Thread the Needle | Yoga!Din
Pairing: Modern!Din x Yoga Instructor!Reader
Rating: Explicit (minors, goodbye)
Word count: 3.5k~
Warnings/tags: Yoga!Din (yes, he gets his own warning), hurt/comfort, language, smut, good ol' fashioned cunnilingus, piv
Notes: ✨ HI FRIENDS ✨ Yoga!Din rides again. This idea has been stewing (pun intended, you'll get it later) in my dumb brain for a while now and I've finally decided to write it. Technically, this takes place a little farther into the future (perhaps when the pair is more of an item, and less of a fuckbuddy fling, but thorough plot? We don’t know her). Anyways, enjoy! Cheers x
He doesn’t mean to be dramatic, but it’s the most agonizing sixty minutes of his goddamn life.
He’s seated on his mat, legs folded into a fucking pretzel—lotus pose, a calm voice inside his head corrects—and he’s steaming.
She isn’t here.
He is—Din, for all his faults, showed the fuck up to class but she didn’t, and in her place there’s some smelly old bat, this woman’s wrinkly ass – sits bones – plunked down at the front of the studio— occupying her spot, where she should be.
His eyes stalk the movements of this other woman as she putters around the studio—the godawful stench of something earthy wafting behind her— and it looks wrong. It feels wrong; like a violation somehow—of the space.
Of their space.
“The light in me recognizes the light in you,” they all utter in unison like a fucking hippie cult, and he books it out of there, swiping his mat up with an aggressive slap and rolling it under his arm.
“Hey,” he calls out, pacing towards the front desk. The receptionist— Riley? Kylie? Din can never remember—glances up from her phone, bright eyed.
Poor thing.
“Who the fuck is that?” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder towards the studio, the gaggle of ladies trickling out of it already gossiping and clucking away. Din doesn’t mean to sound accusatory; he doesn’t mean to be this intense. It’s not this girl’s fault, he knows that— but she’s in proximity and she’s shit out of luck.
“M’sorry?” she sputters, blinking up at him.
Breathe, that same voice coos—he can feel the tickle of it behind his ear.
“Our usual Wednesday instructor,” Din begins again, clipped. “Where is she?”
“Oh," she shrugs, "she called in sick.”
With a furrowed brow he pitches forward, craning over the desk. “Is she okay?”
The girl— Miley? —all but flinches back from him, a quizzical expression wormed onto her. “Uhm, yeah she has the flu—nasty one, too, but she’ll probably be back by ne-"
Din doesn’t linger long enough for her to finish. He’s wheeled around, striding from the building, the tinny chime of the bell ringing out as the door creaks closed behind him. The women exchange waggling glances in his wake, tittering in mouthwatering delight—more juicy fodder for their post-yoga soiree.
///
He doesn’t remember driving there. He made a quick stop to the grocery store— their grocery store, now— to pick up what he needed and before he knows it, he’s at her front door, bringing his fist down upon it in hard raps.
He hears movement—can sense it there, can practically imagine it: her lithe body tip toeing over— no, she’s got the flu, maybe it’s more of a shuffle—and peeking through the peephole. There’s a weighty pause and then—
The slow, dubious clicks of unbolting locks, the turning of a handle, the yawn of the wood as it opens.
Her voice is made small with disbelief and exhaustion. “Din?”
“Can I come in?”
She cracks the door ajar, standing in the frame of it now, a thick blue comforter slung over an arm, and she can’t quite mask the stupefied look etched onto her face.
He’s never done this. She’s never done this. He’s been to her place twice—three times, if he counts them fucking in the car in her driveway—and he’s certainly never showed up unannounced.
“Uhm, I-”
“Great.”
Din pushes past her, plastic bag swinging heavy at his side.
“W-What?”
