Amy’s New Earth

cassandra finds amy instead of rose

Amy Pond’s blue eyes—no, not Amy’s, not anymore—flashed with a predatory, ancient gleam in the polished metal surface of the medical bay’s cabinet. The body thief within took a deliberate, sensual inventory. Oh, this is magnificent.Cassandra’s consciousness, a desperate sheet of living skin, hummed with stolen vitality. She ran a hand down the curve of her new hip, clad in a tight, grey jumper that hugged every delicious contour. The short skirt flirted with the tops of her thighs, the black tights beneath sheer and promising.
With a sigh of pure delight, she began to undress. The jumper was pulled over fiery red hair, tossed aside. The skirt dropped to the floor. She peeled the tights down, inch by tantalizing inch, revealing long, pale legs. And then… the treasure. Lacy green lingerie. A delicate bra cupping full, pert breasts. Matching knickers, a mere whisper of silk and lace, hugging the sweet juncture of her thighs. Green. For envy. How perfectly fitting.
She bit her new, full lower lip, a shiver of pure, unadulterated lust coursing through her. She wasn’t just wearing this body. She was it. Every nerve ending was hers to command. And she knew exactly what she wanted to command them for.
Redressing quickly—the jumper, the skirt—she left the tights off. Better access, she thought with a wicked smile. The feel of the cool air, the brush of the skirt’s hem against her bare thighs… it was exquisite. She found him in the console room, the Doctor, all frenetic energy and ancient eyes, tinkering with the TARDIS controls.
“Doctor?” Her voice was Amy’s, but the cadence was slower, dripping with a honeyed seduction the real Amy would never use.
He turned, a boyish grin on his face. “Amy! All sorted? Those cat nuns were a bit… scratchy, weren’t they?” His grin faltered, just for a micro-second. Something in her posture, the way she held herself, the gaze that lingered a touch too long…
She closed the distance between them, her movements a languid glide. “Quite sorted,” she purred, stopping inches from him. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the double heartbeat through his suit. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. It was intoxicating. “I feel… extraordinary.”
“Do you?” he asked, his voice dropping, his eyes searching hers. The suspicion was there, but so was something else… a flicker of heat, of curiosity.
“Mmm,” she hummed, leaning in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “All this running. Don’t you ever want to just… stop?” Her other hand trailed down his chest, over the lean plane of his stomach, coming to rest boldly on the growing bulge in his trousers. He inhaled sharply. “Stop,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin, “and feel?”
That was all the invitation he seemed to need. With a low groan that was pure Time Lord, his hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “Who are you?” he breathed, but he was already leaning in, his lips capturing hers.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a hungry, desperate claiming. Cassandra-in-Amy moaned into his mouth, her hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He broke the kiss only to yank the jumper over her head, tossing it atop the time rotor. His eyes darkened as he took in the green lace. “Not… standard Amy Pond issue,” he managed, his voice rough.
“I’m not standard,” she retorted, pulling his shirt open. Her nails scraped down his bare chest. She pushed him backward, until the backs of his knees hit the jump seat and he sank onto it. She followed, straddling him, her skirt riding up to her hips. The heat of him, the hard ridge of his erection pressed against the thin lace of her knickers, made her gasp. Oh, yes.
He kissed her neck, his lips and tongue tracing a searing path to her collarbone. One hand cupped her breast through the lace, his thumb circling her nipple until it was a hard, aching peak. The other hand slid down her back, over the curve of her arse, and beneath the skirt. His fingertips found the damp, hot silk between her legs. He pressed the heel of his hand against her, and she cried out, bucking against him.
“So responsive,” he murmured against her skin. “So… alive.”
“Touch me,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Properly.”
He didn’t need telling twice. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her knickers, and with a quick, sharp tug, the delicate lace tore. The sound was obscenely erotic. The cool air of the TARDIS hit her wet folds, followed immediately by the searing heat of his touch. No barrier. Just skin on skin.
One long finger slid into her, deep, and her head fell back, a ragged sob tearing from her throat. Oh, gods. The sensation was beyond anything the old Cassandra had ever dreamed of. The tight, velvety clasp of this young cunt, the way it fluttered around his invading digit… it was paradise. He added a second finger, curling them, stroking a spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes.
“Doctor!” she screamed, her hips pistoning, riding his hand. He was relentless, his thumb finding her clit, circling it in tight, perfect little circles that matched the thrust of his fingers. The pleasure was a white-hot coil in her belly, winding tighter, tighter. She was babbling, a mix of Amy’s Scottish brogue and Cassandra’s posh desperation. “Yes, there, please, don’t stop, it’s so good, I’m going to—”
He watched her face, his own a mask of intense, feral concentration. Just as she teetered on the precipice, her whole body trembling, he leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. His voice was a raw, intimate whisper, filled with a truth he thought he was sharing with Amy. “Gods, Amy… how much I love redheads.”
The words were the final key. They unlocked something deep in the stolen psyche, a carnal, affirming thrill that slammed through her with the force of a supernova. It wasn’t just the exquisite friction of his fingers inside her, stretching her, filling her, rubbing that perfect, secret place. It was the ownership. He loved this hair, this skin, this body. Hers.
With a shattered cry that echoed in the vast room, she came. The orgasm was a convulsive, total-body seizure. Her internal muscles clamped down on his fingers with vise-like intensity, milking them as wave after wave of brutal, exquisite pleasure crashed through her. She saw flashes of light, felt the TARDIS hum in resonance, felt every cell in Amy Pond’s body sing in unison. And in that cataclysmic instant of peak sensation, the last tenuous link to her old, dying form severed. The mind graft sealed. The possession became permanent. She was trapped. And she was complete.
She went limp against him, panting, her forehead resting on his shoulder, the aftershocks still making her twitch. His fingers, wet with her, slowly withdrew. He held her, his own breathing ragged.