I’m totally in my yoga!Din feels tonight. A new yoga studio just opened in my town that’s open late, so I can go after work...and it’s been some years since I’ve gone to a practice. So of course I’m a little sore. And I’ll I can think of is Yoga Teacher helping Din stretch things out after, rubbing his ankles and knees...which of course leads to rubbing other things 👀👀
SAM! 💙 Omg. Uhm bless you for this ask. I’m hoping I did your lovely thot justice. A little spicy spice under the cut so no minors pls and thank you!
I know it’s uncommon to tag answered asks/drabble but here we are hehe. Just thought I’d give the Yogis a little love (sorry it’s been so long between yoga!din updates!) I randomly tagged some interested parties IDK sORRY TO BOTHER YOU PLS IGNORE ME. ✨
She’s gonna be the death of him.
“Jesus.”
A snarl gravels through Din’s mouth and he fights the urge to twitch out of her grasp.
She’s perched on folded knees between him—his legs sprawling out long on the couch on either side of her. He’s got a foot propped on the plain of her thigh, wriggling as she burns the pads of her fingers deep into his sore tissue.
“Sorry, does that hurt?” she simpers, peering through her lashes with soft doe-eyes—all too fucking innocent for the level of torture she’s inducing.
“No,” he huffs. “Doesn't hurt it just—fuck,” he hisses, head falling back onto the padded arm of the couch, fisting into the cushion with a gasp. “Christ woman, you’ve got knives for fingers.”
She doesn’t respond to the comment, leaving him with only a smirk as she continues to paw at his calf. “Your soleus is tight,” she remarks calmly—ever the fucking monk.
“My what?” he groans, clipped.
“Your soleus,” she repeats, “this—” She digs into the fleshy underside of his leg right above the swoop of his Achilles, and a strained sound heaves from his chest.
“Yeah, no shit,” Din grits out, his grip dimpling the plush fabric beneath him, an ugly wrinkle dimpling his brow.
“Breathe,” she coos—like ocean breeze, passing serene and glassy over him—before bunching up his gym shorts and exposing more of his tanned skin, the faint sheen of hair stippling the crest of his thighs catching on the dimmed light overhead. Din mutters something incoherently—something she mindfully disregards as she makes her way up his legs, delving her knuckles along the taut strands of his quads.
She makes a sympathetic noise, somewhere between a tsk and a cluck. “Mm god, you’re tense. Can you relax this for me?” she asks, padding at his leg. Din’s coiled knots of muscles seem to bray and scoff at the mere suggestion - relax, hilarious - and he clenches against her.
“Easier said than done,” he grumbles, flinching as she massages into his inner thigh—his vastus medialis, she tells him.
She hums, shifting forward off her heels to hover over him - table top pose, he thinks—and fuck him for knowing it - using her weight to press into his sartorius—that long band of sinew that stretches diagonally up from his knee towards his hip. Din groans again, tipping his chin up from the awkward angle his neck had been jutting out at over the arm, all to get a glimpse of her—the flex of her forearm as she buries into his aching flesh—how she concentrates on his body; how she pays such diligent attention to his cues, his body language, the hitches in his staggered breathing.
Finally, and only after he’s griped himself tired in circles, does Din go pliant beneath her—unspooled like cotton in her hands and fuck—fuck, she’s strong. She’s a lithe little thing—all grace and supple, elegant lines— but she’s fucking powerful. She’s got a strength that he could never have—a quiet one. Balanced. Nothing like his brutal bursts of force, nothing like his raw, free-flowing aggression.
And she’s taking him apart with it, muscle by muscle, unwinding the cords of his tendons like it’s fucking nothing—and Christ, it feels good. He’s gone jellied. He’s limbered and lulled and her hands are so fucking warm and perfect and his cock is damn near whimpering in his shorts—knowing full well what those hands can do, how they can unmake the tension riddling him rigid—how he’d love them somewhere else.
It’s not intentional.
He doesn’t mean to buck his hips into her, he doesn’t mean to dig his heels into the couch and shift himself closer to where she’s working, but he does it all the same. It’s something innate—something prehistoric and primal; need running like an oil slick through him. Blackened. Viscous.
She notices. Of course she fucking does.
“Relax,” she soothes, but the serenity that had claimed her before has since vanished; she’s feeding off him, off the heady energy he’s casting out in tangible, palpable waves. She’s grown dark and furtive alongside him— her sea glass exterior turned to amber as she snakes her palms higher and higher to the swell of him, bulging against the thin, sporty fabric, and rests them heavy at the dip of his pelvis, the pads of her fingertips finding the waistline of his shorts.
