"On my—" the Master blinks at the Doctor, expression caught between surprise and consternation, boxers pooled around his feet. He would have pulled away from the Doctor's hands on his face, that possessive gesture—or have tried to turn it and own it for himself—but he hadn't been given the chance. The Doctor's quick this evening. Decisive. Impulsive.

He could fight this. The Doctor's drunk. He could shrug and gather up his clothes and walk out, leave him to sober up—or he could counter the Doctor's aggressiveness with his own.

But maybe not. Maybe he'll explore this unusual mood.

"On my stomach." He runs his eyes down the Doctor, standing in front of him still half-clothed, and then back up to meet his eyes. He smiles. "No."

What do you do now, Doctor?