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haughty_alpha and <lj site="livejournal.com" user="5th_doc
It was really fortunate Data remembered where either of their rooms were. It wasn't that his memory wasn't functioning, persay, but it was random fact over random fact, tumbling in an illogical order that trumped his processes. When he opened the door, he barely registered the cat skittering off to hide herself in the bathroom, suitably dosed so that her feline paranoia was getting the better of her and she wanted nothing to do with these two legged fiends.
He dropped their cricketing gear near the couch in the main area, oddly clumsy, and if he hadn't been holding to the Doctor to counterbalance his own weight.
"We have a mystery to solve," Data declared sternly, holding up his tricorder so they both could look at it. "But we can't until Avon is here. He needs his mustache." This was a fact. No mystery could be unravelled until Avon was fully mustachioed and prepared to provide... something. What was it.
And where was his pipe and smoking jacket?
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"Where are you off to?" he demanded, of Data. "Sit down and take something off, or it'll be embarrassing."
They weren't lined up with his waist!
He tried to wriggle back into his braces, but the stretchy strips wouldn't cooperate, and his coordination was impaired, and Data was being quite distracting by not being in a state of undress.
"Yes. Please," he said to Data, agreeing with...whatever Avon had said. He was still struggling with his braces, and getting himself tangled in them in the process.
But ah! He'd found said smoking jacket in the closet, and chose to wear it the "comfortable" way. Where it was more of a robe than a smoking jacket, and he rid himself of his shirt and started undoing his pants while he was at it. At the mouth of the closet too, as for some reason his modesty protocols had long since vanished.
He watched in appreciation as Data removed his clothes. "It's getting hot in here," he murmured.
"Hot?" he asked, brow drawn in slight confusion. "Haven't no-noticed an increase in temperature? In fact, it's rather cool. Hmmm...I seem to have misplaced my pullover."
He stood, trousers desperately attempting to cling onto those slim hips, and failing. And revealing that his boxers were in fact, striped.
"I believe it is an average Earth climate temperature of twenty-two degrees." Oh! He had a belt, didn't he. That would make a suitable lead. He shrugged on the robe and hunched down to remove the item from his discarded pants, still in his lonely black socks and neglecting to close the waistband of his garment. Now where had the Doctor left his pullover? He hadn't been wearing it in here, had he?
"Oh, yes. L-lovely," he remarked. Then again, everything in the universe was lovely in its own way. The appearance of the sky after a brief summer storm, the arrangement of flowers in a bouquet. And thus, Data's form followed suit.
Even if he hadn't one on.
Which made the Doctor snort rather rudely at his own private joke.
"Quite lovely. I hadn't...n-noticed it before. You're quite a strapping, ah, specimen, Data."
"Thank you, Doctor. And you have a very nice... Bit of leg." He motioned generally to where the Doctor's pants had drooped down. He had an athletic shape to his back and posterior too, but it was often (and still was) concealed in stripes. As Avon's was still in tight... very tight leather.
"...Am I losing?" he asked as he wrapped the belt around his hand, roaming over to the both of them though he'd forgotten what he wanted it for.
"I have no idea," Avon said, his gaze falling on the belt. "Are you intending to punish the loser with that? Because if you are," he gave an airy little snicker, "I don't mind losing."
With a bit of sway in his hips, he managed to tug his trousers down to his ankles, stepping neatly out of them. Or nearly neatly.
"I think," he said, with authority worthy of telling off the Master, "that I am still in the running for the contest." Orange and red striped boxers were on full display, offering a grand view of his Time Lord assets.
Wait Wait! He should be... fixing things. And it was hard to fix things when there was half his attention roaming off to places that they should not be like... leather pants that sorely seemed they needed removing or the way stripes seemed to be accentuating particularly interesting areas on his increasingly attractive friend. And did the Doctor mean that he was still in the running to win or to lose?
"You still have a shirt and boxers," he announced. Did socks count? He looped the belt around the Doctor's neck, sliding the leather through the buckle and tugging him back down to the floor with Avon.
He tugged at the waistband of his trousers, finding them too restrictive. With a shrug he undid the button and zip. That was better.
Landing hard on hands and knees, he stared up, bleary-eyed at who might be clasping the other end of the belt.
Ah. Data. Very good.
"Hmmm...this ought to be removed, then," said the Doctor, trailing fingers against the row of buttons down his shirt. "I'd rather pre-prefer coming in first."
