daydreaming-in-letters - Tumblr blog

daydreaming-in-letters · 4 months ago

Text

Hey love! Thank you so much for reading this story and leaving a little 🧀 for me. It means a lot, more than I am able to phrase at the moment.

Also, I am so happy you noticed the no dialogue thing. I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision.

Thanks again, love!

A Seat on the Table

02/22/2025

Pairing: Freakzier (Dinner & Diatribes!Hozier) x fem!reader

Word Count: 5,711

Warnings: dom/sub, fingering, orgasm denial, fire play, penetration, bodily fluids, talk of oral (f receiving)

Summary: When a dark and handsome stranger visits your restaurant over and over again, you realise he is hungry for more than just a steak en flambé.

A/N: Gosh, this really gave me a hard time. I truly hope I created something enjoyable.

Picture: edited screenshot from the Dinner & Diatribes music video

If you enjoy my story, liking is great, but leaving a comment or reblogging is the stuff that keeps me going. No permission is given to copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

He was not one of your regulars, yet his visits always followed a certain pattern, his very own ritual. It all started the second he entered the small business you called your own, the moment he glided through that door and entered your territory with ease, the cold following his tall figure like a shadow, a welcome contrast to the heat that befell you as soon as his dark eyes landed on you. They were almost black, matching his thick brows and slicked back hair, maybe even his soul, you thought from time to time. Especially when you were close to him, his eyes turning even darker while he held your gaze, a deep, bottomless black that drew you in, and should you ever tumble and fall, it would be a fall without end. The scariest thing however was that you weren’t entirely sure if that was a bad thing.

Still you usually busied yourself with anything that would keep your eyes away from his by lighting the candles, pouring him some water or whipping out your notepad and pen, an unnecessary gesture by now, as he always ordered the exact same dish, steak en flambé, rare, nothing on the side, no vegetables, no salad, just the flaming meat and a glass of the most full-bodied red wine you had to offer.

It was an odd ritual, with you involuntarily being the main act, at his insistence. Usually the chef would flambé personally at the table, but thanks to your customer oriented policy, that was your job now. An unnerving task really. Not because of the task itself. Handling fire did not scare you, if anything this was the part that excited you a little. The heat, the sudden burst of light when the liquids caught fire, the curious stares of the other guests, even a surprised gasp every now and then, it was electrifying. But none of this could come even close to the real spectacle which was happening unnoticed by anyone. Anyone except you.

You did not blame them for not seeing it. He was the kind of person people usually avoided gazing at for too long. It was not so much the risk of getting caught staring, you supposed, but the unease that inevitably befell anyone who did not avert their eyes in time. It had also befallen you, many times, causing a shudder to run down your spine every time. But somehow, over time it had lost its alerting nature and turned into something different, something primal, that unsettled you even more than any sign of danger you might have ever gotten from him.

To ease the shame that always followed, you had told yourself many times that it was merely the process of getting used to his presence, a very normal reaction of your body, but no matter how much you wanted to believe those words, it was in the very moment the flames came to life that you knew you were lying to yourself. It was abundantly clear, the way your body betrayed you as soon as his eyes lit up with a rush of excitement that washed over his face when you set the food alight. Maybe it was just the reflection of the flames, but if you watched closely, you could observe something else in the blackness of his orbs, something that went much deeper, and more than once you felt yourself aching to find out what it was.

It was not easy to notice in a face that always seemed inhumanly blank, completely void of any emotion. Even when he smiled, nothing more than a faint twitch of his thick moustache above his full lips, an occasion as rare as snow in July, it did not carry the slightest touch of sentiment. Still it was there, one fleeting moment in which it became visible in his eyes, a bright spark against the darkness, gone again as quickly as it had appeared. Blink and you would have missed it. And once you had seen it, it was impossible to forget.

And even after your job was done and you turned from him to walk away and let him enjoy his dish in peace, he did not let you go. At first you had felt silly, like a pathetic attention seeker who thought the entire world revolved around them, but whenever you turned, fully expecting to find your premonition unconfirmed, you found his eyes fixed on you as he gracefully filled his mouth with delicious bite after bite, never blinking once, until you were not sure anymore if he was lustfully devouring the still bloody piece of meat on his plate or if the actual feast he desired was something entirely different.