She’s left gaping, mouth and eyes opened incredulously, ogling the way he struts through her entryway, before finally having the wherewithal to close the door. “Hey, what are you-”
“You need to keep your fluids up,” he says roughly—as if it’s obvious—making a beeline towards the kitchen.
She follows after him, bunching the throw snuggly around her shoulders. “Din,” she utters feebly, “I really don’t think you should be here right now.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Please, I don’t wanna get you sick."
He thunks the bag onto the granite countertop, producing two cans.
She doesn’t know why she bothers, it’s not like he’s listening to her anyways. If she’s learned anything about Din Djarin, it’s that he’s nothing if not stubborn—impossibly immovable. He’s tossed his jacket off, slinging it over the island, a determined glint in his eye as he prowls around the kitchen, opening cupboards at random.
“Seriously, I don’t want you catching this. I feel like shit… Oh my god, I look like shit,” she groans in realization, burying her head in the blanket, hermitting herself away.
“You look fine,” he replies gruffly, delving through the drawers in search of a can opener.
Frumpy sweats and a baggy t-shirt with some faded logo on it that’s absolutely hanging off her. Hair tossed up and sloppy, coiled into a loose bun, errant pieces rebelling every which way. A little pale, maybe. Tired eyes. Messy.
Beautiful, he meant. She looks fucking irritatingly beautiful.
Din continues to rifle through her cabinets and he exhales in frustration, “Jesus, where do you keep your pans?”
“Bottom right,” she points begrudgingly.
He grunts, finding one big enough and sets it down on the stove.
She can’t stop fussing over him; making comments here and there, asking if he wants anything, needs anything—water, kombucha, tea, a beer, a snack—if she can help in any way possible—and it nearly sends him over the damn edge.
“Would you quit it and just let me take care of you?” he grits out, and her mouth clamps shut with a pop.
She’s quiet after that, picking anxiously at a thread poking out from the blanket she wears like a shawl—observing as he empties the cans into a large pot, lights the gas stove, and brings it to a boil. She gives him space, stationing herself by the kitchen table, leaning a hip into one of the four chairs there.
Honestly she does try to keep to herself; she tries to accept what Din is doing for her, but she can’t help it. As soon as she sees him ladling the soup into one of her favorite cups—it looks so tiny in his grasp— and bringing it over to her like a goddamn patron saint, she breaks.
“You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“Yeah well, you need to get healthy so you can take your class back from that fucking fossil.”
“Din,” she admonishes.
“Baby,” he gives her a pointed look and she gnaws at the inside of her cheek, a blush blotting her clavicle. “She fucking smells. Now sit your pretty little ass down-”
“But-”
He presses a hand to her shoulder, forcing her to sink into the chair with a soft oomf, and places the bowl in front of her. “Don’t fight me on this. Drink the fucking soup.”
She huffs, glancing down, and then back up to Din.
“Progresso?”
He grunts.
She blows at the steam rising from the hot liquid. “Chicken noodle?”
Din crosses his arms over his chest and plops back onto the island.
“Classic,” she praises, mumbling into it.
She loathes to admit it, but the first sip tastes like heaven. It soothes her raw vocal chords, worn hoarse from nights of coughing, and seeps deep to warm her cold bones.
Din remains mute through the whole affair, staring owlishly as she spoons it down, slurp for slurp, until he’s satisfied she’s finished. When she does, she arches an eye brow at him— mouth pressing into a thin line. Happy now?
He tips his head and pads over to her.
“Wait, no you don’t have to-" He swipes it from the table, the spoon clanking against the ceramic rim. Din moves to the sink and she groans.
“Just leave it,” she whines, but he ignores her—stubborn stubborn stubborn— he’s already got soap on the sponge and the water running. Again, she huffs and rises to her feet, hem of the blanket trailing behind her.
“Thank you,” she gives in a hushed tone.
It’s so strange— being taken care of in her own place. She doesn’t know what to do, where to go. It’s ill-fitting, foreign, and she can only hover there, buzzing like a pesky insect beside him.
