Open in Case of Medical Emergency~ For ireth06

[slash_cave]

Title: Open In Case of Medical Emergency
Prime Culprit: gattodoro
Banner, Beta, Muse and Co-Conspirator: silvan_lady
Inhabitants: The usual Slash Cave suspects
Rating: R veering towards NC17 if you are so inclined (of course you are!)
Warning: It's the Slash_cave - there is blue pen and 2,378 words of irresponsible pervy nonsense
Authors' Note: Not unrelated to the Slash Cave Tour series  Posted as a birthday gift for ireth06



"Wakey, wakey. Rise and shine." Gatty breezed through the Slash Cave snapping open curtains and heaving duvets aside with an assertive flick of her wrist as she went. She was a woman on a mission and no amount of grumbling about the earliness of the hour, or sudden exposure to chill air was going to stop her, though her steps may have faltered once or twice as a few particularly succulent sections of man flesh were laid bare to her appreciative gaze.  Who could pass up a second glance at Bean’s bum, Bloom’s biceps and Eric’s, well, everything?  She was determined, not demented.

“Now listen up chaps, we have an emergency.”  (Note: Gatty doesn’t usually talk like a character from a 1950’s film, but we shall assume that her dramatic licence is a distraction technique necessitated by the array of tousle-haired, bleary-eyed, half-naked and totally HOT men gathered before her.)

The inhabitants of the Slash Cave immediately stiffened (no, not like that!) and snapped to attention with varying degrees of success, for instance, Karl’s modesty was protected only by a very small towel so he had to deploy one hand on his hip in order to keep it in place resulting in a slightly camper posture than normally favoured by the Armed Forces.

“Ready for duty, ma’am,” drawled Viggo, knocking off a sloppy salute. Gatty eyed him warily, one never knew with Viggo if he was himself or he’d gone method and was channelling a character, which could be either useful, or disastrous depending on the situation. Gatty decided that the absence of a manic gleam in Viggo’s eyes and hint of a faintly mocking smile, probably indicated that he was just being his usual sarcastic and exhibitionist self (he was, as was common, stark naked).

Bracing herself not to stare at Orlando, who was looking edible and  adorable with his fingertips just peeking from the cuffs of a white shirt (Hugh’s?) that was a couple of sizes too large for him, Gatty ploughed on before she lost her train of thought.

“Thing is chaps, I’m sorry to say that our beloved Silv is feeling under the weather so I need you to go to her house to help her convalesce. Viggo will be in charge of healing infusions a la Aragorn, with the exception of tea, which will be Sean’s job – this situation needs a good strong mug of builder’s bum, not that muck you drink. Sean and Richard can take turns reading bedtime stories, while Hugh can sing soothing songs as required. As usual, Orlando will be the human hot water bottle – please try not to fidget (or Figwit...), there’s a dear – she says she is working from home, but I’m sure she would rather be in bed with you.  Eric and Karl can provide back up snuggling if poor Silv is especially shivery, otherwise you two can fetch and carry, smite and shop and generally keep Silv happy, but please,” Gatty fixed them with the evil eye, “stay well away from the shower, they’ve only just fitted new panels after what happened last time!

“Right, hurry along now, I want you to be ready to leave in five minutes,” Gatty commanded.

This was never going to happen. They all knew it wasn’t going to happen, but everyone scampered off at high speed lest they upset Gatty and catch the wrath of the blue pen wielders, which could lead to a terrible case of blue balls, or worse.
Imagine, if you will, the scene of a large family readying themselves for school. The complaints from one child that they can’t possibly wear that old blue shirt because their mates will laugh at them. The frantic search for ties/pens/homework. The forgotten lunch boxes.  The arguments about who is taking the car...

