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Title: Fashion Victim
Author: [ profile] gattodoro
Beta: thank you [ profile] silvan_lady
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: The usual gang
Word Count: 1,317
Warning: Crack fic!
Authors' Note: This particular piece of Slash Cave nonsense comes with a dedication to two birthday girls, [ profile] blueskydancers and [ profile] doylebaby. apologies for making you share, but be assured there are more than enough men to go round.

( Fashion Victim )

It is one of life’s universal mysteries, or certainly a mystery to the inhabitants of this Universe, being that of the, now notorious, Slash Cave. How is it possible that a man with a wardrobe larger than the average boutique (and which wouldn’t actually fit into the Slash Cave without the machinations of Capt’n Jack and the spatial anomaly generator he stole borrowed from the T.A.R.D.I.S.), a man the camera loves, a man, what’s more, who has actually been paid to model clothes and make them look good, how is it possible that said man can look so scruffy so much of the time?

Let us compare and contrast the present (male) occupants of the Slash Cave.

(Scruffy is Gatty’s natural state, but the boys let her be as long as she wields the magic blue pen to their advantage. Silv, of course, needs no embellishment; she could make a tea-towel look chic and elegant.)

 Here’s Viggo. He’s an artist, right, and therefore entitled to be a little BoHo in his attire? And if he’s not emoting, he’s riding the range and, yeah, well-worn jeans are de rigeur. But Viggo fills his trousers nicely and if his taste in clothes is slightly eccentric at least they generally fit. We’ll forbear to comment on the variable styling of his hair, because mostly that bird’s nest is just a bad case of bed head which is an occupational hazard around here.

Sean is famous for his love of footie and his fondness for gardening, both pastimes that naturally lend themselves to dressing down, but not our Sean, a sharp dressed (Sharpe-dressed) man indeed.

Now onto our antipodean trio. Eric likes taking cars apart and dresses appropriately: casual clothes, check; oil stains, naturally, but scruff – hell no. Hugh is Mr Razzle-Dazzle; does he even know the meaning of the word scruff? Though admittedly his choice in beachwear suggests that he might be colour blind. And Karl? Well, okay, Karl has the occasional brush with 5 o’clock shadow before lunch and his status as a self-confessed comic book nerd occasionally surfaces in his choice of clothes, and he is the master of the sexily dishevelled, but downright scruffy? Never.

This brings us to the subject of this treatise and to the ‘intervention’ that the five gentlemen previously mentioned are staging. Orlando has been cornered in the closet, so to speak and Sean is rifling through his accoutrements, periodically tossing particularly heinous garments toward Eric and Karl who are bundling them into bin bags, with the exception of particularly peculiar fabrics, which Viggo is snaffling for artistic purposes.   Hugh has stoically offered to keep Orlando from interfering, which he is achieving by keeping him in a bear hug; Eric feels he may have missed a trick because Hugh certainly seems to be enjoying Orlando’s wriggling, if not his constant whining.

Sean picks up a baggy black t-shirt.

“Noooo! You can’t throw that out, it’s a vintage McQueen!” protests Orlando. Orlando has been protesting a lot and he is becoming hoarse.

“Huh?” Sean gives him the eye, “Gordon, bloody, McQueen* by the looks of it!” He balls the shirt up and throws it at Karl, who puts up his hand and catches it without really looking.

*Obscure reference that only mature, English football fans will get.

“I’ll have nothing left to wear!” Orlando doesn’t pout, pouting is for teenagers, he merely compresses his lips to convey disappointment.

His five companions’ verbal response is immediate, if uncoordinated and, in some cases, ungrammatical. They are, however, united in their opinion that Orlando looks good in nothing and should wear it as often as possible, except, obviously, when he leaves the Cave.

Karl shakes the rag in his hand. “How is it even possible that you should have so many t-shirts, so many near bloody identical t-shirts, and yet so few that actually fit? Those things are so baggy you might as well be wearing one of these bin bags.”

“I happen to like baggy clothes, they are comfortable,” Orlando huffs. He would cross his arms defensively, but he can’t while Hugh maintains his death grip.

“We aren’t saying you can’t wear comfortable clothes,” Eric says in Eric’s special ‘I’m being reasonable’ tone. He is Hector-ing, in other words. “Just that you should wear stretchy clothes than cling a bit, that, you know, show off your abs.”

“and your pecs,” adds Karl.

“and your biceps,” says Sean

“and your arse!” finishes Viggo, because he likes to get to the bottom of things. He misses the days when Orlando would wear gravity defying jeans. There is something so appealing about the hint of hip bone and, as the old saying goes, one Yank and they were down.

“Speaking of which, these long shorts you wear for cycling are a carbuncle on the face of the universe and they’ve got to go.” Just to make sure, Sean rips the offending article into shreds.

“Hey!” Orlando tries to stamp his foot, but Hugh pre-empts the move by lifting him off his feet momentarily. “They are practical, alright? I’m not going out in Lycra cycle shorts, I’m not the exhibitionist you take me for, and I’ve found that there is a risk of chafing and things slipping out that shouldn’t slip out if I wear football shorts.”

“But we like things that slip out,” Karl giggles.

“And even better, things that slip in!” Hugh laughs.

Orlando smirks. “Well yes, I’ll give you that. But not in public. There are fan girls out there and worse than that, Slash Women and they get very hands on given the slightest encouragement. As it happens, I agree the shorts are horrid, but they do have a powerful deterrent effect.”

“Ah, a bit like using lion dung to stop deer nibbling your brassicas.” Sean looks ruefully at the ruined shorts, which are hanging from his hands like strands of wet seaweed. The protection of Orlando’s pert posterior from unwanted female attention is a serious matter. “Sorry lad, I’ll get you another pair, but only of you promise not to wear them around the Cave.”

“Lion dung to do what?” Karl whispers to Eric. He wonders when he lost his grasp on this conversation. “Nibbling his brassicas? Is that some sort of euphemism?”

“Nah, knowing Sean, it is some sort of horticultural hocus pocus, but come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind nibbling on your Brussels sprouts.” Eric’s accompanying mime has a certain lewd intensity that could make a strong woman come over all unnecessary. It is more than enough to make Karl go weak at the knees, but then he does spend such a lot of time on his knees… The bin bags are abandoned as Karl and Eric fight to be first into the bedroom.

Viggo chuckles: such lusty boys! “Was it something we said?”

“Very probably, who knows with them two? And we’re nowhere near finished.”

“Might I suggest that we come back to this later?”

Sean starts to object – he has the metaphorical bit between his teeth and hates leaving things unfinished – but tails off when he realises why Viggo is grinning. Orlando has somehow turned the tables on Hugh – he has him backed up against the wall and appears to be trying to climb him like a monkey climbing a coconut palm tree. The ‘tree’ isn’t objecting. In fact, Hugh isn’t capable of speech as his tongue is otherwise engaged licking his way into Orlando’s mouth and both hands are occupied kneading Orlando’s arse cheeks.

“I see what you mean. Shall we retire to the kitchen?”

“For a nice cup of tea?” Viggo teases, mimicking Sean’s Yorkshire accent.

“Cheeky sod,” Sean says, fondly. “Aye, there’ll be tea, but reckon I’m going to fuck you over the kitchen table first!”

And that, dear readers, is why Orlando’s outfits continue to leave something to be desired, at least in public.

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