A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 14 - Scarlett Johansson and Elizabeth Olsen Part 1 (Avengers: Age of Ultron) - Part 1 of Part 1
The set of Avengers: Age of Ultron felt like stepping into a different league. Bigger stages, more cranes, more noise, more money riding on every take. Osiah Morse moved through it with the same quiet focus he'd had on the first film, but now the lanyard around his neck said 2nd 2nd AD instead of Production Assistant. The difference was real.
He spotted Benjamin Davis near the monitors, the cinematographer nursing a coffee while checking a playback. Osiah walked over and gave him a nod.
"Ben."
Davis turned, eyebrows lifting in recognition. A slow grin spread across his face. "Morse. Look at you. They finally gave you some real keys."
"Still feels like I'm herding cats most days," Osiah said, shaking the man's hand firmly. "But yeah. Bigger chair, bigger headset. Thanks for that, by the way. Your vouch back on the first one opened doors I didn't even know existed. And everything since."
Davis waved it off, but there was real satisfaction in his eyes. "You earned it. I just told them the truth—you showed up on time, you didn't bitch, and you actually paid attention. That already put you ahead of half the PAs I've worked with. Plus, I remembered you from that bar you used to work at in college. Always poured a clean drink, never watered it down even when the place was packed. Figured a guy who could handle drunk film students on a Friday night could handle this circus."
Osiah chuckled, the memory hitting him quick. "Those were simpler nights. No exploding robots. Just trying to keep the undergrads from starting fights over the last pitcher."
Davis laughed. "Exactly. And you did it without breaking a sweat. Same energy here. I told the line producer, 'Give the kid a shot. He'll keep the background from eating the frame and still have time to fix a light that's flickering.' They listened."
They stood there for a minute, the controlled chaos of the set humming around them—grips shouting adjustments, extras getting positioned, the low whine of a camera rig moving into place. Osiah glanced at the monitor, watching the playback Davis had been reviewing. It was a wide establishing shot, the kind that made the budget feel worth every dollar.
"Looks solid," Osiah said.
"It will be once we nail the extras' movement. They keep drifting left on the third beat." Davis took another sip of coffee, then set the cup down. "You know how it is. Everyone wants to look cool, so they lean into the hero instead of reacting like normal people would."
"I'll tighten it up," Osiah said simply. "I've got a couple of the background captains who listen. We'll run a quick reset before the next take."
Davis nodded, respect clear in his expression. "Appreciate it. Most 2nd 2nds just yell into the walkie. You actually talk to them like humans. Makes a difference."
Osiah shrugged, but the compliment landed. "Just doing the job. You vouched for me when I was nobody. Least I can do is not fuck it up now that I've got the title."
The older man clapped him on the shoulder again, the gesture solid and genuine. "You're not fucking it up. You're making it look easy. That's rarer than you think in this town."
They talked for a few more minutes—catching up on recent gigs, swapping quick stories about nightmare locations and nightmare producers. Davis mentioned a brutal night shoot in Prague on another project where the rain machines froze solid. Osiah countered with a story from a low-budget horror flick he'd worked right after the first Avengers, where the director had insisted on practical blood that smelled like rotting meat by hour fourteen.
"Those were simpler nights," Osiah repeated with a half-smile. "No exploding robots. Just trying to keep the fake gore from clotting in the hoses."
Davis barked a laugh. "Give it time. We'll get there. Ultron's got enough explosions for both of us."
"Copy that."
Davis got called back to the camera rig, something about a lens change. Osiah watched him go, feeling a quiet gratitude settle in his chest. Not many people in this town stuck their neck out without expecting something in return. Ben had—back when Osiah was just another PA running cables and fetching coffee. He'd told the right people that the kid with the busted knee and the steady hands worked well under pressure, knew how to keep a set moving without drama. That recommendation had snowballed. First into more PA gigs, then into this. It mattered.
Osiah adjusted his headset and turned back toward the extras. The set stretched out around him—massive green screens, towering practical sets dressed as Sokovian streets, cranes looming overhead like mechanical dinosaurs. The air smelled of ozone from the rigs, fresh paint, and the faint metallic tang of the pyrotechnics team testing charges off in the distance. This was bigger than the first Avengers. Sharper. More money, more eyes, more pressure. But the core felt the same: keep the machine running smooth so the actors could do their thing and the camera could catch it.
He moved through the background actors with the same calm authority he'd built over the years. A quick word here, a hand on a shoulder there, repositioning someone who'd drifted too far into the hero's sightline.
"You're not tourists," he told a cluster of them, voice low but carrying. "You live here. This is your street. When the debris starts flying and the heroes show up, you're annoyed more than scared. This shit interrupts your day. Sell that. Eyes on each other, not on the camera."
One of the younger extras nodded quickly, adjusting his jacket. Osiah gave him an approving nod and kept moving. He spotted a woman in the back row looking lost and stepped over.
