Fic: Neon Angels on the Road to Ruin
Title: Neon Angels on the Road to Ruin
Summary: Lyn-Z runs away to LA.
Pairing: Lyn-Z/Joan Jett
Word count: 1500
Rating: NC-17
AN: This is set very, very vaguely in the Runaways era. Shameless and unbeta’d porn.
It takes a quarter of the cash Lyn-Z has squirreled away - babysitting money and what she could steal from her mom's purse without getting noticed - to get to LA, and she blows too much of the rest on shitty motels. She keeps the remaining cash tucked in her bra because she doesn't trust this town, doesn't trust these people, but god, is it better than fucking Connecticut.
Lyn-Z spends her first night in LA in her motel room, tiny radio turned up loud, blasting guitar and drums over the sound of people fucking in the room next door. She stares at her hair in the mirror and chops at it, leaving it in ragged pigtails that are a distorted picture of home. She could imagine what the sisters would say if they could see her now, and she laughs, thinking of all those girls back home tucked in their safe little beds ready to go to the same old life again tomorrow.
She finds her way to the shows, feels the thrum and excitement of the crowds, and she knows this is what she wants. Knows she's going to grab a hold of this life somehow and make it work. She feels just as hungry for it as she did when she was listening to records in her basement turned down as low as possible so her parents wouldn’t hear, and her dream feels almost tangible in this city.
She's wearing her school uniform, her skirt swaying and her shirt half-undone and grimy with sweat and beer that's been spilled on her, but she's also wearing the shit-kicker boots she left home in, her torn fishnets, and she feels fucking badass, especially when she swipes on lipstick in a color her mother taught her only loose women wore.
She feels loose, like she could come apart at the seams, everything's so fucking bright and loud and more than she thought, and also less, grimier and smellier with reality leaking in around the edges in the glassy eyes and matted hair of the people around her.
Too many of these girls are here to suck cock, Lyn-Z knows this, but she isn't, and she ignores the propositions and swigs beer like a man and knows that if she acts tough enough people will see her that way, not as a scared schoolgirl from New England on her first week out of her mother's house.
She's at the bar when the girl catches her eye, the girl she wants to be, all black hair and bold lips and those dark, dramatic eyes... Lyn-Z can't look away. Won't look away.
The girl meets her eyes, and she's familiar, oh so fucking familiar, even in this sea of people who look the same and laugh the same and even smell the same, like beer and pot and sweat and that distinct LA smell that Lyn-Z goddamn loves.
And then she's coming closer, cutting through the crowd and Lyn-Z takes the last swig of her beer, nervously sets it on the bar, bottle clattering like it's trying to escape.
"I'm Joan," the girl says, Joan says, and oh, oh, it's Joan, that's why she's familiar, and she's talking to Lyn-Z, who was sitting in class a week ago, who has been in LA for five days and already has forgotten what home feels like. "That's a get-up you're wearing, girl."
"Lyn-Z," she says, and casts an appreciative eye to Joan's outfit, all leather and worn-out cotton. It isn't as staged as Lyn-Z's and is five thousand times more bad ass.
Joan's mouth twists in a smile, and then she’s saying something, she’s laughing, she's leading Lyn-Z by the hand away from the bar.
Lyn-Z doesn't look back.
They're running through the crowd, pushing and elbowing their way past everyone, and then they're outside, and the air is just as warm, just as muggy, almost as smoky. Lyn-Z laughs, bright and loud and un-self-conscious, because she's in a different world now, she's finally broken free.
And she swings around, hand still grasped in Joan's, and before she can think about what she's doing, she's got her mouth pressed to Joan's, is kissing her like she kisses girls every day, like she kisses girls who she admires every day, like she's a brave, bold, beautiful person.
And Joan's hand is pressed against the base of Lyn-Z's skull, fingers sliding down her neck in the trail of sweat that's gathered there, and she's kissing back, like they aren't on the fucking street, like she knows who Lyn-Z is.
And they're stumbling, feet tangled together as Joan leads them to the alley, and then Lyn-Z's got a grimy brick wall to her back and Joan fucking Jett pressed against her tits, pressed against her hipbones, pressed against her fucking mouth, tongue-to-tongue, and she tastes like smoke and onion rings. Lyn-Z wants to laugh at the improbability of it all.
