He gazes up, pleading, eyes the color of the sea moments before the hurricane hits.
“Have mercy.”
The golden crucifix jingles on its chain as you bounce in his lap, his cries ringing out like the evening gull call. You ride him hard, moving faster and faster until the muscles in your legs shake and burn. The shiny cross catches the last slip of sunlight, glinting as John pulls you close and moans, his cum spilling hot and thick inside your body. His cock twitches, and he shudders like a man possessed, snippets of foreign words pressed into your hair along with his lips.
The shaking slows as he settles back into himself, coming back down to moor in his body once again. He carries you both to the bed, cock still nestled inside you as he settles down and turns so he can tuck you into his arms. You drift off like that, back pressed to John’s front, his cum wet between both of your thighs. As sleep claims you, you think you almost imagine a calloused digit tracing along the base of your wedding finger.
The ships tell stories at night, creaking voices singing songs of rotting wood and frayed ropes, and of sailors too far in their cups to notice a lone figure slipping silently down the dock. You listen to the ships and their myriad stories as you tiptoe down the pier, a sack of silver coins wrapped in layers of cotton and cloth and pressed against your stomach. It's a quiet night. The waves lap against the bellies of the ships, and you do your best to melt into the shadows.
A man moves on a deck far above your head, and fear rushes around your ankles, stilling your feet and making your breath come hard and fast. Your hands fly up, palms cupped close to your lips to hold back the roiling tide of air.
Shhh! He'll hear, and then where will we be?
The boards creak under the sailor's feet, and you pinch your nose like a child learning to swim. You will your heart to slow its wild tattoo as you focus on making yourself as small and quiet as possible. The man grunts and coughs, and the plop of thick phlegm hitting the water is unmistakable. If you were the godly sort, you would have borrowed some of John’s prayers for protection against the evil one and all his legions.
You try to remember his words, the tenor of his voice, anything to distract you from the burning pain slowly consuming your lungs. Instead, your mind wanders to a pair of dark eyes and blond curls that shine with flecks of gold when the sunlight hits them just right. The memory of John's voice and Simon’s eyes gives you just enough strength to hold out until black and silver spots pop like gunpowder flashes in front of your eyes.
As the darkness starts to pull in around the edges of your vision, the deck creaks again. Finally, finally, the man moves away. Quietly as you can manage, you pull in sweet lungfuls of air, washing away the threat of unconsciousness.
Safe, we're safe.
All you need to do is make it the last 20 meters to the small dinghy tied at the far end of the dock. You'd paid the dock master this morning, sliding one of your precious coins across his counter and dodging his grasping hands as he promised the boat and more, if only you'd stay nice and still for him. The memory of that grubby man and dirty fingers still sent your stomach churning. In his hands, you would have turned brackish and turbid. You’d almost let him, had considered allowing him to have his way if it meant keeping that coin in your pocket, but the sunlight had glinted off the spray behind the dock master, reflecting a deep, familiar blue.
You’d already earned the silver once before, and there was no way on this blessed earth you would allow a man like that to make you pay for it twice. He wasn’t a Simon or a John, and the idea of his cock inside you made you sick. He wouldn’t speak of love or ask you to say his name - he’d push you face down onto the hardwood of the counter, press your hips forward until they bruised and take his pleasure right there in the open. There was no art or holiness in his hands, and so those hands would not touch you.
The end of the dock rises up, outlined in inky black against the twilight darkness. Relief soothes the muscles in your shoulders that have been drawn tight all day. A few more steps, and the hemp rope that secures the dinghy is in your hands. It pricks your skin as you work the knot loose with stiff fingers, and a flash of rope-burned forearms and calloused fingers burns bright as a falling star in your mind's eye.
The image fades as quickly as it came and a rush of unexpected sadness floods in. The emotion fills the void left by the comet-bright memories, cresting in aching waves just behind your breastbone. You allow your heart one, short moment of sorrow before you toss the rope down, dinghy finally free. The word you never let yourself think beats behind your temples, but you swat it away. You've planned and saved for months. You won't let yourself be swayed by something so foolish.
Gingerly, you step down into the boat, placing your feet carefully to avoid a potentially nasty fall. The waves rock you like a mother at a cradle, a fitting comparison for this vessel that will take you to your new life. Without a backwards glance, you pick up the oars and begin the journey towards your rebirth.
