Super Hero Hijinks
With Isabela Merced and Milly Alcock
Written by TheLW
Codes: MFF, Blowjob
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.
A/N: At the time I wrote this, I hadn't seen the new Superman movie yet. This story talks about a fight scene between Hawkgirl and Supergirl, that obviously doesn't take place.
(https://thumbs2.imgbox.com/a7/c7/LpjzJDOS_t.jpg) (https://imgbox.com/LpjzJDOS)(https://thumbs2.imgbox.com/1e/27/jLs6hkqF_t.jpg) (https://imgbox.com/jLs6hkqF)
The air inside the trailer was heavy. The kind of heat that built up after a day of shooting under lights, running stunts in full costume, adrenaline still twitching in your fingers long after the director yelled “cut.”
Isabela Merced slumped into the couch, breath still a little sharp, arms braced along the backrest like she was trying to take up as much space as possible. She’d stripped off her gloves, undone the belt of her Hawkgirl uniform, but the suit still clung to her, dark greys and burning orange stripes twisting down her body like armor and warning tape all at once. Her boots were still on. She hadn't bothered to remove them.
Across from her, the door creaked open. In stepped Milly Alcock, hood down, jacket still clinging to her Supergirl costume, snow-dust still caught in her hair from the last FX-heavy shot. Her red skirt shifted with every step, and that deep blue top stretched perfectly over her chest, the bold yellow “S” rising like a brand from her skin.
“You bailed after the last take,” she said, brushing blonde hair from her cheek.
Isabela shrugged, not even opening her eyes. “Didn’t feel like doing the PR smile thing.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Milly said, her voice half-laced with something sharper than sarcasm. “Stormed off like a goddamn warrior princess.”
Now Isabela looked up.
There was a beat, a breath too long. That airless pause between two women still wired from a scene where one had nearly tackled the other for real.
“I was still in character,” Isabela said.
“No,” Milly said, kicking the door shut behind her, “you were pissed. And turned on.”
Silence again.
Then a slow, deliberate smirk crawled across Isabela’s lips. “You’re cocky for someone who barely kept up.”
Milly stepped forward, the dim trailer light tracing every fold of her costume, every glint of her belt, every curve under that skin-tight top. “I flew circles around you.”
“Because they wrote it that way.”
She was in front of her now. Standing between Isabela’s knees. The Hawkgirl actress didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just stared straight up at her, daring her to make the first move.
“You want to keep this going?” Milly asked softly, running a finger down her own zipper, stopping just before it got interesting.
Isabela's voice was like gravel. “You gonna cry when you lose off-camera too?”
Milly leaned down, palms pressing into the couch on either side of Isabela’s shoulders. Their faces were inches apart, breath mixing, heat rising off their bodies like steam trapped under their costumes.
Then the door cracked open.
A young assistant stepped in, eyes wide. “I, uh, I've got the… call sheets.”
Neither of them turned. Neither of them moved.
Isabela didn’t break eye contact. Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for Milly, but loud enough for him to hear.
“Close the door.”
Milly pulled her jacket off slowly, never looking back. “And lock it.”
Nate stood frozen by the handle, the call sheets still clutched in one sweaty hand, unsure if he should look at the floor, the ceiling, or run screaming back to the AD.
Milly finally turned her head toward him, just slightly, her voice smooth like she was still reading lines off a script. “You okay there, Nate?”
He blinked. “Y-yeah. Just, uh. You needed these, I think?” He held the papers out at arm’s length, like they might burn him if he got too close.
Isabela didn’t take her eyes off Milly. One hand slid down to rest lazily on the inside of her thigh, fingers tapping once, ta-ta-ta, just enough to make the slightly older girl inhale sharply and close her eyes for a second.
“Set them on the table,” Isabela said.
He stepped forward too quickly and nearly tripped over the edge of the rug. The papers fluttered onto the table in a crooked mess.
“Anything else?” Milly asked, glancing back over her shoulder now, barely. Her cape had slipped down the couch. The top of her costume glistened faintly with sweat, her blonde hair curled from heat and tension and something far less scripted.
Nate looked like he’d swallowed his tongue. “Uh… no, I, I think that’s it.”
“Good,” Isabela murmured, letting her hand rest just a little higher on Milly’s thigh now. “Then you can stay.”
He froze.
Milly gave him a look over her shoulder, half-amused, half-daring. “Unless you’re scared.”
Nate didn’t move.
