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His Love I Purlointh Away	By : Nightspore Category: Casts RPF > Charlie's Angels (all movies) > Charlie's Angels (all movies) Views: 1677 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrity I am writing about. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-His Love I Purlointh Away
- 1
HIS LOVE I PURLOINTH AWAY
"Okay, kids. Let's make this a reality." McG clapped his hands as if conducting a mariachi band. "Grease up the actors!"
"Clear set and mount your interns," the assistant director chimed in.
"Back to one. Roll camera."
"Camera rolling." The director of photography glanced up the big high-speed Paniflex perched on the crane overhead, waited a moment as the motors whirred to life and reached their maximum RPM, then looked back down at the instant playback monitor. "Speed."
"Slate in."
A production assistant leaned in front of Crispin and clacked the slate. "Scene 126 Apple, take five." He hurried out of camera range.
"Aaaaaand - action!"
Twelve muscular Chinese men, six to each side, heaved mightily on the sturdy lift cables. Crispin flew up into the air as if shot from a cannon. At the precise moment - too soon, and he would crack his skull on the floor - another three men pulled on narrower spin cable that threaded out from his crotch, and sent him into a wild backflip.
On the screen, with the wires digitally erased, the film slowed down and Prodigy thumping in the background, he would be the very embodiment of grace, speed and ferocity. From a prone position, the Thin Man would propel himself into a reverse handspring, vaulting over Alex's head and coming down ready for more.
"Cut! Tailslate."
The production assistant held the slate upside down in front of the camera and clacked it again, officially ending the take.
"That's great, that's great, that's great! Yeah! Check the gate!" McG bounced around like Tigger, all rubber and springs. Drew's dogs - she insisted on bringing them to the set - jumped up, too, and started barking wildly, until Tom dragged them away.
Meanwhile, Crispin dangled upside down, the wire crew slowly lowering him to the ground. In the movie, the Thin Man would land solid, upright, and ready for more, but there was no way to come down from a wire-assisted stunt with any amount of decorousness. He hung there like a side of meat left to cure.
"He flies through the air with the greatest of ease, the daring young man on the flying trapeze," Sam commented to himself. He'd been jealous, just a bit, when he found out Knox was the only major character who didn't get to do flying martial arts moves. The alley scene was shot out of order, depending on who was the major character in harness: first Drew's scenes, then Cameron's, then Lucy's and finally, on the last four days of shooting, Crispin's. Sam had flown in from New York yesterday and dropped by the set, interested to see how they were going to pull off the big fight. He felt even better about not being involved when he saw what happened next, after his co-star was safely grounded again.
The harness supervisor and on-set wardrobe person scurried forward and Sam watched with interest as they ripped off Crispin's stunt pants. This set had vents for the wires and hidden breakaway velcro closures for easy access to the harness. The harness itself resembled leather underpants designed by a particularly malevolent dominatrix. Unlike the female version, his harness needed a more complicated arrangement of straps to keep imant ant bits from being crushed when it slipped out of alignment, as happened every three takes or so. Crispin stood there gazing at the banks of lights on the ceiling, an expression of strained dignity on his face, as the wire experts jerked and yanked everything back into place and re-checked the clasps.
"I dunno, you still look kind of . . . floaty." McG scowled ferociously at the playback. "Maybe if you start in a kind of a crouch and push off? I mean, you're not actually gonna be pushing off, but maybe you'll feel like you are and it'll look more in control. Whatta you say, Thin Man? Are you game for another? Need any dramamine yet?"
"I can take another," he said, after a slight pause.
Like a well-oiled machine, the crew got everything set to go again. The first assistant cameraman called out, "We're at 26,000 feet, McG."
"Back to one. Roll camera."
"Camera rolling. Speed."
"Slate in."
Crispin hunkered down obediently, balancing with feline grace on the pointed toes of his patent-leather boots. Lucy hung her head so that when she looked up at the Thin Man passing overhead her long hair would whip fetchingly across her face.
"Scene 126 Apple, take six." Clack!
"Action! Go, go, go!"
Once mSam Sam watched in utter fascination as Crispin sailed into the air, whirling like a dervish. Very few things could hold his attention after so much repetition - if he'd been born a decade or so later, he'd probably have been diagnosed with ADD. It should have looked ridiculous. But for some reason, the sight of the well-dressed man swaying at the mercy of the lift cables was exciting.

