Here is something I've wanted to write for a long time but also something motivated by my own current situation (*ahem*). I have always thought that Moffat (the God) struck the perfect balance between adult personalities and youthful attitudes in his 'Press Gang' characterizations and I wanted to explore the psychology of Splynda a bit when it came to matters of the flesh.
Please excuse the formatting- it has always been awkward as hell on here and I tried to keep as much of the intended formatting as possible with respect to the Doc Manager.
Please R&R!
It was a place Lynda Day was ending up with alarming regularity: on a bed, on her back and with little more covering her from the questing hands of one Spike Thomson than her bra and her tights. Even then, his fingers generally managed to blaze a trail beneath these vulnerable bastions of modesty before nagging doubt and lapsed Christian morals caused Lynda to retreat. The idea of what they – what she, for she was a willing participant until her brain kicked back in – were doing did not seem wrong to her so much as just…too. Too much, too soon, too enjoyable and too inevitable.
When she thought about 'it', which she did very often, she couldn't seem to arrive at any sort of sense. The ball of feelings she carried on the subject never got less untangled and time and further heated explorative sessions just made her more confused. She wanted 'it'; she knew she did. She wouldn't let 'it' happen otherwise and for all of his too-readily admitted flaws, she knew Spike wouldn't let 'it' happen either if there was even a suggestion that she didn't want 'it'. And she wanted 'it' every time 'it' seemed like 'it' was going to happen and part of her crisis stemmed from frustration over 'it' not having happened yet; at least not properly, fully, 100%.
I am a modern woman, Lynda told herself. My sexuality is my business and no one else's. Except those with whom I engage sexually, only in situations of full-consent. And my general health practitioner, as nothing should happen that has not been sufficiently prepared for.
An insidious voice usually pointed out at that point in the self-talk that Lynda's business could become everyone's business should she wrongly bestow her favours on someone undeserving and this was one of the thoughts that has caused her to continually extricate herself from Spike's enthusiastic embrace and struggle back into her clothes as quickly as possible. Because as much as Lynda wanted to do 'it' with Spike, she did not want everyone to know that she had because A) she needed to comport herself in a manner befitting a role model in light of her job as editor of the Junior Gazette and B) she did not want to be the latest in the long line of Spike's known conquests.
In her mind, the only thing separating her from those girls was her dignity. They had given in and allowed themselves to be persuaded and discarded, and in spite of Spike's determined pursuit, Lynda had no guarantees that she meant any more to Spike if the novelty of unavailability were gone. And she was the sort of girl who had to mean something, otherwise why should she risk her self-respect by getting involved with the Lothario of Norbridge High? She didn't fool herself that doing 'it' was synonymous with love or equalled the start of a proper relationship, but her anger management issues and lack of social skills aside, Spike's reputation made him more of a liability than hers ever could and no sensible girl could ever really completely overlook it and let herself get embarrassingly carried away. She had no real experience in 'it' other than what she and Spike had done so far, it was true, but she knew proceedings weren't leading up to tea and cakes with the vicar and she intended to maintain as much composure as was possible when writhing around underneath someone and desperately hoping her mother wouldn't find out.
For the most part, she held no shame over wanting to do 'it' and enjoying 'it', but her modern attitude warred with her fairly conservative values and all they could agree on was that being a teenager with urges was undignified and that seeing to those needs should be as well-considered a process as possible in light of who she was, or at least who she thought she should be. She trusted Spike – she did – but she was forced to admit that some doubt remained. He respected her, yes, but how much of that was due to her untouchable status; at least up until now?
As practical as she tried to be about these things, Lynda couldn't seem to find it within herself to actually initiate some sort of conversation on the matter with Spike. That would require them to be alone in private and usually that sort of environment facilitated a different sort of exchange between them. She knew she couldn't launch a serious discussion with him after having had her tongue in his mouth either because what little she knew of the male psyche told her that they were incapable of a gear change of that magnitude. So she bided her time, promised herself she'd keep her legs relatively shut until she could enter into the spirit of 'it' without hesitation or reservations and tried to hold Spike at bay.
That was easier said than done with an aroused teenage boy, though.
Despite the punters telling him he'd only 'get' his editor when swine could put on displays of complex aerial formation, Spike knew a thing or two about farm animals determined to fly from the boys of Monty Python and he'd read somewhere once that pigs were smarter than sheep. He also knew that God could be merciful and thus, that Lynda had to be experiencing some of what he was feeling for her, so he put his faith in the chemistry resulting from the mingling of potent teen pheromones and focused on swamping Lynda with his charm.
When he first managed to get Lynda Day out of her clothes and happily beneath him, he thought: I'd better keep an eye out for angel pigs on Cloud 9. Only his wildest dreams gave him any sort of preparation for what 'it' would be like and even then, those persistent fantasies fell well short of reality.
And when he managed to get the stalwart editor of the Junior Gazette horizontal a second and third time, he felt like a king. It wasn't just making out with Lynda and he doubted the sun could burn as hot as he did when she gasped his name or, God help him, when she cupped him through his pants in her surprisingly delicate hand and applied just enough pressure to make him want to beg for more. He didn't beg, of course, because he had more self-control than that and his very favourite fantasies were so close to, er, coming to fruition.
The fourth time, he reluctantly became aware that he was, in fact, just short of making the acquaintance of those porcine cupids and he started taking it personally when Lynda would predictably shove him off and get dressed as if in a time trial. It was easy for her to pretend like it never happened, but it took him a good half an hour of thinking about baseball to calm down enough to be presentable without the aid of a big book and he'd had to start carrying one around now in case. She'd let him in enough for him to learn what her skin felt like, how she liked to be kissed and what he had to do to make her eyes roll back in her head, and the more opportunities he had to test his knowledge, the more she and the need he had for her took over his body and consumed his thoughts.