He stood there, jaw tight, trying to process exactly what was happening in front of him. His pulse was steady, but fast, like his body knew something was off-script, even if he kept his expression as neutral as he could manage.
He didn’t blink. “I’m not scared,” he said. Too fast. Too flat.
Milly smirked, almost like she was disappointed. Isabela’s fingers had gone still on her thigh, but they didn’t move away. The younger actress finally looked at him, slow and deliberate, like a lion pausing to study a noise in the grass.
“You already saw more than you were supposed to,” she said. “What’s a little more, right?”
Nate glanced at the floor, then back up. He was aware of how loud the trailer had gotten the hum of the AC, the faint creak of the couch, the buzz in his own head. Everything else felt far away. Unimportant.
“I should probably… lock the door,” he said.
A few moments later, Isabela and Milly shifted, almost in sync, peeling themselves off the cushions like they’d just finished the first act of a performance only they understood. Neither said a word. They didn’t have to. The look they exchanged was enough.
Milly patted the seat between them, then stepped aside. Isabela followed suit, that same sly glint still dancing behind her eyes. Nate hesitated for half a second, then sat. Not too fast. Not too casual. He leaned back, keeping his hands flat on his thighs, not daring to move.
The couch cushions barely had time to settle before the two of them dropped to their knees in front of him, graceful, deliberate, like it had all been rehearsed. Like they’d done this before.
Maybe they had.
Nate’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t move. He just watched. Waited. Let it happen.
Isabela’s hand found the zipper of his jeans, a casual flick of her wrist, the zipper felt louder than it should have. Milly shifted forward beside her, stretching her neck, chin practically resting on Nate’s knee as she watched Isabela work, her blue eyes bright with challenge, maybe at Isabela, maybe at him.
Isabela slid her fingers beneath the waistband and tugged downward, just enough to get his jeans and boxers to his thighs. He was already half-hard and embarrassed at how fast he'd gotten there, but neither of them reacted, not really. Isabela pushed his shirt up, and the brush of her palm on his stomach, even just the casual pressure of it, made his heart skip.
He expected her to start, but it was Milly who leaned in first. She rested her palm on his thigh, a cool, confident touch, and then traced her tongue up the length of his cock. She didn’t break eye contact. Isabela watched, letting her hand drift higher, tracing his hip bones, then finally closing over his shaft with an ease that made it obvious she’d done this before, even if he hadn’t. At least, not like this.
Milly gripped the base, thumb pressing into the sensitive skin beneath, and flicked her tongue over the tip, then with a sudden hard swipe that made his knee twitch. Nate sucked in a breath, a sharp enough intake that Isabela let out a laugh beside him.
“No wonder he hung around,” Isabela said.
Milly grinned and tilted her mouth to take him in deeper, the too-slick curl of her tongue unexpected, her lips tight enough to make him grit his teeth. She didn’t gag, didn’t slow, just let him bump the back of her throat and then eased up, leaving a trail of spit on his skin. She turned her head, wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist, and handed him off to Isabela with a look that said, Your turn, bitch.
Isabela didn’t waste any time. She took him farther, her fingers braced on his hips, nails dragging bright lines over his skin. Her mouth was hotter somehow, her tongue less careful, and the way she took him to the hilt made his vision pinch at the edges. He reached for the back of the couch.
Her mouth was relentless, sinking and drawing, Isabela’s lips stretched perfectly in that obscene way, her jaw moving in practiced, hungry motions, tongue working him over like she was starving for it. Isabela made these wicked, greedy sounds whenever she took him deeper, and the surreal part was, she never looked away from him. Not once. Even when she choked herself on his cock, even when Milly’s hand found the back of her head and pushed just enough to make Isabela’s eyes go glassy.
He could feel Isabela’s hair against his thigh, whisper-soft, and hear Milly’s breathing, close enough to his skin that the exhale made him shiver. Every so often, Milly would lean in and drag her tongue along his shaft just above where Isabela’s mouth clipped, like she was checking someone else’s work, her mouth quirking in a crooked grin. Isabela finally pulled off, chin slick, mouth red from the effort.
“You gonna let her show you up?” Nate asked.
Milly smiled, and tapped Isabela’s chin with two fingers. “Move,” she said.
Isabela’s mouth slipped off him with a faint pop, her jaw working as if she’d been chewing through a tough steak, but she didn’t argue. Her hand kept hold at the base, squeezing, as Milly muscled her way in, palm on Nate’s knee, perfectly manicured fingers digging through denim. Milly’s lips met the head of his cock with a plush, determined firmness, none of Isabela’s theatrics, her tongue did the working, swirling and flattening, coaxing instead of challenging.