Slowly, bewitchingly, she ruts a digit under the elastic and begins to peel the material lower and lower and— she doesn’t break eye contact all the while. This goddamn siren, lust pooling in her gaze, she holds Din’s stare as his dick springs to his stomach, a relieved sigh whistling from his lips.
“So tense, baby.” She pitches forward, a satisfied grin flirting with her features. “Lemme help you.”
The words come out like murmurs, tutting and teasing and fanning over his throbbing length, before parting her gorgeous mouth to tongue a narrow stripe up his cock.
Din's head knocks backwards, the nape of his neck bending uncomfortably over the armrest once more. His eyes pinch shut as she takes him fully into her mouth, hot and wet and hollowing out around his girth, her fist cupping at his base and squeezing. A low moan chokes out at the broken swallow of his throat and his hand snaps to her head, weaving into her hair as she bobs and bobs and bobs, spit leaking down his shaft, dripping messy over her knuckles.
Yoga!Din my beloved is that you? 😳 Lils, how in the ever loving fuck did I not see this??! God this just has ride me vibes written all over it—except he’s such a power bottom— stubborn as a fucking mule with pride to spare—he’d still do all the work.
For the record idk wtf this is. I wrote it on the mobile app. Idk. but pls have a yoga!Din drabble:
Just imagine, him sitting with his legs spread— relaxed, casual— back leaning against some dingy wall at some party neither of them were too keen on attending—
“But it’s Marissa’s thirty-fifth, baby— we have to go.”
“Wasn’t she thirty-five last year?”
“Yeah, well,” she did her best to hide the compromising smirk twisting her mouth awry, “best to keep that to yourself.”
Din snorted— a mirthed huff followed by a resolved sigh, resigned happily to his allotted fate.
Anything for his girl.
The party is a fucking bust.
Pop music he doesn’t recognize pumps through the speakers, the occasional Queen or Rolling Stones single taking him aback every few songs. A dwindling fruit-ripe bowl of sangria, ladle floating lazy in the burgundied liquid, is stationed at the head of a table like a highly sought after guest, proudly put on display to ooh and ahh and fawn over. Marissa is a fucking vegan and the food is shit - “they’re not hot dogs, they’re not dogs!” - and Din has been nursing his second stale drink for the better part of the evening.
Anything for his girl.
Strangers mill around the backyard garden in tittering clumps and Din has neither the interest nor the energy to fake his way through stumbled conversation. He watches people’s profiles, how they curve and splinter gleefully, liquor loosening their lips. Bringing his beer to his own, he spies her across the way, weaving in and out of various groups, and his gaze trails along after her, sparkling and bright as she bounces to and fro.
As if she can feel the weight of his attention, like the ghost of a hand on her lower back, she glances towards him, offering a toothy grin that quirks up a corner of her cheek. Din’s mouth twitches, deviance streaking through the umber of his eye— a look she can spot even here in the dark, with nothing but moonglow and a strand of outdoor edison bulbs to lighten his harrowed features— and with his free hand, he taps the plat of his thigh twice.
Come here.
She cocks her brow— because he’s being reckless and hungry and like a water-logged cloth, they’ve always wrung the blackest of depravity out of each other—and she can sense something infernal rile in her cunt like a storm brewing and churning and before she has the wherewithal to process the ramifications of her actions, she’s striding her willlowed legs over to where Din lounges, each footfall echoing like cardinal sin against high slung church rafters.
She hovers over him. He sips from his beer, finishing it.
“Not enjoying yourself?” she drawls, hair cascading in waterfalled sheets as she peers down at him.
Din sets his empty bottle aside, the glass clinking dully against the cement, before hooking two fingers into the waist of her jeans and dragging her closer. She’s nestled between the spread of his knees, brushing against the growing bulge that’s slowly draining the blood from his brain and redirecting it southbound to thrum at his center.
“Not really, no,” he murmurs, sweeping his tongue over his lush lip.
“Hmm,” she purrs, bending at the waist to pitch herself nearer, breath mingling as the distance between them siphons to negligence, to atoms. “What a pity.”
She seals her mouth over his, tasting the alcohol and boredom and heady lust lingering heavy on his tongue, and she swallows the moan he warbles free when she nips at him, tugging at his lip between her teeth. They’re handsy and teenaged and suddenly desperate and there’s a small prudent vestige of her mind that considers perhaps we shouldn’t do this here, but the concern is quickly snuffed out as Din grapples with her hips, squeezing and kneading and molten all over.
“M’gonna fuck you,” Din growls, between bites and wet kisses—voice sinewy and debauched and drenched with untamed want—his large hands pawing her ass by the fistful. “M’gonna fuck you so fucking hard when we get home, baby— Christ.”
She breaks away, breathless and aching, and bores into him—pupils blown wide, eclipsing the color there— and says, simply, “then let’s go home.”
