A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 14 - Scarlett Johansson and Elizabeth Olsen Part 1 (Avengers: Age of Ultron) - Part 2 of Part 1
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.
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.
***
The rest of the afternoon was pure 2nd 2nd AD chaos—coordinating background movement for a big street scene, making sure extras hit their marks without blocking the heroes. Osiah moved through the crowd with calm authority, headset clipped to his belt, clipboard in hand. The set was loud: generators humming, grips shouting adjustments, the occasional crackle of walkie traffic. He cut through it all without raising his voice.
"Background, reset on my mark," he said steadily into the walkie, then stepped directly into the group of fifty-plus extras dressed as Sokovian civilians. "You're not watching a movie. You live here. When the debris starts flying and the heroes show up, you're annoyed. This is your street, your day ruined. Eyes on each other, not on the camera. Let's sell it."
He adjusted positions one by one—nudging a man two feet left so he wouldn't cross into Ruffalo's sightline, tapping a woman on the shoulder to turn her body slightly. "Good. Keep that frustration in your shoulders. You've got groceries to get home to."
A few extras nodded, visibly relaxing under his calm direction. Others straightened up, taking the note seriously. Osiah didn't yell. He didn't need to. His presence carried enough weight now that people listened.
Nearby, Elizabeth Olsen was rehearsing a short beat with Mark Ruffalo. She carried herself with quiet focus—soft voice, thoughtful eyes, head tilted slightly as she listened to direction. But when she slipped into Wanda mode, something sharper emerged underneath: a steeliness in her posture, a subtle tension in her hands as she practiced the small energy flick. Her movements were precise, controlled, but there was an emotional weight to them that made the power feel lived-in rather than performed.
When the take wrapped and the director called for a reset, Osiah stepped in to handle the background. As he passed Elizabeth, he kept his voice low enough not to carry across the set.
"Nice work," he said. "That subtle hand movement with the energy—you made it feel real. Not just magic. Like it costs you something."
She looked up, surprised, then offered a small, genuine smile that reached her eyes. "Thanks. It's trickier than it looks. Trying to make it feel like it's pulling from somewhere personal instead of just waving my hand around." She paused, studying him for a second. "You're the new 2nd 2nd, right? Osiah?"
"That's me."
"I've heard good things. People say you actually know what you're doing. Not just moving bodies around, but making the whole thing feel smoother."
He gave a slight shrug, nothing showy. "Just trying to keep the circus from burning down. If the background behaves, the heroes can actually do their job."
She laughed softly, a warm, quiet sound that cut through the set noise for a moment. There was something open and curious in her expression—like she was really seeing him, not just another crew guy with a headset. Her eyes lingered on his face, then flicked briefly to his hands before returning. "Well, keep it up. Makes my job easier when the background actually behaves instead of staring at the camera or wandering into frame."
Their eyes held for a beat longer than necessary. Not awkward, but charged. Osiah felt it—the subtle shift in the air between them. Elizabeth's cheeks colored just slightly before she looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Elizabeth, we're ready for you," an AD called from the monitor area.
She gave Osiah one last small smile. "See you around."
He watched her go, the sway of her hips subtle under her costume, that quiet focus returning as she stepped back into position. Scarlett's earlier words echoed in the back of his mind, low and insistent. The image of Elizabeth on her knees, wide-eyed and breaking, flickered unbidden. He pushed it down. Not here. Not now.
The afternoon dragged on with more resets, more adjustments, more quiet corrections. Osiah stayed in motion—clearing sightlines, calming a nervous extra who kept flinching at the practical sparks, repositioning a group so the camera could catch the right reactions without anyone blocking Ruffalo or Olsen. His voice stayed even on the walkie, his movements efficient. The chaos felt manageable under his hands.
The day finally wrapped late, the sun long gone, the set lights casting long shadows across the massive stage. Osiah was near the edge of the street set, wrapping up his notes on the call sheet and marking times for the background actors, when he noticed Elizabeth walking slowly along the perimeter. Her eyes scanned the ground, steps careful and deliberate. She looked distracted, a little frustrated, lips pressed into a thin line as she searched for something small.
He filed it away—the way her shoulders carried tension, the focused furrow in her brow, the quiet determination in her movements. Something to remember.
***
Elizabeth kept searching the edges of the set long after most of the crew had started packing up. The pin was small—a simple silver butterfly her mother had given her when she was ten. It had been on her jacket earlier during rehearsal, clipped near the collar. Now it was gone, and the thought of losing it gnawed at her like a quiet ache she couldn't shake. It wasn't expensive, but it was one of the few things she still carried from home that felt personal, untouched by the industry.
She crouched near a stack of equipment crates, the rough concrete cold against her knees as she scanned the floor under the harsh work lights. Shadows stretched long and jagged between the rigs and coiled cables. Her fingers brushed over dust and small bits of tape, heart sinking a little more with every empty inch.