Isabela rolled her tongue over his balls, warm and wet, then sucked one into her mouth, hard enough to make him hiss. Milly went back to work, her lips soft but her rhythm competitive, every bob a little deeper than before. She reached up and gripped his thigh. Nate wanted to flex, to thrust, to do anything except hold still, but he felt cemented to the spot.
They kept stealing glances at each other, and, fuck, sometimes at him, like they were waiting for him to pick a winner.
The next ten minutes blurred in flashes, sweat, spit, biting and staking territory, every inch of him contested by their mouths or hands or the push-pull glances traded overhead. They worked him like a prop, passing him back and forth, occasionally taunting each other in venom like whispers. For a minute the trailer was just a pressure cooker set on fuck, leaking heat and breath and the wet noises of too many tongues for one cock.
At some point, Milly pulled off, flicking her tongue once at the tip while Isabela’s lips were still gliding along the underside. Milly stood, pacing her breathing, brushing her hair back with both hands, looking almost annoyed at herself for needing air. Isabela knelt there, tongue out, head tilted, a snarl-smile on her mouth as she watched Milly steady herself. Not a word passed between them, not a word needed.
Instead, Isabela reached up, took Milly by the wrist, and yanked her down into her lap. The two of them crashed, mouth on mouth, neither flinching at the taste that lingered between them. Isabela’s hands were all over Milly’s back, digging at the zipper, while Milly did the same, wrestling with the hook at the top of Isabela’s own costume.
Milly finally thumped both boots on the coffee table, letting Isabela work at getting her skirt off. The blue top went with it, the cape a casualty, flung on the couch. He’d already guessed what Milly looked like under the costume. He’d seen the way her chest pressed against the compression top, the hint of midriff when she reached for anything, the length of thigh above the boots. But watching her peel back the outfit and go bare in front of Isabela, in front of him, was a different story.
Moments later, Isabela was just as naked as Milly was. Isabela shivered in the cross-breeze, skin pimpling, nipples already hard, and Milly leered, her eyes ticking up and down, hungry as a stray.
Milly was on him, straddling his lap, her knees braced hard against the cushions on either side. Her hand guided him in, zero hesitation, and Nate felt himself slide into her all the way. She didn’t pause to gasp or recover before she started riding, low and rough, grinding along his cock with every tilt of her hips.
She was loud. Not in the porn way, not shrieking or forced, but deep in the chest, full-throated and real, every movement making her exhale harder, a moan turned inside-out. Milly gripped his shoulders, using them for leverage, and every time she rolled forward, her tits pressed flush against his t-shirt, hard nipples scraping through the fabric until he reached up, dragging it off over his head.
Isabela collapsed onto the couch next to him, hair wild and half-damp with sweat. She didn’t even wait for Milly to settle her rhythm, Isabela’s mouth found Milly’s jaw, working down her neck in a slow, open-mouthed drag that left a smear of spit and maybe a bite mark. Nate watched the bite happen, Isabela’s canines dug in just hard enough to make Milly’s hips spasm, a jolt so sharp it made him swear under his breath. Milly threw her head back and rode him harder, as if trying to outpace her own reaction.
Nate tried to focus on the sight of Milly riding him, on the ache in his palms as he gripped her hips, but Isabela’s mouth kept finding new territory on Milly’s skin, licking and sucking, hands everywhere, the small of her back, her ribs, one tangled in her hair. Milly jerked when Isabela’s hand went between her legs, thumb finding the clit they both shared as target, and Milly’s next moan was pure animalistic.
“Jesus fuck, Isabela,” Milly growled, and Nate felt the way her pussy clenched around him, the way her thighs flexed, her whole body bucking forward to chase whatever new sensation Isabela had sparked.
He watched Milly thrash against Isabela’s hand, every breath ragged now. He felt her clench even tighter around him, saw her jaw lock and her brow scrunch up like she was trying to outstay the feeling but losing, losing hard. She bit his shoulder, hard, and then muttered “fuck” into the crook of his neck.
And then Milly came, hard and helpless, locking on him so tight his vision went blurry for a second. She spasmed in his lap, hips bucking, body pulsing against Isabela’s insistent fingers and his cock at the same time.
“Ugh fuck!”
Milly’s shout barely made it out of her throat, but it was there.