Well, that wasn't working.
So he just grabbed either side of the fabric over his chest and pulled either direction, popping all the buttons loose (and sending some bouncing across the floor). The TARDIS could make him a new one or he could replace it.
Besides, Avon liked displays of strength. Speaking of which...
Then his jaw dropped as Data performed an unexpectedly violent striptease. "This is better than Blag City..." he murmured, blissfully.
Like whether the TARDIS, the room, the room with the things, the room which held his original clothes would have another shirt waiting.
Perhaps if he sat, he'd be more comfortable?
He sat, hard.
He glanced over Avon's pants thoughtfully, and gave a little tug at the waistband (just enough to pull the leather aside and confirm his suspicions). His laugh trailed off as he entertained a notion.
He had only been able to perform about 32.34% of the sexual techniques he was programmed in, and some of them, to be performed efficiently, would require a third partner. He honestly couldn't think of anyone more preferable than the Doctor for such a task. That prudish, aristocratic man in the torn shirt and leash that probably hadn't actually had sex in decades that seemed at the moment to want nothing more than his cricket balls.
Still in his robe, Data crawled over the Doctor's lap, bare stomach and thigh and other parts touching against his exposed legs. He gave Avon a meaningful look, eyeing his leather pants. "He has almost gained the lead, Avon," he warned, referring to the Doctor and his amount of clothing.
He looked down at his own remaining clothing. "You're quite right, Data. Can't let that happen - here." He passed Data the leash. He virtually had to solder himself into those leathers in the morning - getting out of them again was definitely a two-handed job. He seized the waistband and wriggled gracelessly on the carpet for a few moments, resembling an overlarge, sadomasochistic caterpillar, until -
"There!" he offered the trousers to Data, as spoils of war.
...well...
...it wasn't something he'd wish to dwell upon, for he was focused on questions.
Such important questions as why Data chose this moment to splay himself across the Doctor's legs?
And why wasn't the Doctor attempting to stop him.
"You're heavy," he said, enunciating the syllables to indicate their importance. He tried to first struggle free from the strap of leather around his neck, and when that proved impossible, he attempted to wriggle himself free from beneath Data. And that proved impossible as well. So, taking the logic to its ultimate conclusion, he'd resigned himself to immobility.
At least the company was good, he thought to himself, grinning goofily, looking rather self-satisfied. He'd always regarded Data as special, and to be so intimate with him...he was certainly blessed!
But that didn't stop the sputtering chuckle he let out as he watched Avon writhe free of his leathers. "That takes skill," he observed, impressed.
"I believe we are tied now, Doctor. Mostly you." That probably was less funny than he thought it was, but the leash got an indicating tug. He arched to look back up at Avon from his bizarre now-upside-down vantage point on his back, robe splayed open and unintentionally baring that expanse of gold body.
"Perhaps he needs assistance with his boxers."
"And I can vouch for Data's composition," he added, with another small snicker. "Only the best materials..."
Scrambling along the floor - it felt a bit like climbing a mountain, from this angle - he joined Data, though choosing to lie beside the Doctor rather than on top of him - he looked as though he could manage without additional squashing. "He does appear to need help," he mused. "Those stripey knickers won't remove themselves, after all."
He had entirely giving up on worrying about where his inhibitions had gone, by this point, and was simply enjoying the freedom of not having any.
On the contrary, the thin, cotton fabric of his underwear felt just the slightest bit tighter at the tug.
He needed his glasses to have a closer look at Data's form. Yes, that was best, but his specs were sitting in the pockets of his coat, on the couch. But it may have been miles away, considering that for the moment, the Doctor could not move.
Their argument was logical, and he needed to win. Desperately needed to best everyone else, all who underestimated him. And if that required shedding his underwear, then so be it.
Though, he couldn't exactly slip them off with an exquisitely designed android weighting down his legs. Not at the moment, though.
Trying to keep the robe from slipping off of him, he grinned smugly at the Doctor and settled into an unintentionally obsene cross-legged position to watch. All the while holding the make-shift leash like he was presenting the noble Gallifreyan before judge Avon in a dog show.
"What a lovely present," he said. And it was. A Time Lord...all that power, all that knowledge and experience gained over the centuries, lying leashed and mostly naked in Avon's lap. It was an immense turn-on.
Fumbling slightly, his usually carefully-hidden natural clumsiness accentuated by his intoxicated state, he began an enthusiastic onslaught against the Doctor's underwear.