The Cringe Lord

Amy awoke to the high, resonant ringing of a spoon circling the rim of a teacup. Her eyes fluttered open, and before she could even blink away the bleariness she all but jumped out of her skin. She scrambled to her feet, backpedalling into the cold, hard brickwork of the wall behind her. In front of her, a short, balding man sat on a dustbin, nursing a cup of tea as he watched her. He wore a tweed suit complete with a drooping red bow tie, braces beneath his blazer and a faint smile that promised nothing good. They were in an alley, that was the next thing she noticed. It was narrow and gloomy, lit only by a single flickering bulb somewhere high above them. "Wakey, wakey, Amelia." He dipped the spoon into the cup and stirred a few times, then tossed it casually right up into the air where it disappeared into the gloom above them and failed to come back down. "You've been asleep for long enough, I think."
Amy blinked, struck quite suddenly by the chill that was coming over her. She looked down and realised with a shock that she was wearing her nightie and her tatty old dressing gown. A faint breeze from the mouth of the alley passed between her legs, and with a gasp she realised she really was wearing nothing but the gown and nightie. She pulled the hem down and gulped, pushing her pale, slim thighs together for extra protection. "W—who are...wait...you?"
"Yes, me." The man did a small flourish, looking quite pleased with himself.
"The..." she stopped to catch her breath. "What did you call yourself before...Dream Lord?"
"Ah, yes...well, you see that was before," he grinned. "Things are...a little different now, you might say."
"You're not supposed to be here, you're not supposed to..."
"Exist?" He finished. "Yes, well...it really was rather foolish of your Doctor to trust that only one speck of psychic pollen made it into his TARDIS. Quite foolish, really; and then there's that boyfriend of yours..." his eyes narrowed, he looked down and stroked his chin. "No, it's husband now, isn't it? You're Mrs. Williams...or is he Mr. Pond? You never did come to a consensus on that one, did you?" He polished off the tea, tossed the empty cup unceremoniously to the floor where it promptly shattered into a thousand pieces, then placed his palms on his thighs and rose to his feet, hopping off the dustbin with a faint 'hup'. "In any event, I'm here because of him. That speck, that lovely little speck, made its way through the TARDIS ventilation system and right into your bedroom—incidentally, bunk beds? Little immature but we'll leave that box unopened for the sake of your dignity—from there it wasn't much work to tap into his dreams, and oh what dreams they are! Such perverted little fantasies he has, has always had, if only you knew!" The Dream Lord chuckled. "It influenced me, changed my nature. I'm a being composed entirely of psychic energy, and I adapt to the specific psyches of those I'm exposed to, and, well, speaking of exposure..." he grinned his sickly sweet grin, and a gust of wind shivered its way down the length of the alley. Amy looked down and saw her nightie fluttering up around her milky, milky thighs, grabbing at the hem to keep it in place. "This is a dream, though, right? That's still the same, because..." she looked up at what was visible of the skyline, the tops of the buildings nearby peeking out from behind the rooftops. She recognised some of the signage, the style of the architecture—new, but old, deliberately WWII throwback in its style, but framed against an unfamiliar blanket of stars, and no moon in sight...
"I'm back on Starship UK, aren't I? But I'm in my nightie, just like I was the first time, which means I'm not really back on Starship UK; this isn't real, it's a dream!" Amy reasoned, looking up and down the alley warily. "So what's the game now, hm? What do I have to do to get rid of you?"
The Dream Lord smiled thinly. "Try not to sound so **** to be shot of me, eh?" He shoved his hands into his pockets, examining her thoughtfully. "Game's a bit different this time, I'm afraid. I've been waiting for a good opportunity, you see. Sizing you up, as it were; and I've been dreaming up a new set of scenarios for you, influenced by the wonderfully filthy psychology of Mr. Pond.
Amy caught his eyes wandering down to her exposed legs and went to close the gown around herself. "Eyes up here, funny man!" She warned. "That's for Rory's eyes only these days!"
The Dream Lord kept that peculiar smile of his, it didn't drop even an inch. "As I was saying, the game has changed. Dear Rory has quite the taste for that special kind of exposure, so what I want from you now is a bit more...bespoke."
"Bespoke? What are you—"
"Don't interrupt me, Amelia." The Dream Lord cautioned. "It's not how you were raised! Why, if I didn't know better, I might start to think you weren't raised by anyone at all!" The Dream Lord chuckled to himself, his whole body shaking, then smoothed down the few loose strands of hair left on his balding head.
Amy's mouth tightened into a pout, she wanted badly to say something in retort, the temptation was boiling away like fire in her chest.