He’s wiping the dish off with a towel when he chances a peek back at her, practically stuttering when he does.
She’s swaddled in that fucking quilt, awkward and impossibly sincere and precious just standing there—watching him play house in her home. A brush of color has sprung up on her cheeks—more light in her eyes, too—and Din, try as he might, can’t pry himself off her.
She’s sick—she’s sick and gorgeous and he wants her. He wants her to feel better, he wants to fuck her, he wants to hold her. He’s overcome with it.
He swallows.
Fuck.
He abandons the bowl and rag in the drying rack and turns to her, her eyes widening, glassy and bloodshot, as he tucks a stray hair behind her ear— knuckles trailing down her jaw.
“Din…”
Her tongue skips over her lip—mocking him—damp and full and begging to be taken by his own, and her breath catches as he drags a thumb across that plump flesh, enrapt with the way her mouth parts so effortlessly for him—so fucking supple. Din’s gut twists and his blood thickens in his veins—the air between them rippling with something velvet and carnal.
He takes a step towards her. Her throat bobs.
“You’re gonna get sick,” she pouts in protest, rutting her palm into his chest, but there’s no fight in it. The blanket slips from her shoulders, hitting the ground with a dulled splat.
“Din,” she tries again, “I don’t want you to-"
He leans in, cradling her cheek, murmurs fanning over her face. “I’ll risk it.”
And he dissolves the gap, sealing her mouth with his in a tender kiss. It’s almost chaste at first, how they rove tentative and unhurried over each other—an innocent exploration— all until his tongue darts out to touch along her lip and she whimpers into him, letting Din dip into the dark cavern of her mouth. She tastes warm, like comfort and broth and rainy days, and he sighs as she brings her hands up to weave into his hair.
Neither of them fight for dominance like this—their tangle of soft sounds is perfectly balanced— Hatha; effort and ease, breath and body. He pushes, she relents—she surges forward, Din bends. They dance like this, slow as tar, until she catches his bottom lip between her teeth and tugs.
It’s like a switch has been flipped.
He seethes, inhaling sharply as his hands slide possessive and greedy down her body, grabbing fistfuls of her waist hidden under all the oversized layers, and crushing her into him. She’s making these airy noises, panting and urgent and fuck if it doesn’t tear him apart—viscerally, from the inside out.
Din walks her backwards, step for choreographed step, foxtrotting until she bumps into the kitchen table. He breaks away from the kiss to reach past her, frantically pushing away the unopened mail and receipts and loose change, the jingling of her keys cutting through the wanton quiet as they clang onto the tile, and he hitches her up to sit there with one fell swoop.
“I wanna make you feel good,” he husks, inbetween the bites he’s searing onto her neck. “Please, just lie back for me sweet girl.”
“Din, I-“
He silences her with a nibble to her ear, coaxing a breathy yelp out of her. “Lie back, baby.”
It doesn’t take much convincing after that. She acquiesces, Din’s wide palm splayed on her breasts, guiding her to recline back onto the table. He makes speedy work of her sweatpants, yanking them down her legs and flinging them off to land in a crumpled heap.
He sinks to his knees, pulling the cradle of her hips to the edge of the table before parting her thighs. The gloss of her cunt, wet and glistening for him, makes his hardening cock jump up to his stomach, and she twitches as soon as the cool air brushes against her.
“Fuck me,” he groans, whispering into her heat like he’s pained, like the sight alone is torturing him—like it’s slowly but surely ending his fucking life.
Din breathes her in with a sigh, that summer fruit tang— the scent of her aching and pulsing for him— and he starts tracing up and down her inner thigh with his tongue and teeth, nibbling along the path there until he’s at her apex. He’s dimpling her pliant skin with his calloused fingertips, strong hands wrapped under her knees, keeping them splayed as he kisses along her outer lips, nipping at her hip bones, teasing everywhere but where she needs him most.