His visits were always like this, always intense and a little unsettling, maybe even creepy at times, but the tips were more than generous. And as a businesswoman that was essentially what you should care about, right? Money — and the satisfaction of your customer, of course.

The satisfaction of your customer…well, it had turned out that he had not been as satisfied as you had thought him to be when one day he had left a little more than a substantial tip for you. Next to the notes there had been an envelope, thick and heavy, but despite its weight it had trembled in your hand, the knife in your other shaking equally as much as you slid the tip of the blade underneath the edge of the folded paper. You did not know what exactly you had expected, a love letter maybe, however out of character that would have been, but the actual contents fitted his controlled demeanour much better. It was…a suggestion, one could say, along with a contract and an equally detailed set of instructions should you choose to accept his offer.

Out of the question. You had been sure about that decision from the beginning. But a few restless days and haunted nights later, your decisiveness had begun to crumble until it had been worn so thin that it had hung by a mere thread. Black and shiny, just like the line of ink that spelled out your name in handwritten letters underneath the contract now. The paper lay steady in his left hand as his eyes studied the signature carefully, caressing it equally as tenderly as the tips of his slender fingers that slowly drifted along the letters. Then he nodded, barely even so, and folded the paper up neatly before he let it vanish inside his black jacket.

All the while you just stood by his side and watched him carefully, watched as he sat down at the table, the only one that was laid in an otherwise completely deserted restaurant, and took his time to inspect everything. The table in front of him was almost empty, atop the plain white cotton table cloth sat nothing but a glass of his favourite wine, another glass, much smaller in size and filled exactly as he had ordered, a bowl which unlike his usual taste held nothing but a few marshmallows and next to it a wooden skewer and a box of matches.

Everything else he had requested was neatly laid out on a separate table to his right and no matter how much your eyes were drawn towards the promising display of utensils, you did not dare to take a glance. You knew full well what it would do to you, the way it would excite you and make you slip, and you could not gamble away your own satisfaction so foolishly.

Still it was torture, standing this close, and yet being unable to reach out and take what you desired with a might that frightened you. Instead it was him who reached out, his fingers closing around the paper box. He did not say a single word as his eyes found your own and then fell towards the shot glass in a silent order. And you obeyed. You could hear him take in a deep breath as you flicked your wrist, dragging the head of the match along the side of the box, and he kept on holding it, all the while as the flame came alive with a hiss and you lowered your arm to light the strong liquor. But as soon as the blue flames danced on the surface he moved, his hand shooting out to grab your wrist and bring the match close to his face. He held it there for a while, watching the flame burn up the wood, creeping closer and closer towards your fingertips. You could feel it now, the heat that leapt at your skin, the slight sting that warned you to let go and just as you thought about yanking your hand away, his eyes locked with yours and he finally released the breath he had been holding the entire time to extinguish the flame.

With a gasp you let go of the smoking remains, a mere instinct, as was his reaction when he released your wrist, his other hand snapping forward to catch the burnt up match mid-air before it could reach his lap. Your pulse was hammering in your ears, the wild beating of your heart probably visible against the thin fabric of your blouse, your chest challenging the line of buttons with every ragged breath you took.

He stayed unexpectedly calm though, his eyes already drawn away from the match that lay abandoned on the side table by now. In his hand he held the skewer now, and it seemed he had just waited to regain your full attention before he slowly impaled one of the marshmallows. But you did not even manage to watch long enough for the fluffy treat to reach the flames before your eyes fell closed with a shuddering breath. You could feel him, the light touch of his free hand burning hot against the back of your thigh. It was excruciating. Not the touch itself, but the painfully tardy pace with which his fingers wandered along your skin, upwards, higher and higher, ever so slowly, finally passing the hem of your skirt, and still never stopping, not even faltering once, until they reached the supple flesh of your bare bottom. Greedily his fingers dug into it, caressing, kneading, every motion designed to wind you up further, as far as he desired, and your body soon let him know he had succeeded. Your legs fell open, and there was no hesitation when he let his fingers dive between them, following the call of your heat. And what he found must have pleased him, judging from the soft growl that escaped his lips the second he found your sex bare, yet another of his requests you had fulfilled to his utmost satisfaction.