Spike accepted there would be some fall-out from the Lynda Day brand of 'close but no cigar', but the dreams. The dreams, my God, the dreams. Changing his sheets was now a daily occurrence, even after attempts at releasing the pent-up tension, and when he was forced into the agonizing position of being around Lynda in public, he devoted his energies to keeping his hands to himself, his mouth mostly shut since his usual innuendo only seemed to increase his suffering and trying not to stare too much. He was failing horribly at the latter, he knew.
But why did she push him away? On a dumb, base male level, he told himself it was because women could never make up their minds and Lynda was more difficult than most women. On a more intellectual level, he told himself that Lynda was trying to make him prove his devotion and he almost cheerfully resigned himself to the world's worst case of blue balls if it would mean that she would be satisfied and then, he could be too. But on the deepest philosophical level, which he pretended to other people didn't exist and which he tried to silence for the most part, he told himself that Lynda was a lot like his mother and that she too just didn't care for him as much as he cared for her. Neither of them could ever give him what he wanted (or needed) and he always had the feeling of being small and dirty next to either. Kerr and Sullivan had all but told him he wasn't worthy of Lynda and their words had hit a nerve. Lynda, like his mother, would leave him and move on with her life. It was inevitable. Both were destined for greater things than he could aspire to or ever be a part of. When this knowledge forced its way into his mind, it made him sick to consider but he accepted it without question.
He was a screw-up and he never took anything seriously. He couldn't say a word without it being for comedic effect and he doubted most people considered him much in the upstairs department. He knew his track record with girls didn't exactly work in his favour either, but that was in the past and he hadn't even really thought about anyone else since he'd met Lynda. He knew she was intelligent enough to look beyond appearances and common misconceptions, but why would she when he constantly denied having any real depth? He'd never pursued anything of real meaning with her – mostly because of his unshakeable fear of being shot down – but would she have ever believed in him?
On a rare Monday afternoon outside of both school and the newsroom, Spike had managed to reach the previously unknown point of ridding Lynda of her tights before she stopped him. She'd lost her dress nearly as soon as Spike's bedroom door had closed and now with her doubts unnerving her to the point of distraction and her bra hanging by a hook and a strap, Lynda managed to squirm out from under Spike and she drew herself into sitting position against the wall and studiously avoided his eyes. Frowning, Spike got to his knees and predicting an escape, moved to crowd her against the wall.
"What is with you, Lynda?" he asked, still panting slightly.
The dam Lynda had built around her anxieties collapsed then and she wrapped her arms around herself, wanting to finally voice her concerns but unwilling to bring it all up.
"Lynda?" Spike repeated, tilting her face towards his.
"What is this to you?" she asked finally, voice small. Her eyes locked on his and though neither was comfortable, both refused to look away. Inclining her head slightly, she shook off the seemingly smothering weight of his palm over her cheek and squared her shoulders.
Spike stared at her, at a loss. His heart was racing and his mind was lagging well behind, making him disoriented and unable to ignore the weight of his erection. To marshal his thoughts, Spike carefully re-fastened his fly over subsiding hardness and sat back on his heels. He didn't understand how she could go from finally – finally – touching him inside his pants one minute to cowering against the wall the next. He'd made sure not to hurt her, but maybe he had? He tentatively reached out to catch Lynda in a hug but she resisted.
"What is this, Spike?" she said again, voice harder.
"Wh-, what do you mean?" he responded carefully. He dragged a hand through his hair and tried to force his brain to think and work out where this conversation was heading. And what she wanted him to say.
"I said, what is this to you," she said and she was yelling now. Her hand gestured to the scant space between them.
As he went to speak, Lynda silenced him."What am I to you?"
At that, a roar of thoughts filled his mind. He didn't for the life of him know what she wanted to hear. The truth was that she was everything. Everything he wanted, everything he chased and everything he couldn't have. What she probably expected to hear was that she was the Boss and the only girl to ever make him work so hard to have her. He decided he should tell her something between the truth and what she would expect. No use confronting her with all of that philosophical crap he hid inside himself, he thought. She didn't know that Spike.
"Lynda, I don't know what this-'' he gestured as she had, choosing his words carefully, "I don't know what this is. But I want it, and you, more than anything."
The answer seemed to appease her and Spike felt a wave of relief as she noticeably relaxed.
"Okay?" he asked her gently.
She nodded and he knew she understood his multiple meanings. With a gentle exhalation, she closed the distance between them and kissed him: gingerly at first, but as he responded, she increased the pressure until he was incapable of holding back and was returning her strokes with his own. Soon enough, he had her on her back again and she was just beginning to insinuate her hand inside his fly when the sound of the front door rattling as it opened reached them upstairs. Lynda froze and Spike rolled off her and buried his face in his pillow; groaning.
"Your father has really bad timing," she hissed, and she meant it. Cautiously, she sat up and laid a hand gently on Spike's shoulder. He turned over and pulled her down for a hard kiss before letting her get up to get dressed.
Spike walked her home, mostly in silence, and by the time they'd reached her front door, Lynda had made up her mind.
"My mother is away at my aunt's," she said, turning to face him. She had held off telling him until now because she had worried that if she did, she would feel pressured to see 'it' through. After their abbreviated talk and the subsequent interruption, she was more convinced than ever that she wanted 'it' to happen.
"Oh, yeah?" Spike said negligently, and she could tell he wasn't as unaffected as he tried to seem.
"Would you like to come in?" she asked, forcing herself to the point for both their sakes.
"Are you sure?" he asked, stepping in closer to her until their breath mingled visibly in the cold evening air.
"Are you?" she retorted, pulling him closer still by his lapels.
"Yeah," he breathed, and kissed her.