It’s devastating—debilitating—and she’s shaking now. Every muscle, every fiber of her, convulsing with anticipation—with the promise of being dissected, of being torn apart and stitched back together again. She’s already got a hand covering her mouth, muffling the sobs he’s drawing out as he toys with her— playing her like a fucking fiddle.
Din’s eyes flit up to find her like this, brow pinched tight and cries stifled, and he chuckles— he fucking laughs— heady and ambered into her legs.
“You doin’ alright up there, teach?”
“F-Fuck you,” she hisses out with a weak whine.
God, she’s fucking perfect.
“You need something, sweetheart?” He smirks— she can feel the shape of it against her thigh, the way his stubble grates along her skin— and she can only mewl, speechless. Pathetic.
“Yeah, I know what you need...” Din hums, before finally - finally - taking mercy on her.
With one single drag, he tongues a broad stripe up her slit.
The noise that rips through her sounds like she’s being strangled— it gets caught in her throat like a trapped animal in hot car— a desperate little thing clawing to get out. Her nails scrape against the wood, leaving nicks in the chestnut lacquer. Immediately, she cants up to him, searching for his mouth hungrily and Din all but obliges as he clasps onto her hips, keeping her still while he fucks into her.
He’s carving her out— hollowing her; burying himself in her folds, nosing against her mound. He laps her up in kitten licks, delving the muscle of his tongue in and out of her, leaving her weak and gasping. Din laves up and down and side to side in clever little swivels, before he reaches her clit and sucks.
Her fist shoots from her mouth to grip his wavy locks, grinding shamelessly against his face.
“O-Oh my god, Din - fuck - Din. Oh fuck oh fuck-"
He loves it when she gets like this; that serene and tranquil exterior— the one that can quell a studio full of strangers into a haze with only the sound of her voice, that voice he can’t get out of his fucking head, the one that got them into this mess in the first place— shattered, mutilated beyond recognition and all she has left is her need— her wild, unbridled need.
Her need for his tongue, for his fingers, for his dick. Din Din Din, she only wants him— only needs him.
He slips a finger into her, easing past his knuckle in one movement, and her chin tips back, crown of her head digging into the table, hair mussing against the wood grain.
Her nipples have pebbled through her shirt, her pretty feet arched and contorted, and she’s heaving - writhing - like this above him.
He adds another digit, pumping in and out, the squelch of her pussy sounding lewd and obscene and fucking divine as he grazes her clit with his teeth, pulling at it.
“Fuck-” she rasps, legs quivering on their own accord— instinct and reflex demanding she tremble— and Din moans into her sex, feeling her walls constrict around his fingers, and he curls them up as he thrusts, hitting against that spongy patch insider her that makes her vision go white.
“Din, I- I’m—"
She can’t manage the rest. Instead of words, she cries— high pitched and wounded, as if she’s barely making it out alive. Her legs clamp around his head, bracing him there, and she cums— she loses it for him— her slick coating his nose, his lips, the hair speckled around his chin. She soaks him, and it leaves Din rocking his hips and humping the fucking air— as randy as a teenager, ravenous for anything, even if it’s just the friction of his pants drawn tight around his erection.
He takes her through her orgasm, lapping at her softly until she’s warbling—a slew of nonsense babbling out of her— and he leans back on his heels to admire his work, eyes singeing into her cunt made puffy and swollen pink, fluttering at the loss of him.
He plants one final kiss to the cleft of her pussy before shifting his weight back up to his feet, slotting himself between her.
Fuck, he isn’t as young as he once was— he feels his age in the ache of his knees. All the yoga in the world can’t erase his scar tissue, can’t undo time.
But he thinks maybe—if he’ll let himself—that she makes him feel younger. Lighter.
He squeezes her calf and begins to move away when she whimpers, bolting upright to palm greedily at the bulge pressing painfully against its constraint, her fingers fidgeting with his zipper and Din— in an uncharacteristic show of strength and self restraint— gingerly clasps onto her wrists, holding her still.