"Forward, aren't you?" Joan asks, laughing and breathless. She's got a hand on either side of Lyn-Z's head, is leaning in close, pressing Lyn-Z into the wall. Lyn-Z feels surrounded, surrounded by Joan, and she breathes in deep.
"Not usually," Lyn-Z replies honestly.
"Lucky me," and Joan's kissing her this time, hot and hungry.
Lyn-Z's head is spinning, she thinks she's drunk, drunker than the time she spray-painted big red X's over the peace signs in the mural on at the park back home, drunker even than the time she stole her mom's car and ended up in a ditch, and the feel of Joan's hands sliding up her thighs under her heavy skirt is more exhilarating than all those experiences put together.
And then Joan's hand is searching under her skirt, finding what she's looking for, shoving her hand down, down, down into her underwear. Lyn-Z moans into her mouth, takes this as the go-ahead to do some exploring of her own. She's running her hands over Joan's ass, up her back and under her t-shirt, and is feeling the smooth skin where Joan isn't wearing a bra as Joan's fingers slide into her.
And then Joan's fingers disappear, and she's shaking her head.
"Your skirt, it's too fucking bulky," she says, and Lyn-Z's opening her mouth to offer to take it off, never mind she's fifteen fucking feet from a street, never mind any of the rules of propriety she learned, all she wants is Joan's fingers touching her, Joan's mouth on hers.
But Joan's got a pocket knife, and she's cutting away at Lyn-Z's skirt, leaving just enough to be decent, and the dull edge of the knife is cool against her flushed thighs. And the plaid material falls to the ground and Lyn-Z feels strangely naked, bared to the world, and she wraps a thigh around Joan, pulls her in close.
Joan's mouth is smeared red, and it takes Lyn-Z a moment to realize that's her lipstick, that she's made Joan look like she's been fucking ravished. She kisses her again, has a nipple pinched between her fingers, is making out with Joan like she knows what she's doing, like she was made to fuck punk girls in alleys in LA.
And Joan's hand is back, she's rubbing and twisting her fingers in ways that Lyn-Z is going to fucking dream about, and Lyn-Z is fumbling with the button on Joan's leather pants. Their mouths smash together and hips buck. Lyn-Z thinks this is what she's wanted her whole life, this moment and this feeling, the way Joan's rubbing her off, and the way Joan's slickness invites her fingers in further.
Lyn-Z's coming, coming hard, like she never has before, body shaking and toes curling up against the steel toes of her boots. She thumps her head against the wall, but that's not why she's seeing stars, why she's exploding from the inside out.
Joan's kissing her neck now, and her hand is slowly retreating, and when Lyn-Z loosens the lock her leg has on Joan they're twisting, turning and Joan's the one leaning against the wall.
Lyn-Z pulls back enough to mouth Joan's tit through her t-shirt, to graze her hard nipple with her teeth. Joan's got her hand tangled in Lyn-Z's pigtails, is pulling Lyn-Z's hair hard enough to hurt as Lyn-Z thumbs her clit, pushes her fingers deeper inside.
Lyn-Z's thighs are still quivering from her own orgasm when Joan lets out a throaty moan, a moan that sends a jolt through Lyn-Z, and grabs at Lyn-Z's wrist, pressing harder, making Lyn-Z go deeper, harder, faster.
And then Joan's coming around Lyn-Z's hand, and Lyn-Z is watching her. Watching Joan's red-smeared mouth and her fluttered-closed eyes and she caused that, she did that.
Joan loosens, falls back against the wall, and Lyn-Z slides her hand out of her pants, leans against her and presses a kiss against the hollow of her throat, and then collapses against the wall next to Joan, sliding down to sit in the chopped-off remains of her skirt.
"Nice to meet you," Joan finally says, grinning down at her, and Lyn-Z laughs and salutes and says, "Right back atcha," like the dork she is.
"See you around?" And it's an invitation, not a blow-off.
"Definitely," Lyn-Z says, grinning up at Joan, feeling like she's finally found her place.
