A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 1 - Scarlett Johansson
The air on the set of the first *Avengers* movie was a unique blend of controlled chaos and simmering frustration. For Osiah Morse, it was paradise. A recent graduate from USC's School of Cinematic Arts, he wasn't here to direct or act. He was a production assistant, a glorified gofer, but he was a gofer on the set of a Joss Whedon film. Every moment was a masterclass. He absorbed everything, the way the camera crews moved with silent efficiency, the booming voice of the assistant director calling the roll, the sheer, overwhelming scale of it all.
Osiah's path to film was unconventional. In college, his dreams of playing football for the Trojans had been cut short by a blown-out knee in his sophomore year. The injury was a blessing in disguise. It forced him off the field and into the film department, but it also kept him connected to the team. He'd become the Team Manager, a role that morphed into something more. He'd spent hours in the training room, learning from the sports medicine staff. He'd learned the anatomy of the human body not from a textbook, but from the strained hamstrings and dislocated shoulders of Division I athletes. He'd become an expert in taping, in heat therapy, and most importantly, in the art of the deep tissue massage. He could soothe a screaming quadriceps or coax a locked-up back into submission. It was a skill that was as much about psychology as it was about pressure, about reading the body and understanding its limits.
His reputation for it, oddly enough, had preceded him. He'd helped a key grip with a vicious lower back spasm one afternoon, and word had spread through the below-the-line crew like wildfire. He wasn't a player, but he could keep the players in the game. It was a quiet, satisfying kind of power, and it was a power that soon caught the attention of those who needed it most.
On a set populated by highly-paid stuntmen and seasoned actors, the person who needed the most keeping-in-the-game was, paradoxically, the movie's sole female superstar. Scarlett Johansson was throwing herself into the role of Black Widow with a ferocity that bordered on obsessive. She'd insisted on doing as many of her own stunts as the insurance underwriters would allow, which meant she was constantly in a state of low-grade agony. Osiah, from his vantage point on the periphery, saw it in the way she moved between takes—a slight stiffness in her shoulders, a subtle wince as she lowered herself into a chair, the way she'd subtly stretch her lower back when she thought no one was looking. She was a warrior, but even warriors needed to have their armor polished and their dents hammered out. And Osiah was fast becoming known as the best armorer on the lot.
The request came, as it often did in Hollywood, through an intermediary. It wasn't Scarlett herself who approached him, but her personal assistant, a harried-looking woman named Chloe who always seemed to be carrying three phones and a gallon of coffee.
"Osiah?" she'd asked, finding him by the craft services table, meticulously organizing the straws. "Chloe. I work for Ms. Johansson."
"I know," Osiah said calmly, his eyes meeting hers. He wasn't star-struck. He'd seen enough of the machine to know that the stars were just the most visible cogs.
"Right. Of course. Look, I heard you… have a way with your hands. With massages."
"I have some experience," he conceded, his tone even.
"She's tied up in knots. The stunt coordinator keeps pushing her, and she keeps pushing back—it's not sustainable. She's tried everyone, but they either coddle her or crush her. She was told you know how to strike the balance."
Osiah nodded slowly. "I know the difference between therapeutic and damaging."
"Good. She's in her trailer. She's got a two-hour break before they're ready for her on the greenscreen stage. Can you… help?"
"I can try," Osiah said. It wasn't a yes or a no. It was a statement of intent. He grabbed a small canvas bag containing his tools: a bottle of hypoallergenic massage oil, a few clean towels, and his focus.
Scarlett Johansson's trailer was a paradox: an oasis of calm in the middle of a maelstrom. It was spacious and immaculate, smelling of expensive lotion and fresh coffee. She was sitting on a plush velvet sofa, legs tucked underneath her, wearing a soft, grey robe that was a size too big for her. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and without the makeup and the tactical suit, she looked younger, more vulnerable. The hard edges of Black Widow were softened into the weary lines of a woman who was carrying the physical weight of a blockbuster on her shoulders.
"You must be Osiah," she said. Her voice was lower than it was in interviews, a little rougher. "Chloe speaks very highly of your… talents."
"She's kind," he said, setting his bag down. "She said you were having some trouble with soreness."
"Trouble is an understatement," she sighed, a small, humorless smile playing on her lips. "I feel like I've been used as a punching bag by a very angry, very large robot. My back is one giant knot."