He waited until McG called cut and the cameraman acknowledged that the gate was clear, then he couldn't stand it any longer. He had to be part of the action himself.

"That is the best-dressed pinata I have ever seen," Sam exclaimed, bounding towards him. He picked the the sword-cane sheath from the ground and covered his eyes, stepped forward swinging it. He didn't see the wire crew had started to lower Crispin - didn't know anything was wrong until Drew yelled, "Look out!" and he felt the sword-cane thump against something solid.
"Sorry!" And he took his hand away, just in time to see the pinstriped pinata swing back towards him . . .
* * * * *

Crispin lurched across the deck with the stiff-kneed gait of a zombie freshly arisen from the grave. He lowered himself into the frothing hot tub and let out a groan as his muscles screamed in protest. He felt exactly like his old teddy bear had looked when his mother had thrown it in the washing machine and it came out with its stuffing wadded up into misshapen lumps. He was regretting not taking his personal trainer more seriously. How difficult could flying be, he had asked her. It looks like fun.

He moaned again, sinking in until his nostrils just barely cleared the agitated surface. Everything hurt. He made a mental note to send the most expensive gift basket he could buy to whoever had arranged for him to have a hotel room with a hot tub. If he had his way, the rest of the evening wouldspenspent simmering his bruised and battered flesh at a slow boil until his muscles were limp enough that the simple act of taking a step didn't feel like rolling naked across a bed of live coals and broken glass.
His reverie was abruptly shattered by something exploding into the tub like a depth charge, sending up a fountain of water and flooding the entire deck.
Crsipin sputtered, blinking hot water out of his eyes. Sam was sitting on the tub's bench seat across from him. He hadn't been there a moment ago.
He would have heard the deck door sliding open. Sam must have jumped down from the deck above and to one side of his. There was no other way in. "That's a ten-foot drop!"
"Not if I hang by my fingers and swing," he said with a smug smile plastered across his face. "I can't tell if you're surprised to see me, or if that's just the eyebrows."
"Yeah," he said, rubbing his forehead. They'd shaved half of his eyebrows away. As the Thin Man, the make-up artist penciled them back in at an unnatural sharp angle. He didn't know which looked odder off set, though, leaving the little tufts or trying to draw them in himself with make-up pencil. "So. Um, too what do I owe this visit?"
"Just dropping in." Sam cackled, and smacked the water, drenching him. "No, really. I thought you might want to rehearse."
"We have one scene together."
"I know."
"You say two words to me. 'Let's go.'"
"Actually, it's 'Come on', unless they changed the script again." Sam grinned crookedly. "I read that thing you wrote, Cris. That biography of the Thin Man. That was cool, how you came up with him being a feral child and Knox and him being lovers and all."
Crispin felt the blood rush to his head with the swiftness of a lightbulb switching on. He was glad the hot water had already stained his skin as pink as it could get. He mumbled, "I'm sorry. I made that up for myself. To keep my interest in the character. He's so thinly conceived. Um, no pun intended. I didn't realize McG would like it so much he'd photocopy it and hand it around. I apologize if I'm stepping on your interpretation of your character."
"What? No, no. I love it. I can see it, it makes sense. Knox likes power, right? He can't beat the guy up, he can't hire any assassin that's better to threaten his life, right, so w doe does he have left? He's got him by the heart. Deep. Yeah. And he's an equal opportunity lech." Sam stretched, lacing his arms behind his head. "I know it's just a goofy thing, but I want this to be good."
"Do you really think this will be big?" The wistfulness in his voice surprised even him.
"Aw, come on. How could it not be big? There's car chases, explosions, martial arts, three scantily clad young hotties kicking your skinny ass all over Chinatown. What's there not to love?" Sam stirred the water with his hand, then glanced up at him from under lowered brows. "It's either gonna be a blockbuster or a total flop. No in-between."
"I needed the work," Crispin said, answering a question that hadn't been asked. "Not that I'm hard up. But I'm making this movie, my own movie . . . it's taking longer than I expected. I've almost exhausted my nest egg. The residuals just are not going to cover post-production."
"This would be your first blockbuster in a while, wouldn't it?"
"Not since Back to the Future, to tell the truth." Crispin made as face as if he'd just bitten into a lime expecting it to be a plum. "After that I lost my taste for them. I decided I wasn't going to work on something unless I really, honestly believed it was worthwhile. Until now."