His movement pleased you just as much, coaxing wanton moans from your throat that reverberated on the walls of the empty restaurant as he worked you. It was just the right pressure, just the right motion, making you so wet that his fingers soon composed the lewdest squelching sounds. But then all too soon his fingers retreated, leaving you bare, confused and frustrated. The icy whiff of air against your wet mound also did nothing to console you. You wanted to protest, to demand he would finish what he started, the words already forming on your tongue, and yet as your eyes opened all that was needed was one look from him to make you swallow them for good. He knew exactly what you wanted, but he would not give it to you. Not yet.

Instead he reached out for you again, grasping your wrist once more and guiding it towards your pulsing sex. If you wanted pleasure, you would have to provide it yourself. Whereas he…well, he would just lean back, lazily twisting his bronzing marshmallow above the flames as he watched you continuing what he had started. There was no sign of any emotion on his face, no hint of any thought that might have crossed his mind behind those gloomy eyes. And it frustrated you even more than the loss of his touch.

If you were completely honest with yourself, this was exactly what had given you the last push to agree to all of this and sign that contract. You wanted to see his restrained facade crack and crumble, wanted to see him come apart when he finally took what he so obviously craved most. And yet here you were, watching him enjoy his food once more while you were left to tend to your needs yourself. Maybe this would help, you hoped, as your fingers found the buttons of your blouse. One after the other you unlatched them, just enough to free your breasts, your buds already hardened and ready to be teased. Not enough to tempt him though, it seemed, as all he did was take a sip of his wine. At least he did not lose interest and look away. You had to celebrate the small victories with this one. You had to remind yourself that he was not like the others who had come before him, that much had been clear from the very first time he had set foot into this restaurant. And you would not want it any other way. It was that very memory of your first encounter that was enough to send a tiny shock through your core, enough to let your fingers pick up the pace and chase that high his touch had promised.

It was building, steadily, the knot tightening further and further under his watchful gaze and yet it were not your skilled fingers that promised release but him, once again. Your eyes were just about to fall shut, keeping out the distractions of the world so everything that remained would be the turmoil of pleasure inside you, when they caught an unexpected movement. Slowly his fingers worked, twisting the caramelised marshmallow at the end of the skewer while he blew a cooling breath from a pair of pursed, pink lips. And just as they opened to let the crunchy treat in, you could feel his gaze on you. You felt hot, tempted to tear your eyes away from his mouth and gaze into the dark abyss, ready to finally fall, and yet you could not. Hypnotised you watched the marshmallow disappear behind his pearly white teeth, the creamy filling spilling out between them, a sight so sinful and strangely obscene, you knew it would take you over the edge, but yet again he moved, swiftly, locking your wrist in an unrelenting grip and denying you once more what had been within reach just a second ago.

You wanted to scream, to protest and curse him, still not a single word was uttered. Not by you, and not by him. Not when his fingers worked to flick the remaining buttons of your blouse open, not when his fingertips brushed along the silky skin of your shoulders to free you from the white fabric, not even when they unzipped that tight skirt, grazing your hip seemingly by accident as they moved to bare every last inch of your body to him. And yet you knew exactly what he wanted you to do while he let the black jacket glide from his shoulders. It was time to take your place, the one that had been meant for you from the very beginning. You inhaled sharply as your cheeks met the cool cotton of the table cloth and you could have been mistaken, but for the blink of an eye you could have sworn that there was the tiniest hint of a smile dancing on his lips. But he did not leave you any time to think about it as he had begun to neatly roll up his sleeves. It was torture, watching him reveal inch after inch of white flesh to you, richly decorated with veins so prominent you would have given your soul to the devil himself if he had allowed you to trace them with your tongue.

