Mister Master, manifesting what Baudelaire calls the eternal superiority of the dandy. Or, in other words, "Heh, I'm such a motherfuckin' pimp."
Completely worksafe and gen(!), just the Master lounging in a decadent Victorian room. Doesn't really matter whether it's in his TARDIS (shush, it's so out there somewhere) or the Doctor's--he's made the room his. And I'm quite sure that it's a chained-up Ten he's looking at.
Icon version/preview, snurchable with credit as usual:
And a version with more pretentious absinthey colours, because I feel like it:
The damn source images necessitated deep shadows and contrasts, which are hiding his huge fuck-off stovepipe hat a bit. Which is a shame, because he loves his crack, oh yes. Items on the mantlepiece include a cheetah skull (because I'm cheap), poison bottles and the image on the clockface is the Gallifreyan symbol for "thrust" (because I'm twelve). The empty space is there deliberately--the Master is reserved it especially for his guest. An amputated body part or two could liven up the atmosphere nicely, don't you think?