"This'll be my first big one," Sam broke in. "Funny, huh? We both started in cheapo lame horror pix. I saw yours when I was sixteen, I think. My first drive-in." He slammed his left hand down on the deck, twisted around, and shouted, "Where's the damn corkscrew?"
Someone on another balcony shouted back at him, "Shut up down there!"
Crispin ducked his head, giggling. His poor character had silliest line of the whole movie. "Famous last words. I saw yours, too." It was one of his peculiarities that he liked to rand and watch his co-star's previous movies before production began. It gave him a feel of what kind of actor he would be up against. He'd been surprised that Sam started in film even younger than him, at fifteen. "The clowns . . . no, wait. How did that go? The clowns are coming to get you . . . "
"They were coming! They pulled me through a plate glass window."
"Jason crucified me," Crispin said. "Actually, it was Tom Savini. I hung there for four hours. And they could have used a stand in, you never even saw my face. They were just too cheap. The director went to lunch while I was hanging there."
"Today must have brought back memories. Well, at least your guy got laid before he went belly-up."
"You were a bit younger," Crispin laughed. "Your voice was still changing. I remember that. It kept cracking on the vowels. I bet you didn't even shave yet."
"Nope."
He tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. "Me either. I think I was still a virgin, too . . . yeah."
"Made up for it since then, eh?" Sam winked lasciviously, then leaned forward and punched his shoulder. "Or are all those bunnies and playmates I always see hanging off of you just nerdly overcompensation?"
Crispin looked offended.
"Don't make that face at me! I saw the dailies, man. Every woman in the country is gonna wanna fuck the Thin Man after they see this. Hell, I wanna fuck the Thin Man . . . "
"You must be a good actor. I can't tell that you're lying, Sam."
Crispin turned away suddenly, contemplating thanchanches of the palms that blocked his deck from view, rustling in the cool night breeze. He really wished Sam would leave him alone for a while. Lately he'd been having serious misgivings about his decision to try for more mainstream movie roles. As he contemplated his approaching fortieth birthday, he felt himself seized with a sort of spiritual climacteric that took the form of an increasing need to explain his existence, to position his life in the jigsaw of the universe, to say something more than that he'd been bred, born, and would eventually die. His old diversions had become hollow and the hurrah of his work, which had consumed him before, now seemed a meaningless trifling amusement.
"That's really a beaut." Misreading his sudden lapse into quiet, Sam red oed out and gently touched the six-inch bruise on Crispin's chest. "If I hit you harder, what kind of candy would have fallen out?"
"Pan-seared tuna in mango sauce," he answered in clipped tones.
Sam scooted a little closer, getting back into his line of sight so he had no choice but to look at him."You're, uh, not gonna forgive me for the pinata thing, are you?"
"I'm considering it," Crispin said coldly. "The dents are bad enough - "
"Dents?"
He stood up on the bench seat and pointed to the two reddened impressions in his pale flesh where the attachment points of the lift wires had forced the stiff leather straps to dig in. "See?"
Sam smothered a laugh. "No, I'm not laughing at the dents. It's just, heh, I pictured you in one of those Victorian bathing suits. Y'know, wool, down to the knees and elbows, black and white stripes. The Speedos are kind of a surprise."
Crispin tugged at the waistband self-consciously, releasing an air bubble, and sat back down. Another long silence stretched unpleasantly between them. Sam fidgeted, sitting on his hands and clearing his throat until he couldn't stand it any more. He was a man of action and decision, and rarely bothered to exerchis his not-inadequate ruminative capacity.
"No, really. I do wanna make the pinata thing up to you. How aba baa back rub?" He spread his hands out, cocking his head to one side and watching Crispin closely out of one dark, sparkling eye, laying on the charm thick as peanut butter. "You may not know this, but I am considered an expert backrubber."
"I think the word is masseuse."
"You say tomato . . . c'mon, Cris, how bout it? I feel like suck about hitting you."
Their eyes met lingeringly. Crispin looked into the warm, soft hazel-brown, the pupils gaping like greedy mouths, the thickly lashed lids rolling back like lips, as if Sam's gaze wanted to devour him.
