Apr 16
Isabela Merced
seen from Jamaica
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Denmark
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Singapore
seen from Norway
seen from Italy
seen from Germany
seen from China
Isabela Merced
Isabela Merced
she’s soooo dreamy girl (≧∀≦)
POOL FULL LLIQOUR RRRRAAAAHHHHHH
Isabela Merced
IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE
MAIN MASTERLIST || ISABELA MERCED || REQUESTS
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ pairing: isabela merced x fem!reader
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ warnings: SLIGHT SMUT, foreplay, fluffffff, language, bugs? and sapphic yearning for pride month ofc
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ description: you and your best friend finally get away for the weekend with each other after your busy schedules finally relax. when isabela surprises you with a camping trip, you find yourself stuck in the woods together with pent up feelings that you’ve been trying your best to keep inside.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ word count: 3.9k
It was the first weekend you had off of work since you could remember. Your schedule had been jam packed for the last couple weeks, not allowing you much time to do whatever you’d like. This was the same situation your best friend found herself in.
Isabela was the busiest girl you knew, between her long shoots and press tours that lasted months, it was few and far between when you got to spend a lot of time together. This weekend happened to work out perfectly for each of you.
Earlier that same week you received a text from Isabela stating that she had something planned for the both of you. Though she was cryptic about telling you any details, she instructed you to pack a bag. You trusted her, so you obliged.
Now, here you were, standing outside her door with your things in hand. You heard fast footsteps running towards the door before Isabela swung the door wide open.
“Finally!” She threw her arms around you and pulled you in close. No matter how much time passed, you never got tired of each other. “I was starting to think you forgot about me, babe.”
Those two really said ✨serving looks in the apocalypse✨💅
Like… Excuse me!?
Steam & Grip
Day:26 Pairing:Dina Woodward x Reader Kink / Theme:face-sitting, power play Word Count:1918
Kinktober 2025 | The Last Of Us Masterlist
Steam fogs the glass before you can even see her reflection , a soft, warm blur that smells like the soap she stole from that market weeks ago and the sharp salt of her skin. Dina is already in the bathroom when you push the door; the shower is on, water running in a steady, reassuring hiss. She’s backlit and gorgeous in the steam, hair pulled up into a careless knot, one shoulder bare, the strap of her tank clinging from the humidity.
“You okay?” she asks, voice light, like the question is only half concern and half invitation.
You swallow. The day’s grit unravels at the edge of her smile. “I am now,” you answer. You mean it the way you mean the small truths that hold you together , the ones that are only ever said in private.
She pats the space beside her on the bench and tilts her head. “Come here. Let me take care of you.” The words are both order and promise.
You step in, close enough to feel the heat roll off her. She reaches for you before you can fully think about it , fingers ghosting the back of your neck, thumbs finding the spot where you like the pressure. “Rules?” she asks, serious for a second because she’s learned the art of asking. “Safeword, nonverbal stop?”
“Red,” you say without hesitation. It feels tidy to name it aloud. “Three claps if I can’t speak. No marks I can’t hide.”
“Got it.” Her grin returns, small and wicked. “Also: hair-pulling is on the table, but I won’t yank your scalp off. Promise.” She winks like she’s sealing a contract.
You laugh and then kiss her , soft, because there’s something delicious in building consent into foreplay. The water’s heat smooths your shoulders; Dina’s hands are a map you know well. She turns the shower head down so the spray falls mostly on both of you and not directly into your faces, and the steam thickens around the two of you like a curtain.
She presses you back against the tiled wall on reflex, palms braced on either side of your head. “You smell like the road,” she murmurs, breath warm on your mouth. “Like you’ve been carrying your own little apocalypse around.” Her fingers splay against your ribs in that teasing way she has. “And I like it messy.”
“Good,” you say, because you do. You like the way she says messy like it’s a medal. You like the way she always cuts through pretense and gets straight to the point.
Her mouth finds yours again and this time it’s not gentle. Teeth ghost the seam of your lower lip; hands slide under your shirt, over skin that prickles under the heat. She makes a sound against your mouth , a low, satisfied chuckle , and then she backs up enough to take a careful, deliberate look at you. “You ready for me to be a little mean?” Dina asks, playful-guilty like she’s asking permission to draw on the dark side for a minute.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”
She moves like she’s been practicing this choreography in daylight and nights, like she knows exactly how to close the gap between want and deliverable. One hand ticks up into your hair, then curls into a fist at the base of your skull. Her fingers twist in your strands the way someone twists rope, gentle but decisive. She leans in and bites your lower lip , not hard, but with purpose , and the small sting sends a flinch you welcome.
“Say red if it’s too much,” she murmurs into your mouth, voice an unlikely caress over the aggression.
“Red,” you repeat, a breath that steadies both of you. The safety is a line, and you’re both walking it with care.
She shoves a knee between your legs , just enough to make the press of her thigh a punctuation , and the angle sends a ripple through you. The water sluices over both of you now, making everything shine. Dina’s hips rock, slow and deliberate, a movement that says she’s testing the tempo as much as she’s setting it.
“Talk to me,” she orders, and your voice comes out ragged around the words she wants to hear. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” you say. “Hard. Thick. Don’t stop.”
Dina’s grin splits into something fierce. “Good answer.” Then, with a motion that’s quick and sure, she strips you , shirt, bra, the last defenses leaving you exposed in the steam. Her hands roam with the kind of familiarity that is always tender under the edge: thumbs finding sensitive ribs, the heel of her palm kneading muscle near your hip. She’s both domestic and dangerous in the same motion.