“Hey,” he murmurs, and her eyes snap up to meet his. “This isn’t about me.”
“No, but-”
“You don’t- we don’t have to-"
“Din,” she pants, grabbing onto the waist of his jeans and pressing her center into him, smearing herself along the denim there, her pearled clit catching on the rough fabric. Her eyes have gone jet-black with desire, obsidian lust burning through them. “Din, fuck me. Please fuck me, plea-“
Shit.
He’s never moved so fast in his goddamn life, unbuttoning his jeans in a flash, untucking himself— throbbing, leaking already—from his briefs. He gives himself two rough jerks, his blunt tip prodding at her entrance, before pushing into her with a gasp.
Fuck, she’s warm— not just warm, she’s hot. She’s molten, and she’s milking him for all he’s worth, gripping around him, fucking strangling his cock with how wet she is—how tight. God, she’s a fucking dream—a nightmare too, undoubtedly.
“Fuck baby - shit - you’re—hnng-” He groans—can’t even form a real sentence—all of his blood has rushed out of his brain and straight to the juncture where their bodies meet.
His eyes flutter deliriously at the feeling of her stretching around him like this and for a passing, fleeting moment, he considers the fact that he should be gentle with her— that she’s not feeling well, that she’s probably sore with body chills and God knows what else and that she should rest—
But once her knees are split apart and legs spread long— so fucking flexible, fuck she’s killing him— his well-met concern all but abandons him.
He fucks her hard— so hard she falls back, that unforgiving surface bruising into her spine. He probably hurts her a little—just how he likes, just how she loves.
Din plows into her, digging into the meat of her thighs, slamming into the pussy that takes him so fucking well, the pussy that feels like it’s made for him— like she’s made for him— and the table shudders with each roll of his hips, scraping it inch by inch along the tile, knocking against the chairs with loud, clattering bangs.
“W-Wait— wait wait wait-“ she pants, hands scampering up to his arms.
He slows his thrusts until he’s stilled inside of her, worry creasing around his eyes. “W-What? Are you okay—what’s wrong?”
“T-The table," she whines, “it’s from fucking IKEA. I built this piece of shit myself— there’s no way it’s gonna stay standing with you fucking me into it like this.”
Din barks out a laugh, throaty and genuine, and for the second time today, he comes to the conclusion that she’s perfect.
“Bedroom?” she nods down the hall.
“Bedroom,” he growls before scooping her up, lifting her off the table, her legs scrambling to hook around his waist, forearms bracing around the broad plain of his shoulders.
“Din!” she squeals in surprise, “I can walk, you know.”
“Shut up,” he grumbles, giving her a bounce and a light slap to her ass. “You’re sick.”
///
“Onions,” he mutters, leaden eyelids nestled shut.
He didn’t mean to stay over this long—well past sunset, later than he’s ever allowed himself—but how could he be expected to leave? After she came on his cock - twice - and he had filled her up until his cum was gushing from her, extricating himself out of this exact position of woven, spent limbs and sweat stained sheets sounded criminal.
“What?” She cranes groggily up at him.
“The sub. She smelled like onions. And patchouli.”
“Hey,” she tuts in mock offense, “Brenda is nice.”
“Good for Brenda. Doesn’t make her smell any better.”
“God, you are so rude,” she laughs, shaking her head as she nuzzles into Din’s side, lips curving into a sleepy grin against his chest—right above the aching thump of his caged heart.
Taglist (I apologize if I missed anyone!):
@radiowallet @pedros-mustache @djarinsbeskar @chasingdreamers @greatcircle79 @iamskyereads @imnotinlove-thisisnotyoursong @fan-of-encouragement @read-and-rec @helmet-comes-off @keeper0fthestars @hellabaybee @ourmotherofyearning @krissology