"I do feel like a bucket full of rusty nails," he admitted, clamng ong out and shaking himself off - the towels had been drenched by Sam's impromptu cannonball. "All right. But don't call me Cris."
After the bubbling amniotic warmth of the hot tub, the cold night air closed on him like sheet metal. A moment later, Sam's weight settled on his lower back like a blessing. He'd assumed the other man would sit beside him, and started to push himself up in surprise, but Sam's hands clamped hard on his shoulders and forced him prone again. He laid his head down on the hard planking as the suddenly icy breeze raised goosebumps. He closed his eyes, in submission or trust, he wasn't sure which.
He'd only agreed to placate Sam, but Crispin found to his surprise, that the young man really did seem to know what he was doing. His wide, blunt-fingered hands felt larger than they really were as Sam squeezed the knotted tangle of his back muscles, tormenting them until a warm honeyed relief flowed over his bones and flushed his skin. His palms were roughly textured, but in a pleasant way, like the curative scraping of a pumice stone. He gradually worked his way lower, breathing hard with the effort of really putting all his strength into it.
Then his hands strayed even lower, rasping shamelessly under the wet lycra.
Crispin gasped and tried to wriggle free, but Sam gripped him with his knees like a cowboy astride a bucking bronco.
"The glutes are vital," he said, kneading them as if ere ere making bread, powerful rhythmic, rolling clenches. "Very important muscle group. Y'see, the hips are the pivot point of the human body, but they're not designed to support weight. Half the weight of your body is in your legs, and you've been straining to hold them up all day. I have to work out the lactic acids that's built up, or you'll be stiff as a board tomorrow."
"That sounds like, um, a lot of strategic untruths."
"BS? Yeah, probably,&qu Sam Sam agreed, humming as he slipped his hands between Crispin's thighs. In a scholarly tone he said, "Adductor magnus and longus. Now turn over and sit up."
"Hmm?"
"It's give and take, bucko. You tense up the stomach muscles, too, when you fly around like that."
Sam flexed his knees and raised himself a little but did not get off as Crispin twisted around so they were facing each other. For the first time, he realized Sam wasn't wearing a bathing suit. He wasn't wearing anything at all but a smile.
Crispin was reminded of something that had happened on his first day of shooting. Drew had brought a Labrador puppy to the set - not one of hers, but a gift for a friend - and he had wandered past her and a group of cooing admirers, lost in his own thoughts, and sat down on his folding chair. The next moment, Drew had dumped the puppy in his lap, and he suddenly found himself with an armful of squirming warmth, surprisingly muscular beneath the plump furry softness, and a hot, moist, insistent tongue crammed into his mouth.
Now he looked into the same playfully affectionate eager-puppy eyes as Sam's lapping tongue explored his mouth, curling around his front teeth, poking into the pocket between his cheeks and molars and sweeping like a promise over his own tongue. The taste and smell of him seemed to unfold a growing heaviness Crispin had been carrying inside himself, a sort of accumulated gloom that was a complex concretion of worries about finishing What Is It?, about growing older, career choices, wondering if selling himself out had been worth it for the filthy lucre.

The younger man's attention was literally a breath of fresh air, as if his chest had been cracked open and the fog inside him blown away. There was a casual and healthy maleness about him which should have been an instant turn-off, but somehow wasn't. Crispin tentatively let his own hands strum down the frets of Sam's spine, pressing against the firm, even tense flesh that sharply demarked the top of his ass. The irrepressible Sam responded instantly.
"Well, look at that," he chuckled thickly. "Here I thought I pounded all the stiffness out and it looks like I forgot a muscle."
He hooked his fingertips into the waistband of Crispin's Speedos and rolled them down slowly, the tightness and the aching coldness of the wet, cooling fabric a torment obliterated by the sudden bliss of the freeing of his swollen shaft. When he bucked free, unfettered, Sam took him in a gentle but commanding grip, running his thumb teasingly up and down the underside, finding as if by instinct the exquisitely oversensitive nugget of flesh left by circumcision.
The words of polite but firm dissuasion Crispin had been composing fled his mind like a flock of birds scattered by the pounce of a cat. He broke free long enough to gulp, "Whuh . . . what?"
"You know, it's no fun baiting you if you rise to the first cast. I think you're doing this on purpose to spoil my fun."