Next you would tend to his jawline that stuck out so prominently right now while the side of his face was turned to you, his hands busy clearing the table around you. You would enjoy the taste of it, the scratchy feel against your tongue, following the sharp contour all the way from his ear to the tempting dimple in his chin. The mere thought made you shiver, a fact that went unnoticed by him. He was still busy bringing all the utensils he had brought in place on the side table. Watching him work with such precision and poise was somehow soothing, a stark contrast to the feelings that were battling inside of you when your eyes flicked to the instruments he was laying in place. There was a bowl he had filled with colourless liquid, and another one that held a few fluffy cotton balls. Next to a can of hair mousse he had placed a barbecue lighter and a cylindric vessel that held two fire wands of which only the shiny handles were visible. The heads were hidden away at the bottom of the container, but you knew they were there. Just as you knew there were all sorts of different safety equipment close by. Still you preferred not to think about it too much. There was a risk, you were more than aware of that, and to a certain extent it added to the thrill of the entire scenario, but you would not allow fear to spoil this for you.

Nothing would go wrong. He would not let it. You knew that he had done this before, how often you could not tell for sure, but often enough to leave nothing to circumstance. It had not been by accident that he had chosen you, and the professionalism of his approach, the contract, the instructions, the detailed information of what he would do to you were more than reassurance enough that you were in the best hands possible.

A sigh escaped your lips as one of them found you now. Its touch was barely palpable, nothing but an inkling. He moved slowly, taking his time to drink you in, your naked form, expectant and wanting, writhing under the mere promise of his touch. Like a snake sure of its prey his hand slithered along your body, your stomach, the valley of your breasts, until it found what it had been looking for all along.

His grip around your neck was strangely cold, making the wave of heat it sent rushing through your body feel even hotter as he pulled you towards himself. It pulsed and rolled, headed straight for your core, your walls clenching around agonising nothingness just when you thought his lips would meet yours. But they did not. And yet he was so close that you could still taste the heat of his breath on your tongue as the air rolled out of his mouth and into yours.

He held you like this for a while, two dark orbs staring directly into your soul. They were green, you realised now, not black, with the tiniest hint of brown. Like a forest lake, you thought, and as he suddenly raised his eyebrow, you knew he was daring you to jump. And with a silent nod of your head you did.

His hand guided you down, keeping your back from arching on instinct as it hit the chilly cotton, while his palm firmly pressed against your skin and travelled along the length of your body. You wanted it to stay there, wanted to feel it explore every inch of you, every hill and every valley, wanted it to knead and pinch, to smack and caress until your moans would drown out every other noise, your voice hoarse and raspy.

But of course it did not. For what he had planned for tonight, he needed both of his hands free. And still your heart clenched in your chest as you watched him retreat. There was no hurry in his movement as he stepped around the table and came to a stop beside you. For a while he just stood there, watching you, waiting. For what, you did not know, but you were not sorry for the time it allowed you to take him in. He was gorgeous, almost regal with his slim face and high cheekbones, and the aura of control and dominance he exuded only added to that impression. But there was something else to his expression, it was hardly visible, and yet it was there. And when it suddenly dawned on you, you could feel the heat creep into your cheeks. He was not just standing there to be gawped at, he was waiting for you to follow his instructions and his patience seemed to be wearing thinner by the second.

Hurrying to correct your mistake you raised your arms above your head. Immediately his gaze softened, the slightest twitch of the corners of his mouth pleasing you more than any good girl from his lips ever could have. It meant the same anyway. He was satisfied with you and in turn he would give you what you desired, what you had been waiting for for so long now. It was close, your pleasure almost within reach now as he picked up one of the cotton balls and slowly dipped it into the bowl. You knew what was about to come, but however much you braced yourself against the icy touch of the liquid on your skin, you could not suppress the shiver that took hold of your entire body as he drew the soaked tissue along your stomach in a straight line.

Watchful eyes searching your own for any last concerns, he blindly swapped the cotton ball for the barbecue lighter. Not once did he let you out of his sight, not even to blink, and you did not dare to blink either. Every fibre of your body was tensing up. This was it now. The moment had come. If he felt it too, the excitement, the anticipation of the rush, he did not let it show. This man was impossible to read and never would you have expected to feel his palm glide along your leg in this moment. Was he sensing the flutter of your nerves? Was this meant to soothe you? Or did he not trust you to hold still for him? Did he…

It did not matter. It did not matter at all. The ritual was about to begin.