"Why don't you lie down on your stomach?" he said, his voice a low, steady command. It wasn't a question. It was a directive. He gestured to the large, queen-sized bed in the adjoining section of the trailer. "On top of the covers. I'll need access to your shoulders, your lower back, your glutes, and your hamstrings. The robe will need to be open."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face. Most people bent over backward to be careful with her. Osiah didn't. He was calm, direct, matter-of-fact—and somehow that was disarming. She did as he asked, crossing to the bed and lying down. The robe loosened under her hands, the belt sliding free as the fabric fell open to reveal her back, the gentle line of her spine vanishing into the towel draped over her hips.
Osiah moved with a quiet efficiency. He draped a towel over her upper thighs and another over her lower back, leaving only the target areas exposed. He warmed the oil in his hands, the scent of eucalyptus and lavender filling the air. He didn't speak. He just began.
His first touch was light, a diagnostic sweep of her shoulders. He could feel it immediately. The trapezius muscles were like solid cables, locked down and screaming. He worked his thumbs into the thick tissue, and she let out a sharp hiss of air.
"Easy there," she breathed.
"Relax into it," he commanded, his voice unwavering. "Push back against my thumbs. Don't let the muscle win."
He began to work, his movements precise and economical. This wasn't a spa massage. This was bodywork. He used his elbows, his forearms, the heels of his palms. He found the trigger points in her shoulders and applied sustained, deep pressure, forcing the muscle fibers to release. She grunted, her fists clenching into the pillows, but she didn't ask him to stop. She was a fighter. She understood pain as a precursor to progress.
As he worked his way down her back, he could feel the tension begin to melt away, replaced by a different kind of energy. Her breathing, which had been shallow and tight, started to deepen. The occasional hisses of pain were replaced by soft, involuntary moans of relief. He was unlocking her, piece by piece.
When he reached her lower back, the source of her primary complaint, he knew he was in the thick of it. The lumbar muscles were seized, a protective spasm from the constant impact and twisting of her stunt work.
"This is the problem child," he murmured, more to himself than to her. He placed a hand on the small of her back, his palm flat and warm. "Breathe in. When you breathe out, I'm going in. Don't fight it."
She took a deep, shuddering breath. As she exhaled, he drove his thumb deep into the belly of the muscle, right beside her spine. She cried out, a raw, guttural sound that was half pain, half release.
"Jesus," she gasped, her body arching slightly off the bed.
"Breathe," he reminded her, his voice a low anchor in the storm of sensation. He held the pressure, feeling the muscle tremble and fight beneath his thumb, then slowly, agonizingly, begin to yield. He repeated the process, finding every knot, every adhesion, and systematically dismantling them. He was a sculptor, and her body was his clay.
And then, the atmosphere began to shift.
It started subtly. A change in the quality of her moans. The sounds of pain were being replaced by something else, something softer, more… appreciative. As he worked the powerful muscles of her glutes and hamstrings, he noticed her hips beginning to move, a tiny, almost imperceptible rocking against the mattress. It was an unconscious response, a primal reaction to the intense stimulation. He was manipulating the largest muscle group in her body, connected to the pelvis, the seat of her core. The therapeutic and the sensual were blurring into a single, potent current.
He moved back up to her shoulders, his hands now slick with oil, gliding over her skin. The initial, aggressive work was done. Now he was lengthening, stretching, encouraging the newly-released muscles to find their proper alignment. His hands swept down her sides, his fingers tracing the curve of her ribs, his thumbs brushing the outer swell of her breasts. It was accidental, a byproduct of the broad, flowing strokes, but she shivered.
He felt it. A palpable shift in the energy between them. The air, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and effort, now crackled with a new, silent electricity. The professional boundary that was constructed was not so much being crossed as it was dissolving, melting away under the combined heat of his hands and her body's response. Her breathing was no longer just deep; it was ragged, punctuated by soft, breathy sighs that had nothing to do with the relief of a sore muscle.
Osiah didn't falter. He simply adapted. His hands, which had been tools of rehabilitation, became instruments of exploration. He continued the long, flowing strokes down her back, but now his touch lingered. He let his fingers trace the delicate curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the sensitive skin just above the towel. Each pass was a question, and her body's answering shudder was a resounding yes.
He moved to the head of the bed, his movements fluid and sure. "Turn over," he said. It was the same calm, authoritative tone he'd used before, but now it hung in the air with a different weight. It was an invitation, a challenge.