That's when she heard it.
A low, rhythmic sound. Flesh meeting flesh. Heavy breathing. A woman's voice, breathy and strained, trying to stay quiet but failing.
Elizabeth froze, her hand still hovering above the ground. The noises were unmistakable—wet, steady slaps mixed with soft, desperate gasps. Curiosity pulled her forward before common sense could stop her. She rose slowly, heart hammering, and moved behind a tall lighting rig, careful to keep her footsteps silent on the concrete.
She peeked around the corner.
Scarlett Johansson was bent over a sturdy equipment table, her tactical pants yanked down around her thighs, leaving her ass completely bare. The firm, rounded cheeks rippled and bounced with every hard thrust, the pale skin already flushed pink from repeated impact. Her Black Widow top was still zipped up most of the way, but the front had been pulled open enough that her full tits spilled out, heavy and swaying wildly back and forth with the force of the fucking. The soft, pale flesh jiggled heavily, the weight of her breasts making them slap together lightly with each powerful stroke. Her nipples were hard and dark, stiff peaks that caught the dim overhead light every time her body rocked forward.
Her left arm was pulled back sharply, wrist gripped tight in a strong hand, forcing her back into a deep, exaggerated arch that made her spine curve and her ass push out even more invitingly. Her right hand held a phone to her ear, knuckles white around the device as she struggled to keep her voice steady.
"Yeah… baby, I'm just… finishing up some stunt rehearsal," Scarlett panted into the phone, her voice shaky and uneven, each word broken by the relentless rhythm of the thrusts. "It's intense tonight. Really working me hard."
{R-18 Scene Osiah x Scarlett Johansson 3642 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
Elizabeth came quietly behind the rig. Her thighs shook violently, knees buckling as the orgasm crashed through her. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, stifling any sound as pleasure pulsed hot and sharp between her legs. Her fingers were soaked, buried deep in her own dripping cunt, rubbing frantically through the climax while her eyes stayed glued to the scene. Wave after wave rolled through her, leaving her trembling and breathless, her free hand gripping the lighting rig for support as her cunt spasmed around her fingers.
She watched until they finally finished. Scarlett whispered filthy little promises into the phone between soft moans—"Can't wait to feel your hands on me when i get back… I'm going to be so sore tomorrow…"—while Osiah's thick cum leaked steadily down her thighs in slow, creamy trails, dripping onto the table beneath her.
When it was over, Elizabeth slipped away on unsteady legs. Her face burned with shame and lingering arousal, her mind reeling, heart still pounding wildly in her chest. Every step felt shaky, her soaked panties clinging uncomfortably between her thighs as the images replayed behind her eyes.
***
The next morning Osiah was back in full 2nd 2nd AD mode. He moved through the extras with calm authority, positioning them for a wide street shot involving floating debris and panicked civilians. The set was alive with the usual controlled chaos—grips adjusting practical rigs for flying rubble, the low hum of fans ready to simulate wind, and the distant clatter of equipment being moved into place. Osiah cut through it all like he belonged there, headset on, voice steady on the walkie.
"Remember—you're not screaming in terror," he told a cluster of background actors gathered near a fake storefront. "You're annoyed. This is your city. These superheroes keep wrecking your commute. You've got places to be, kids to pick up, coffee getting cold. Sell the frustration. Eyes on each other, muttered complaints, maybe a glare at the sky. Let's make it feel real."
One of the older extras nodded, adjusting his jacket with a grumble that already sounded convincing. Osiah gave a small approving nod and moved on, adjusting a few marks with quick gestures—tapping a woman's shoulder to shift her two feet left, nudging a man's stance so he wouldn't block the camera's sightline on Elizabeth's upcoming beat. He gave quiet notes as he went: "Less panic, more irritation," "Good, keep that shoulder tension," "You're late for work, not running from a monster." The extras responded immediately, their movements tightening up under his direction. He kept the whole machine moving without raising his voice once.
Elizabeth was nearby, rehearsing a short reaction beat off to the side. She stood with quiet focus, listening to the director's last notes, her hands making small, controlled gestures as she practiced the subtle energy flick for Wanda. When the take wrapped and the crew called for reset, Osiah walked past her at a measured pace and nodded.
"Morning. You good?"
She startled slightly, her head snapping up. A faint flush crept across her cheeks almost instantly. "Yeah. Fine. Just… didn't sleep great."
He studied her for a second, taking in the details. She looked distracted, eyes flicking away too quickly, landing on the ground, then his chest, then away again. Her thighs pressed together just a little tighter than normal, a subtle shift in her stance that betrayed the tension running through her body. He knew exactly why. The memory of last night was written all over her— the way her breathing hitched, the faint pink still lingering on her neck.
"Need anything adjusted before the next setup?" he asked, voice even and professional, giving nothing away.
"No, I'm okay." Her voice came out a touch higher than usual, a little breathless at the edges.
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