With a clicking sound the fire came to life at the tip of the lighter, a steady flame, not dancing or shaking the slightest bit as it neared one end of the moist line that shimmered like liquid gold in the dim light it cast. It had almost reached its destination, and with the softest tap, you were set alight. Your breath caught in your throat, you watched in awe as the flames licked at your bare skin. He allowed them to caress you, to spread their warmth and tingle deliciously, but all too soon, his palm eased along your stomach, and the dancing lights were gone.

What was left was the tiniest moment of elation, smothered too soon, and leaving behind a rising notion of frustration. More, you wanted to demand, but he knew already. Of course he did. And before you could break the sacred bond between the two of you, the fire lit up once more, coaxing a sweet moan to fall from your lips. He let it burn a little longer now. Who knew, maybe your vocal reaction had spurred him on. But yet again, you did not care. It was too tempting, the thrill of danger, the tickle of the flames, the heat it sent through your body as if the flames were sinking into your skin to slowly crawl through you until your entire body would be set aflame.

He repeated his sensual torture, once, twice, on your leg, your navel, and soon you thought you would never feel pleasure greater than this when he turned to his utensils once more and produced the two wands you had spotted earlier. In a flash they burst into flame, yellow, gold, red and blue mixing in an enticing flicker that looked even more captivating as it reflected on the darks canvas of his eyes. And it was the greed, the hunger you found there that aroused you more than any flame ever could have.

You moaned again as the soaked tips touched you, swiftly he drew them along your skin, his free hand followed along the trail to swallow any remaining flames. Again and again he allowed the fiery tongues to lick your skin, getting bolder by the second, widening the territory he entered. But it was not until the fire unashamedly danced across your chest that you fully grasped the ecstasy those flames could spark. They had turned you into a mess, enslaved you, robbed you of any last sense that had been left inside of you, and still you found yourself wanting more, craving that prickling heat with an unearthly might.

You did not even care that your burning desire was his triumph, he could sport that crooked smile in celebration all he wanted, as long as he gave you more, and more still, and then some. But it seemed he had other plans as his hand slithered across your breast one last time before he let the wands vanish in the cylindrical vessel he had produced them from. He grinned wickedly upon the frustration that must have been clear to see on your face and his grin grew even wider when he stepped away from the table and his ruthless action forced a tiny whimper to escape your lips. He basked in it, in the way your eyes followed him as he drew an extensive circle around you, the way you squirmed under his gaze, fighting so hard against your urge to chide him or use your hands to bestow the pleasure upon yourself he so cruelly denied you. He almost took a full turn before he finally came to a stop right between your legs and you drew in a sharp breath as without a warning his arms hooked underneath your legs and he pulled you down against himself.

You could feel him, all of him, and it was impossible for him to deny any longer how much he longed for you as well. Not that he tried to, but he obviously was not willing to give into his desire just yet. He had one more ace up his sleeve and the look he shot you when his fingers closed around the silvery can of hair mousse made you bite your lip in anticipation.

Like an artist with his brush he applied the white foam generously upon your skin, drawing lines and circles and curves until he had decorated your entire torso with a beautiful pattern. Once more he exchanged his tool for the lighter and the thought that he looked down at you like a birthday boy about to light the candles on his cake almost made you giggle. But all arising laughter died away the second the lighter touched the creamy white foam and a huge golden flame began to roll up your body. You could hardly make out his face behind the wall of fire, but what you did see was enough to make your walls quiver. Whatever it had been, he was quick to hide it though and when the blaze had calmed and split into a whole bunch of tiny blue and golden lights, he was back to his old composed self again.

It was fascinating, watching the tiny flames wander along your skin. You could feel them too, feel the trail of warmth they left in their wake, like warm fingertips or tender lips that gently kissed their way along your skin. Oh how you wished it were his lips instead, or his tongue that licked your skin, eager for the taste of you. And for a moment your eyes fell closed as you gave yourself over to the fantasy. What it would feel like to be his? Would he make you moan with pleasure when he slid into you? He would probably tease you first, let his tip glide up and down your crevice while he would display that cocky smirk again, so pleased with himself for getting you this wet. You could feel its gentle press at your entrance, slowly prying you open until you were ready to take him, all of him. Yes, oh god, yes, the stretch was just as good as you had hoped, maybe even better, so perfect it made your back arch off the table. But even more satisfying than feeling him sink into you was the sound that accompanied it, a moan so sinful, primal and raw, you wished you could bottle it up and use it at whim when you would touch yourself to the thought of him in the days to come.