Sam wrapped himself around Crispin like a straightjacket and the two men rolled over and over on the deck. He tried to fend Sam off in an indifferent sort of way, but it was impble.ble. He was too fast, and he suddenly seemed to have sprouted several extra arms, here one hand tweaking a flushed, swollen nipple, another two bracing on his inner thighs, prying them apart so a fourth could curl warm fingers around his straining member, another ensnaring him by the hair and holding him prisoner, forcing him to submit to another spelunking, throttling kiss.
He pulled back and murmured, "Rico y sabroso."
Sam settled himself down over Crispin. The older man stiffened at the sensation. It was nothing like entering a girl - the tightness, the grip of powerful muscles - but there was something wildly exciting about the mingled pleasure and agony on Sam's face. He slid into the boy's willing body like a knife into warm butter. Their rough breathing, clashing like interfering sine waves, locked into synchronicity, Sam exhaling as Crispin inhaled, a hypnotic melding rhythm.
The warm feeling got beneath him and carried him away. Flying into the air by my hips again, Crispin thought. His tactile awareness soared. Every light tap of Sam's fingertips set him shuddering like the skin of a drum, booming waves of pleasure spreading over his cooling skin. His throat swelled shut, his legs trembled, his quivering, overworked muscles coiled as he arched his back, drving himself in deeper and wringing a moan from Sam, who bore down in response. There were throbs of emotion as he entered the younger man fully, synaesthetic pulses of color, warmths, hungers that could not be satisfied with food, sweet touches that penetrated past the skin to thrill through organs and set his bones vibrating in harmony. The sensations were so strong they were almost - but not quite - painful. Their fevered groping ceased to be a means to an end and grew into its own significance. For perhaps the first time in his life, he immersed himself with neither reservation nor apprehension into another human being.
Sensing what was about to happen, Sam wriggled into a new position and invited, encouraged, accelerated and finally compelled Crispin to let himself go.
Saliva dripped from the corners of his stretched-wide mouth, his head lolling spastically, and Sam kept him there with taunting nips and teasing pinches until his receding strength deserted him at last and he went into freefall. This wasn't the marzipan illusion the "bunnies and playmates" had offered, pretty as a store-bought cake behind glass but just as stale and tasteless and unfilling once bitten into. This, what Sam gave him, this leaping, twisting, yearning thing, this was real and rich and impossible. He threw back his head as spasms shot through his aching body and emptied him, and a great elongated scream of pure pleasure rushed from him with his seed. The tight compression he'd wrapped himself in was ripped away - there was clarity. He celebrated, he exulted.
Off in the distance, the same person yelled, "Will you two please shut up down there? I'm trying to sleep!"
The towels were still sopping, and they'd rolled around so much in the puddles on the deck that they were both wet again, their flesh nubbled with goosebumps, a strange feeling where they rubbed each other down. Eventually, they decided to simply let the bone-dry California air do its job.
Still puppyish, Sam stretched out with his head in Crispin's lap. Crispin stroked his mussed hair idly, wondering what the hell had just happened. It was impossible to stop his thoughts as it was to wrestle a tornado into submission. It was the curse of a very active mind that he could never let anything simply rest. He dissected each moment, trying to place it in its proper context, wondering at exactly which point he'd given in.
Sam reached up and flicked a droplet of water off the end of Crispin's nose.
"Penny for your thoughts."
"There aren't enough pennies in the world," he sighed.
Sam snorted. "All right then. Forget your thoughts. Who needs 'em? How about a penny for this right here?" And he rolled over and did something very naughty which felt very, very nice.
Crispin shunted his misgivings aside. Right now, at this moment, he felt good, and he was weary of not feeling good. He intended to let the pleasure burn as long as it would. He caught at Sam's disconcerting fingers, which were now tickling the edge of his ear, and kissed his knuckles.
"That was a very refreshing rehearsal," he said, when his thudding heart had slowed down enough that he could gather his breath to speak again.
"Yup. See, you and me, we're gonna have to make more blockbusters." He tangled his fingers in Crispin's damp hair and pulled him over, licked him on the tip of his nose, and let out a sigh of pure bliss.
Crispin whispered, "I don't want you to . . . I mean, I think you should know . . . that is, um . . . I'm not actually a homosexual . . . "
"Neither am I," Sam said blithely. "But you've gotta allow for a few squeaks in the hinges of the pearly gates."
- 1
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His Love I Purlointh Away