She stops for a second, just to look at you, like she’s admiring a private exhibit. “I want you loud,” she says. “I want your whines to echo off these tiles.” Her fingers tighten in your hair deliberately now, enough to call your attention with a sharp, delicious tug. “You okay with that?”
“Yes,” you gasp. The tug is not painful; it’s a command you willingly answer.
Her mouth clamps down along your jaw, teeth grazing the skin as she slides two fingers inside you. The contrast of the rough and the wet , the bite and the warmth , makes your knees go weak. Water beads where her back meets yours; steam trails between the arch of her neck and your cheek. Dina moves with a rhythm that increases in deliberate increments, fingers curling, palm pressing at the place that sends small electric bolts through your ribs.
“Dina,” you whine, the name a wet surrender in your mouth.
She hums against your skin. “Tell me how you like it,” she says, each word punctuated with a soft kiss. “Tell me where to hit that spot.”
“You make it faster,” you plead, breath hitching. “Harder hand on my hair. Don’t stop. Please, Dina.”
She complies with a grin that’s nearly feral. Her other hand reaches around to cup and roll your free breast with a practiced thumb, then she grabs your hair fist-full with a grip that’s possessive. The next tug yanks your head back just enough for you to arch into her , not to hurt, but to mark the beat. She thrusts her fingers with renewed insistence, then adds one more: she leans in and presses her mouth over yours with a hunger that makes the world narrow.
“Say red if you need me to ease,” she says, the words spoken in between the motion, because she wants to hear you choose to go on.
“Not,red,” you gasp, and the slip makes you laugh against her mouth; it’s the kind of breathy sound that’s half warning and half plea.
She lets out a low, pleased noise. “Good,” she says, and her grip goes firmer. Now it’s a controlled kind of rough: hair tugging in time to the angle of her fingers, one palm braced to steady your hips, the other moving like a metronome against your knee.
When she slides off and turns you around so she can align herself, you get a flash of the mischievous glint she keeps for private moments. The way she positions herself , knees planted, back arched , is purposeful. She guides herself in, slow enough to let you feel the first delicious, claiming stretch; then she picks up the pace until every thrust hits that place that makes your vision swim.
The shower becomes a drum: water on tile, Dina’s breath,rough, measured,your sounds ricocheting. Each time she tugs your hair you answer with a cry; she meets every sound with a harsh kiss to your shoulder or a low admonishment: “Louder. Say my name.”
“Dina,” you sob, and the name becomes as much a prayer as an instruction.
She laughs once, heat vibrating in her chest, then decides to mix it up. A hand slides between your bodies and finds the slick place, rubbing in sync with her hips. She picks up speed on purpose, then slows, then pins you to the tile and rubs fast, pulling you right to the cliff and then backing off like a tease from the gods. There’s wickedness in it , her wanting to see how much you’ll let her command you before you break.
“Beg for it,” she growls. “Beg like you mean it.”
You don’t waste the moment. “Please, Dina, make me come. Take me. Use me. Pull my hair, make me loud.” Your words tumble out, messy and honest.
She answers with the kind of motion that leaves you raw and humming: fast, heavy thrusts timed with the palm at the base of your skull, hair pulled in time with punctuation. You come in a bright, splintering wave , loud and involuntary , and she keeps moving, steady as the tide, until the tremors settle into a long, soft aftershock.
When the world rights itself, she pulls out and wraps her arms around you, breath hot on your neck. The shower’s roar swallows both of your exhalations; the water rinses the tension and leaves your skin clean and shining.
“Water?” she asks, lighter now. “Towel? Do you need me to check for marks?”
You laugh, breathless, and press a quick kiss to the crook of her shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe a towel and a dumb grin.” You mean it; the grin blooms because the roughness ended in care , exactly what you both promised.
She turns the water down and reaches for the big, soft towel. Her hands are gentler now , massaging your scalp to ease the pull of her fingers, tracing the line where she tugged and making sure no bruise turned into worry. She examines the place where her grip left little crescents and shrugs with mock-solemnity. “You okay?” she asks, thumb smoothing the tender places as if reading Braille.
“You,” you say, and the answer is a small, sunlit thing. “Perfect.”
She tucks you into the towel and presses you close, forehead to forehead. “Good,” she murmurs. “Because I like doing that to you. I like making you loud.” Her voice goes soft. “I like making you feel owned and then being the first one to put you back together.”
You snuggle into her warmth, fingers threading through the damp knot of her hair. “Promise me you’ll always be the one to put me back together,” you say in that small voice reserved for private vows.
“I promise,” she answers, and the weight of it is serious and sweet. She presses a kiss to your temple like an exclamation point. “And I’ll always ask first, idiot. Promise.”
You laugh into the towel, content and breathy, and she hums, the sound settling into you like music. The aftercare continues in that ordinary, perfect way: a cup of warm tea wrapped in a towel, lips stealing small kisses while she combs your hair with fingers, murmured plans for dinner and terrible movies and the way she’ll steal the last slice of pizza later.
Outside, the world keeps happening: the town whistles, the night opens and closes. Inside, under the warm threat of the showerhead and the aftermath of hair pulled and prayers said in gasps, you both sit clean and soft, the roughness of the moment folded into careful hands and tender promises. You taste each other’s breath and feel the steady, human pulse of safety , exactly the place you wanted to be