She's going to the pawn shop tomorrow. She's gonna buy a fucking bass and take this town by storm.
Summary: Lyn-Z runs away to LA.
Pairing: Lyn-Z/Joan Jett
Word count: 1500
Rating: NC-17
AN: This is set very, very vaguely in the Runaways era. Shameless and unbeta’d porn.
It takes a quarter of the cash Lyn-Z has squirreled away - babysitting money and what she could steal from her mom's purse without getting noticed - to get to LA, and she blows too much of the rest on shitty motels. She keeps the remaining cash tucked in her bra because she doesn't trust this town, doesn't trust these people, but god, is it better than fucking Connecticut.
Lyn-Z spends her first night in LA in her motel room, tiny radio turned up loud, blasting guitar and drums over the sound of people fucking in the room next door. She stares at her hair in the mirror and chops at it, leaving it in ragged pigtails that are a distorted picture of home. She could imagine what the sisters would say if they could see her now, and she laughs, thinking of all those girls back home tucked in their safe little beds ready to go to the same old life again tomorrow.
She finds her way to the shows, feels the thrum and excitement of the crowds, and she knows this is what she wants. Knows she's going to grab a hold of this life somehow and make it work. She feels just as hungry for it as she did when she was listening to records in her basement turned down as low as possible so her parents wouldn’t hear, and her dream feels almost tangible in this city.
She's wearing her school uniform, her skirt swaying and her shirt half-undone and grimy with sweat and beer that's been spilled on her, but she's also wearing the shit-kicker boots she left home in, her torn fishnets, and she feels fucking badass, especially when she swipes on lipstick in a color her mother taught her only loose women wore.
She feels loose, like she could come apart at the seams, everything's so fucking bright and loud and more than she thought, and also less, grimier and smellier with reality leaking in around the edges in the glassy eyes and matted hair of the people around her.
Too many of these girls are here to suck cock, Lyn-Z knows this, but she isn't, and she ignores the propositions and swigs beer like a man and knows that if she acts tough enough people will see her that way, not as a scared schoolgirl from New England on her first week out of her mother's house.
She's at the bar when the girl catches her eye, the girl she wants to be, all black hair and bold lips and those dark, dramatic eyes... Lyn-Z can't look away. Won't look away.
The girl meets her eyes, and she's familiar, oh so fucking familiar, even in this sea of people who look the same and laugh the same and even smell the same, like beer and pot and sweat and that distinct LA smell that Lyn-Z goddamn loves.
And then she's coming closer, cutting through the crowd and Lyn-Z takes the last swig of her beer, nervously sets it on the bar, bottle clattering like it's trying to escape.
"I'm Joan," the girl says, Joan says, and oh, oh, it's Joan, that's why she's familiar, and she's talking to Lyn-Z, who was sitting in class a week ago, who has been in LA for five days and already has forgotten what home feels like. "That's a get-up you're wearing, girl."
"Lyn-Z," she says, and casts an appreciative eye to Joan's outfit, all leather and worn-out cotton. It isn't as staged as Lyn-Z's and is five thousand times more bad ass.
Joan's mouth twists in a smile, and then she’s saying something, she’s laughing, she's leading Lyn-Z by the hand away from the bar.
Lyn-Z doesn't look back.
They're running through the crowd, pushing and elbowing their way past everyone, and then they're outside, and the air is just as warm, just as muggy, almost as smoky. Lyn-Z laughs, bright and loud and un-self-conscious, because she's in a different world now, she's finally broken free.
And she swings around, hand still grasped in Joan's, and before she can think about what she's doing, she's got her mouth pressed to Joan's, is kissing her like she kisses girls every day, like she kisses girls who she admires every day, like she's a brave, bold, beautiful person.
And Joan's hand is pressed against the base of Lyn-Z's skull, fingers sliding down her neck in the trail of sweat that's gathered there, and she's kissing back, like they aren't on the fucking street, like she knows who Lyn-Z is.
And they're stumbling, feet tangled together as Joan leads them to the alley, and then Lyn-Z's got a grimy brick wall to her back and Joan fucking Jett pressed against her tits, pressed against her hipbones, pressed against her fucking mouth, tongue-to-tongue, and she tastes like smoke and onion rings. Lyn-Z wants to laugh at the improbability of it all.