"Mark's two feet left," he said, pointing. "You're trying to get to the market stall. Keep it natural—don't rush. You've got kids waiting at home. This chaos is the last thing you need."
She smiled gratefully. "Thanks. First big set like this."
"You're doing fine," he said. "Just breathe and react like a person."
He stepped back, scanning the whole group with a practiced eye. The difference in his role hit him again. A few years ago he'd been the one fetching water and taping cables. Now he was the one making sure the whole machine didn't grind because someone stepped wrong. It felt good. Solid.
His walkie crackled. "Osiah, we need a reset on the civilian block. They're bunching again."
"On it," he replied, already moving.
As he worked, the scale of the production settled over him. This wasn't just another job. It was the big leagues, and he was no longer on the periphery. He had keys. Real ones. And people like Ben Davis had helped him earn them.
He allowed himself one small, private smile before the next reset call came through.
He was still standing there when a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise behind him.
"Well, well. Look who climbed the ladder."
Osiah turned.
Scarlett Johansson stood a few feet away in her updated Black Widow tactical suit. The fabric hugged every line of her body—strong shoulders, narrow waist, the full swell of her tits, and the powerful curve of her ass that the suit did nothing to hide. The material was tighter than he remembered, stretched smooth over the firm roundness of her ass and the heavy weight of her breasts, leaving very little to the imagination. Her red hair was pulled back tight into a practical ponytail, but a few strands had already escaped, framing her face in soft wisps. She looked every bit the global superstar she had become, confident and untouchable under the harsh set lights. But the look in her eyes when they met his was pure Scarlett—the same direct, hungry glint that had pulled him into her trailer years ago on the first Avengers shoot.
"Scarlett," he said, keeping his voice even, professional.
She stepped closer, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her skin under the stage makeup—warm, clean, with a hint of the vanilla lotion she still favored. Her eyes flicked over him slowly, taking in the headset, the clipboard, the way he carried himself now with real authority.
"Heard you were running part of the show now. 2nd 2nd AD. Impressive."
"Someone's gotta keep the background from tripping over the heroes," he replied, tone steady.
Her mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile. "And someone's gotta keep me from getting too stiff between takes." Her gaze drifted down his body deliberately, lingering at his chest and lower, before sliding back up to his face. The heat in her eyes was unmistakable. "Got a minute? There's a storage closet behind Stage 3 that's not being used right now. Plenty of spare Quinjet parts if you want something to brace me against."
Osiah's jaw tightened. Heat stirred low in his gut, immediate and familiar. "You don't waste time."
"Never did with you." She turned on her heel without another word, giving him a deliberate, unhurried view of that powerful ass as she walked away. The tactical pants clung to every curve, the fabric stretching taut with each step. "Come on, Magic Man. I've been thinking about this since I heard you were back."
He followed.
The closet was dim and cluttered with crates of spare parts and metal rigging stacked against the walls. The second the door clicked shut behind them, Scarlett was on him—mouth hungry and demanding, her hands already tugging at his belt with impatient fingers. She kissed him hard, tongue sliding against his, a low sound of need vibrating in her throat.
Osiah spun her around fast, pressing her front against a tall metal shelf lined with Quinjet panels and coiled cables. Her palms slapped flat against the cool surface for balance. She arched her back instinctively, pushing her ass back toward him.
"Fuck, I missed this," she breathed, voice already rough.
He didn't waste time talking. His hands went to her hips, yanking the tactical pants down just enough to free that perfect, firm ass. The material bunched around her thighs, leaving her exposed. He brought his palm down in a sharp, possessive crack across one cheek. The sound echoed in the small space. Scarlett gasped, a shiver running through her, and pushed back harder against him, silently asking for more.
He freed his cock, already rock-hard and heavy. He dragged the thick head through her folds, feeling how soaked she was—hot, slick, ready. She was dripping for him.
"No teasing," she ordered, voice low and rough with need. "Just fuck me."
He didn't argue. One powerful thrust buried him to the hilt inside her tight, wet cunt. Scarlett's head fell forward, a choked moan escaping her lips as her walls clenched hard around his thick length. The sudden stretch made her thighs tremble.
{R-18 Scene Osiah x Scarlett Johansson 1638 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
Think about it. Elizabeth. Sweet, soft-spoken Liz. Always so composed. I want you to ruin her for anyone else. Slowly. Make her addicted to this cock. Make her crave it. Then we play with her together—both of us."
He didn't answer right away. The idea sat heavy in his chest—part reluctance, part dark curiosity. He wasn't in the habit of chasing every beautiful woman on set just because he could. He'd never needed to. But Scarlett's words had planted something dangerous, something that lingered.
They cleaned up quickly, using whatever wipes and paper towels were scattered around the closet. Scarlett straightened her suit, fixed her hair, and gave him one last wicked smile before slipping out first. Osiah waited a minute, then followed, adjusting his headset and wiping the last traces of sweat from his face.
He got back to work like nothing had happened—voice calm on the walkie, movements steady as he directed the next reset for the extras.
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