Well, the Slash Cave is somewhat similar except that at least one inhabitant (generally Sean, oddly enough), can’t make up their mind what to wear and another (usually Viggo) has to be sent back for something more suitable, and certainly with greater skin coverage. Today, for a change, it was Karl who felt that a loin cloth was seemly for London in May, which proves once and for all, that the boys do read Silv and Gatty’s texts, though there was a brief argument about whether Orlando’s smart suit wasn’t overkill since he’d be jumping into bed as soon as he arrived at Silv’s.  This was swiftly resolved when Viggo wisely pointed out that Silv was a suit slut, so she’d appreciate the effort as well as enjoying easing  it off  (the suit, that is!) and Orlando  followed this up with the explanation that he’d got his snuggly-Teddy Towelling  Robe in his man bag should lounging be required.

Wardrobe sorted, the next task was to locate all the missing items. In the Slash Cave, ties are easy to find (check the wrought iron bed head), but the errant objects are usually either mobile phones or weapons. Some of you might think that, say a simple shopping trip, wouldn’t require, for an example, a sabre, Blunderbuss or an Assegai spear, but that indicates that you don’t know where the Slash Cave is located. (And as Karl says, you never know when you might need to impale a cyclist.) (Equally you might question how such items might be lost in the ‘Cave, to which the answer is either, (a) Eric, (b) Captain Jack’s temporal anomaly, or (c) bean bags - take your choice.)

A mere twenty minutes later, Gatty’s crack medical support squad were assembled by the front portal.  Gatty narrowed her eyes as she did the mandatory head count and came up with nine, which was at least two more than she expected. Close scrutiny revealed that the party had been joined by Richard’s new bestest friend Lee (everyone needs an Elf...) and another not very short and really rather handsome Dwarf (Aidan).  Gatty figured that Silv wouldn’t mind, especially as Aidan  - sweet boy - had brought a nice bunch of flowers. Only one problem to overcome – the transport.

Surely, you will say (if you are in the habit of talking to the PC as so many of us are...), in London no sane person has more than one car, and anyway there are Tubes, Trains, Buses, Coaches... To which we in the Slash Cave say ‘Ha, we cock a snook at your sanity and point out that the Northern Line is very unreliable (even when there isn’t a strike) and anyway, we have the magic blue pen.’

A further ten minutes passed, before Gatty was able to restore order.  As ever, Eric and Orlando wanted to take motorbikes, which idea was vetoed by Gatty on the grounds of safety in inclement weather and by Hugh, because the helmets mess up his Wolverine chops. Karl wanted a spaceship, but there are limits to what even the blue pen can achieve on a weekday. Lee suggested a Fire Engine, an idea which Gatty did give serious (and slightly pervy) consideration to, but decided against when she realised that the boys would have to change again, Eric would insist on setting fire to something and that  no way could Viggo be trusted with a fireman’s hose.

Richard and Sean lobbied hard for a squadron of Centurian Tanks, which Gatty had to admit held a certain appeal, but a lack of finesse for a house call. (Though if you hear of anyone racing tanks in Whitehall  … Gatty knows nothing about it!) Viggo, who was already wearing jeans and cowboy boots, proposed that they go on horseback until Orlando, who likes a long ride as much as the next man, explained the difference between miles and kilometres for the umpteenth time and added that in any case, horses aren’t allowed on the M1.

This was all very difficult, Gatty thought.  Maserati’s were too small for the Antipodeans, a fleet of Ferrari’s too flash and a stretch limo, though practical, too liable to tempt the travellers into pre-emptive misbehaviour.  What they needed was something inconspicuous but roomy. Then she had a brain wave.

She could only hope that poor Silv would be be braced to receive ‘essential medical supplies’ marked ‘handle with care’ when a couple of London black cabs pulled up outside her house.

----&----

In ordinary circumstances, Silv’s delightfully decorated house is really rather capacious - it has to be, what with accommodating two strapping sons, a husband, husband’s golf clubs, a pair of geckos and innumerable gadgets on a regular basis and occasional additional guests - mothers, girlfriends, Slashy ladies etc.  The arrival of the Slash Cave Care Team was, however, hardly an ‘ordinary circumstance’.  Nine hunky men can make most places seem compact and bijou. For a moment Silv thought that the vertigo was back and the walls were closing in on her again, but then she realised that Eric and Hugh were blocking out the light and once she’d made the throng either sit down, or dissipate to other rooms she was able to breathe again. It was a good thing that hubby was away on a golfing holiday.