Isabela grinned as Milly collapsed. She didn’t just grin, she beamed, eyes glittering, mouth open like she wanted to cackle at her handiwork. She gave Milly’s ass a little pat, then a squeeze.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Milly,” Isabela said, “…Don’t go soft on me, big boy. I’m just getting started.”
Milly hung there, limp and mewling, her hair fallen over her face. Isabela let her rest maybe half a beat before shoving her sideways off Nate’s lap. Milly rolled to the side and fell back against the armrest, grinning at Isabela, who was already climbing over the couch, knees planted on either side of him. She spun herself around and paused, looking behind her to check his face.
Isabela backed herself onto him, one slow, perfect motion, until her ass was flush against his hips and he could see every inch of her back, the sharp cut of her shoulder blades. The angle made it different, deeper, and he lost a second figuring out if he had enough left in him for what was about to happen. The answer came quickly, yes, and then some.
“So good.”
Isabela didn’t ride him, she fucking staked out territory, grinding with a steady, rolling twist, always moving, muscle flexing under her skin with every shift of her hips. She reached down, bracing against the nearby table and arching her back, head bowed, hair splayed over her arms like she’d lost all interest in how she looked.
Isabela’s head ducked lower, almost between her own knees, and she started working herself over his cock with a drive that made the rest of the room dissolve. There was no world outside the trailer. Nothing but skin, friction, and a sticky, sweet stench of girls in heat. Nate grabbed her hips. Couldn't stop himself. The bones were sharp and perfect, the skin oddly soft, the muscles underneath tense as a bowstring.
He moved her up and down, not that she needed the help, but because he had to do something, had to have some say in the way she used him. Nate lost the rhythm in seconds. Isabela steamed ahead, making every bounce meaner, deeper, as she took every inch of his cock. She looked back, hair stuck to her face, lips swollen, the tip of her tongue pushing against the very edge of her teeth. “C’mon,” she rasped, “don’t punk out now. I want to feel it.”
He didn’t know if she meant the words for him, or for herself, or for the challenge of the whole messed-up, beautiful moment. But he wanted to give her what she wanted. He wanted to be the best goddamn Nate in the entire history of Nates if only just for these five minutes.
He could barely breathe. Isabela’s pace had gone molten, every time she slammed herself down, the sound of skin meeting skin ricocheted off the wood paneling of the table. Sweat crawled down his spine. His hands slipped once on her hips, then caught again, fingers digging harder than he meant. He could feel every flex in her body, and every time he bottomed out she made a noise, not loud but insistent, like she was cataloging each thrust for later.
Behind Isabela, Milly was still catching her breath, mouth half-open, one hand between her thighs, fingers moving lazy and slow.
He felt the build, low and mean, rolling up from his legs. Isabela felt it too, or just read the tension, and she started grinding instead of bouncing, her ass flattening against him with each circle. She turned her head, giving him one long, sideways look and offered a wicked grin.
Nate gave her everything he had. He locked both hands around her waist and slammed up into her, fast and ragged, chasing the end like he was sprinting the last lap of a race. With every thrust, Isabela’s ass thudded against his hips, and she met his pace with every thrust.
He lost himself, in the moment, coming harder than he ever thought possible, every muscle rigid. Isabela didn’t stop. She took it all, every shudder, grinding down onto him, before slumping forward so her palms hit the table.
The trailer was quiet now, Nate sat slouched back on the couch, chest rising and falling with a rhythm that hadn’t quite steadied yet.
No one said anything for a long moment.
Milly broke the silence first, running a hand through her hair and letting out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh. “So,” she said, turning just enough to glance at him over her shoulder, “you still scared?”
Nate let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if he wasn’t so drained. “Little late to ask that, don’t you think?”
Isabela smirked from her spot on the floor, chin resting on one hand. “Could’ve fooled me,” she said. Then, quieter, “You held it together.”
He didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure what the hell you were supposed to say after something like that. His mind was already jumping ahead, to the walk back across set, the eyes, the whispers, the way the director was definitely going to chew him out for disappearing.
Milly stretched, her bare shoulders catching the light. “You should probably go before someone starts looking.”
Nate nodded.
At the door, he paused. “This… uh. This isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”
Isabela leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Only if you make it one.”
Milly gave him a wink. “We’ll let you know if we need a callback.”
Nate didn’t answer. He just pulled the door open, stepped out into the sun-soaked walkway, and tried not to look like he’d just walked off the edge of reality.
The End