In an uncharacteristic show of confusion, Din can’t suppress the look of surprise that splashes over his expression, a question ticking lines into his forehead. “But I thought—”
“Oh screw it,” she heaves, pulling Din up hastily by the collar of his shirt, yanking him to his feet. “She’s been thirty-five before. She’ll live.”
/
tagging some yogis hehe (sorry it’s been a while) (i suck hehe)
ok one more thought while I have yoga!din brain rot but did the receptionist ever let her know that din all but stomped out of the studio after finding out she was sick
*grabs your little anonymous face and pulls you real close* I love you—
“Hey Michaela,” she chimes, spotting the girl behind the desk.
Her focus snaps up at the sound of the other’s voice and she bounces in her seat. “Hey, oh my god you’re back! How are you feeling?”
She sighs through a smile, “Better! So much better. I’m kind of drained but,” she shrugs, “to be expected.”
“Oh, that’s great to hear. We missed you,” she grins warmly, before her tone shifts. Something conspiratorial flashes across her features. “But okay, wait— kind of strange, but you know that guy who comes to your 6 o’clock on Wednesday?”
She quirks her chin, narrowing her eyes, “yeah?”
“Okay so,” Michaela sets her phone down and leans forward on her elbows, mischievousness glinting in her eyes, “he came in while you were gone and everything was fine blah, blah, blah— totally normal. But after, when he left the studio he - seriously - barged over to me and asked where you were. I told him that you were sick and he literally like, stomped out.” The receptionist gives her a wild look, all eyebrows and dimples—clearly very proud of the hot gossip she’s delivering.
“Did he?” she replies, pressing her lips together to buffer the quiver of a smirk there.
“Yeah,” Michaela says, sprawling back into her chair and swiveling side to side absentmindedly. “Isn’t that so weird?”
Shit.
She swallows, faking a look of intrigue. “Mmm,” she hums in agreement, a flush painting over the swath of her neck.
“I wonder where he was off to like that,”she shakes her head, “literally almost took the door down,” she grumbles, before picking up her phone and swiping a finger over it.
Warmth crawls up to her cheeks.
Din’s face between her thighs, her fingers trembling as they race through his hair, gripping him tight as she rocks into his mouth.
Din fucking her from the kitchen, through the hallway, and into her bed. Her calves framing his head, hips lifted off the mattress as his balls slap against her ass at a brutal speed—coming in her tight heat with an obscene moan that knocks his head back.
Din laving a damp wash cloth over her pretty cunt, cleaning up the mess he made. Din getting her a glass of water. Din staying by her side well into the night while she napped off her flu. Din being incorrigible and rude and obnoxiously perfect.
would you ever write a threesome fic with yoga!din and a character of your choice?
Hehehe okay wait, this is something I have considered. In fact, I actually have a random note about this very thing saved on my phone. I’ve been mulling it over, and keep coming back to one thought: would Din share the instructor with another man? He’s somewhat possessive, I think—at a healthy level, a reasonable amount.
However… I think if he watched her make out with a woman, he’d jizz his fucking pants. Because the instructor would be the type to kiss anyone and everyone. She’s all about that free-love.
And maybe…. Maybe she’d want him to watch. Make him sit there, helpless, as this other woman touched her, swept the petal of her breast into her mouth, licked between her aching folds and tasted her wet heat. Make him watch, painfully hard and fucking shaking with it all—unable to do a goddamn thing.
I HAVE AN URGENT QUESTION THAT IS PRETTY IMPORTANT
WHAT KIND OF FACIAL HAIR DOES YOGA DIN HAVE
L M A O, MAY!
How erudite of a question, thank you for asking. He’s got the stubs baybeee. He’s got that semi-long stubble. It’s not a beard (god knows he probably can’t grow one fully, bless), but it definitely has some heft to it. Above his lip, layering his jaw. Mmhph.
That raw scratch of his hair prickled jaw as he dips between her legs, nibbling at her inner thigh until she’s bucking her pelvis up to meet him—
The burn on her cheeks as he burrows his head into the crevice of her neck, the scrape of his stubble sanding her skin as he buries himself to the hilt inside her and grinds in short, shallow bursts—
How she’d always kiss that recalcitrant spot by his chin, the hairless patch that refuses to grow and he hates it at first - stubborn, stubborn man - he would grunt and swat her away with a playful roll of his eyes—
until of course, he loves it.
Like the tofu stir fry she force feeds him, like the mediation and sound baths she drags him to, like the jazz bar and the white wine and the long walks in the park and feeding the ducks and the true crime series binges and the homeofuckingpathic essential oils and the way he can’t stop thinking of her— can’t stop wanting to be with her.