Sean headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on - first things first-  after which he intended to make some fairy cakes (he had daughters - he was a dab hand with the buttercream). Viggo followed, ostensibly to act as waiter, but really because he wanted to play with Silv’s Aragorn and Legolas dolls. (He’d rather play with the real Elf, but Silv had greedily whisked him off to her bedroom within seconds of him crossing her threshold).

Once Sean had creamed his butter and whipped up his fancies (these are a type of cake, honest!), it was time to pop his buns in the oven. He had it in mind to toy with some other buns while he was waiting for his cakes to cook and with that in mind, he made great show of sucking the last dregs of his batter from his fingers in the hope of distracting Viggo from his doll porn. It would have worked on Orlando (anything that promised sex worked on Orlando), but Viggo was deeply engrossed in a scenario that required Aragorn and Legolas to cross a great chasm, moving hand over hand while hanging from a rope (several lengths of dry spaghetti suspended over the sink) that he didn’t even notice until a disgruntled Silv arrived to find out what had happened to her tea only to discover that somebody had flour bombed her kitchen. How was this supposed to help her convalesce? she demanded to know, and with a menacing, if limp, swipe of a dishcloth shoo’d Sean and Viggo into the garden while muttering darkly that nobody got to play with her LOTR figures other than her, thank you very much!

Fortunately, and quite remarkably given prevailing weather conditions, it wasn’t raining so Sean was quite happy pottering around Silv’s neatly nurtured patch and having one-sided conversations with the emerging daffodil buds, would should at least guarantee a crop of fully erect, not to mention sexually excited blooms later in the year. Viggo toyed with the idea of damming the stream at the bottom of the garden (no fairies – or elves –to be found)  so that he could stage the barrel escape  from  The Hobbit  using cut down flower pots, but decided that Silv might object, so contented himself with admiring the aviary and its inhabitants while musing on the derivation of the expression ‘budgie smugglers’. Anyone reading this who has a sudden, but pleasing, image of Hugh in a very tight pair of Speedos and nothing else, gets a Slash Cave badge for endeavour. This is a bit like a Blue Peter badge, but much cooler and without any requirement for dexterity with discarded washing up bottles and sticky-backed plastic.



Meanwhile, Karl and Eric had been sent to bed to keep Orlando amused, because Silv insisted that she really did have to do some work.  And  there was a massacre taking place in Silv’s beautifully decorated and furnished lounge. Quite normal really:  Thorin and Thranduil had finally come to blows, albeit through the medium of  The Hobbit Lego game, and with the good humour that characterised their RL relationship rather than their mistrusting characters. This was as well for the new upholstery.  Which is not to say that the contest wasn’t fiercely competed, which might have been men being men, or could have been because the winner was on a promise of a sloppy blow job in the conservatory. The match could go either way, much like the participants – Richard had nimble fingers, but Lee’s thumbs were dextrous and neither of them were beneath deploying a crafty elbow or a sly ankle tap as a distraction. Admittedly, Lee was contemplating losing on purpose, because he very much enjoyed getting his mouth on Richard’s substantial cock, sucking him down until his nose was buried in Richard’s musky public hair and tonguing at his balls while Richard  murmured absolute filth in his whisky smooth voice.

Which left two of the medical emergency team unaccounted for, and Silv for that matter and unless Hugh and Aidan, who had barely been introduced, were testing the springs in Silv Son #2’s bed (always possible) or were  charming the geckos in #1 son’s room, it seemed likely that they might be keeping the patient company in the study. And so it was. Aidan might not be very good at risk reviewing, but he gave an excellent foot rub and Hugh was remarkably good at finding Excel errors, as befitted the son of an accountant. Silv sipped her tea and mused that her productivity might be questionable, but at least the room had stopped washing up and down like the Thames at Wapping. She wasn’t quite on the mend yet, but a day -  or two, or three  - of Orlando cuddles and impromptu massages might do the trick.

The only remaining worry was what the herd of hunks might do to her lovely house … but she was sure that if she kept them all busy shagging (never difficult)  there would be no serious structural damage.