He was still focused on you when your eyes found him again, still following the flames that crawled along your skin. There were only a few left and soon they began to flicker and die away as well. And as if he had merely been waiting for them to do so, he started to move. Slowly he gyrated his hips, making your breath hitch in your throat when you realised you had not been imagining this at all. He retreated a little, just to sink deep again, and this time it was you that released a primal sound when he was nestled inside of you completely. It was bliss, everything you could have ever wished this evening to be finally come true, and it seemed that even your most ardent desire would be satisfied soon. He was holding back still, you knew he was, but every thrust, and every moan it conjured, caused another crack in his controlled facade. Soon you could see it in his eyes, he wanted it just as much, wanted to let go and take you the way you both craved so much. And you were willing to do whatever it took to set him free.

“Please,” you sighed. And then again, louder. “Please.”

And he heard you.

One hand lifting your leg up above his shoulder, he pulled you closer, making you keen as he slid even deeper. A wild grin curving his lips, his other hand set out to make a mess of his work of art. Eagerly his fingers dug into the white mousse to find your flesh underneath, caressing it, kneading it, his hips picking up speed with every passing second. It was madness, a wild animal released from its shackles could not have been more passionate, more hungry for life than he was. You had to brace yourself against the might of his thrusts, your hands gripping the rim of the table just in time before he found exactly the right angle to pull you into madness with him.

He groaned again, one drawn out, deep sound, teetering on the edge of despair and you knew he was close. And once again your imagination took over, showing you lewd imagines of his face twisted on the height of ecstasy, his body tensing, fingers digging into your thigh to secure you in place against him while he marked you as what you had been all along: his.

And that was enough to make you feel it too, the familiar pull, the clenching of your walls around his hard length, your hand reaching out blindly through the fog that was clouding your mind and when his fingers found you, securely intertwining with yours, you let go.

He was more than willing to lead you through your high, slowing his pace, but never stopping, but then he suddenly slipped out, the fog that had been clouding your mind for a moment suddenly cleared and you watched in awe as he stroked himself, once, then again, before he found sweet relief as well. It was enchanting, watching him like this, void of all control, just this instance, this tiny fragment of time, covering you in his desire, your stomach, your breasts, your joined hands, white on white, almost invisible and still so utterly beautiful.

His eyes had fallen closed in the moment of rapture, his cheek peacefully resting against your calf. He stayed like this for a while, just concentrating on his breathing it seemed, but then he moved. Almost imperceptible at first, you had not even noticed his fingers gliding out of yours until their were gliding down your stomach. But then they were gone, and a part of you mourned the loss of contact. It could be soothed by the soft look in his eyes when they found you again, but not completely. It was only when it combined with his smile that you felt your heart beat wildly in your chest again. There was mischief in it, and even though your hunger had just been sated utterly and completely, you could not help the gentle shiver that slowly began to crawl along your skin upon the promise it made. A promise he had no intention of waiting to make good on, it seemed.

That did not mean he was in any hurry though. If he had proven anything tonight, it was that he knew about the art of suspense. He had mastered it. And you were more than willing to let yourself get carried away by it once more.

Raising his eyebrow, he looked down at you for a moment before his lips met your calf in a fleeting kiss. His hand followed, leaving a trail of foam on your skin as he positioned you to his liking. His eyes now fixed solely on yours, he was licking his lips, like a starved man, ready to devour his first meal in days and you knew what was about to come even before he sank down to his knees. Time for dessert.

***

@darkcloverme

@lowkeysimpinloki

@fightmespideyboy

@rosecentury

#reblog #this 🐁 is starving but you fed her well #🙏🏻 🧀#sorry for the short reply #i am burned out #not sure if i’ll ever post my writing again #but you always brought so much joy with your comments #eternally grateful

42 notes · View notes