For a moment, she was still. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she complied. She rolled onto her back, holding the towel to her chest. Her face was flushed, her lips slightly parted, her eyes dark and glassy. The look in them was not the weary exhaustion of a movie star, but the raw, undisguised arousal of a woman who was being unwound, layer by layer.
He didn't give her time to think, to second-guess. He took her hand. "Sit up," he instructed. She obeyed, her movements pliant. He positioned her so she was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to him. He knelt on the floor behind her, his knees framing her hips. He placed his hands on her shoulders again, but this time, the touch was different. It was possessive.
"Let your head fall forward," he murmured, his voice close to her ear.
She let her head drop, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her neck. He began to massage her neck, his thumbs stroking muscles, his fingers working their way up into her hairline. He could feel her pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips, a frantic, desperate rhythm. She leaned back into him, a silent surrender, her body molding against his. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could smell the clean, sweet scent of her hair mixed with the sharp aroma of the massage oil.
His hands slid down her arms, kneading the biceps, the forearms. He took her wrist, his thumb pressing into the tender flesh, and felt her gasp. He was mapping her body, learning its secrets, its sensitivities. Every touch was a test, and she was passing with flying colors.
He stood, drawing her up with him, then turned her to face him. Her eyes stayed on his—wide, searching. He said nothing. He simply hooked his fingers into the belt of the robe and pulled. The fabric slipped loose and fell to the floor at her feet.
She stood naked in the soft, amber light of the trailer. Magnificent. Her body bore the marks of discipline—lean, strong—softened by curves the camera rarely allowed. The faint bruises from recent stunts mapped her skin like fading constellations.
He stepped back, his gaze slow and deliberate. There was nothing performative in it—no awe, no indulgence. Just attention. Assessment. It made her chest tighten.
His hand settled on her hip, firm, grounding. "You're incredibly flexible," he said. A statement, not praise.
"I have to be," she murmured.
"Show me."
The word landed heavy in the air. She felt it in her stomach, in the low pull of anticipation that had been building since his hands first touched her back. A smile curved her mouth—slow, knowing—as she moved, wanting him more with every second he made her wait.
She lifted her leg, her movements fluid and graceful, placing her ankle on his shoulder. The pose was an impossible display of athleticism and control, her hamstring taut, her body a study in lean muscle. He held her gaze, his own expression unreadable, as his free hand traced the line of her extended leg, from her ankle, down her calf, to the inside of her thigh. His touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the pressure he had used before. She shivered, her breath hitching.
He lowered her leg, only to guide her backward toward the small, plush armchair in the corner of the room. "Sit," he ordered. When she did, he knelt before her, pushing her legs wide apart. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, his hands gripping her thighs, pulling her forward to the very edge of the cushion. The position was wanton, exposed, and utterly vulnerable. She was completely at his mercy.
He didn't tease. He didn't hesitate. He leaned in and covered her with his mouth. The first touch was electric. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, her back arching off the chair. He was relentless, his tongue and lips working with the same focused intensity he had applied to her sore muscles. He was testing her flexibility, her endurance, her control. He found the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs and focused his attention there, using a steady, maddening rhythm that built a pressure deep inside her. Her hips began to move, grinding against his face, chasing the release he was so expertly denying her. Her breaths came in ragged pants, interspersed with his name, whispered like a prayer. He could feel her muscles tensing, her thighs trembling against his ears. She was close. So close.
But he wasn't just going to let her fall over the edge. He was going to push her. He flattened his tongue, dragging it in a slow, deliberate stripe from her entrance all the way up to her clit, circling the throbbing nub once before dipping back down to taste the slick heat gathering there. He repeated the motion, again and again, a slow, torturous lapping that was driving her insane. It wasn't the direct, focused pressure she craved; it was a slow, building tease that was stoking the fire in her cunt to an inferno.
"Osiah… please," she whimpered, her grip on his hair tightening, trying to guide his mouth where she needed it most.
(R-18 Osiah x Scarlett Johansson 3183 word count)
"You know," she said after a few minutes of silence, her voice soft and sleepy. "Chloe said you were good. She didn't say you were a goddamn magician."
"I just know where the knots are," he said, his hand stroking her hair. "And how to untie them."
She was quiet for a moment longer. "You're going to be on set for the whole shoot, right?"
"I am."
"Good," she said, her voice firm. "I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot more… physiotherapy."
Osiah looked down at the woman in his arms, the superstar who had let him bend her, break her, and put her back together again. He smiled. He had a feeling she was right. And he was just the man for the job.
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