"Forward, aren't you?" Joan asks, laughing and breathless. She's got a hand on either side of Lyn-Z's head, is leaning in close, pressing Lyn-Z into the wall. Lyn-Z feels surrounded, surrounded by Joan, and she breathes in deep.
"Not usually," Lyn-Z replies honestly.
"Lucky me," and Joan's kissing her this time, hot and hungry.
Lyn-Z's head is spinning, she thinks she's drunk, drunker than the time she spray-painted big red X's over the peace signs in the mural on at the park back home, drunker even than the time she stole her mom's car and ended up in a ditch, and the feel of Joan's hands sliding up her thighs under her heavy skirt is more exhilarating than all those experiences put together.
And then Joan's hand is searching under her skirt, finding what she's looking for, shoving her hand down, down, down into her underwear. Lyn-Z moans into her mouth, takes this as the go-ahead to do some exploring of her own. She's running her hands over Joan's ass, up her back and under her t-shirt, and is feeling the smooth skin where Joan isn't wearing a bra as Joan's fingers slide into her.
And then Joan's fingers disappear, and she's shaking her head.
"Your skirt, it's too fucking bulky," she says, and Lyn-Z's opening her mouth to offer to take it off, never mind she's fifteen fucking feet from a street, never mind any of the rules of propriety she learned, all she wants is Joan's fingers touching her, Joan's mouth on hers.
But Joan's got a pocket knife, and she's cutting away at Lyn-Z's skirt, leaving just enough to be decent, and the dull edge of the knife is cool against her flushed thighs. And the plaid material falls to the ground and Lyn-Z feels strangely naked, bared to the world, and she wraps a thigh around Joan, pulls her in close.
Joan's mouth is smeared red, and it takes Lyn-Z a moment to realize that's her lipstick, that she's made Joan look like she's been fucking ravished. She kisses her again, has a nipple pinched between her fingers, is making out with Joan like she knows what she's doing, like she was made to fuck punk girls in alleys in LA.
And Joan's hand is back, she's rubbing and twisting her fingers in ways that Lyn-Z is going to fucking dream about, and Lyn-Z is fumbling with the button on Joan's leather pants. Their mouths smash together and hips buck. Lyn-Z thinks this is what she's wanted her whole life, this moment and this feeling, the way Joan's rubbing her off, and the way Joan's slickness invites her fingers in further.
Lyn-Z's coming, coming hard, like she never has before, body shaking and toes curling up against the steel toes of her boots. She thumps her head against the wall, but that's not why she's seeing stars, why she's exploding from the inside out.
Joan's kissing her neck now, and her hand is slowly retreating, and when Lyn-Z loosens the lock her leg has on Joan they're twisting, turning and Joan's the one leaning against the wall.
Lyn-Z pulls back enough to mouth Joan's tit through her t-shirt, to graze her hard nipple with her teeth. Joan's got her hand tangled in Lyn-Z's pigtails, is pulling Lyn-Z's hair hard enough to hurt as Lyn-Z thumbs her clit, pushes her fingers deeper inside.
Lyn-Z's thighs are still quivering from her own orgasm when Joan lets out a throaty moan, a moan that sends a jolt through Lyn-Z, and grabs at Lyn-Z's wrist, pressing harder, making Lyn-Z go deeper, harder, faster.
And then Joan's coming around Lyn-Z's hand, and Lyn-Z is watching her. Watching Joan's red-smeared mouth and her fluttered-closed eyes and she caused that, she did that.
Joan loosens, falls back against the wall, and Lyn-Z slides her hand out of her pants, leans against her and presses a kiss against the hollow of her throat, and then collapses against the wall next to Joan, sliding down to sit in the chopped-off remains of her skirt.
"Nice to meet you," Joan finally says, grinning down at her, and Lyn-Z laughs and salutes and says, "Right back atcha," like the dork she is.
"See you around?" And it's an invitation, not a blow-off.
"Definitely," Lyn-Z says, grinning up at Joan, feeling like she's finally found her place.
She's going to the pawn shop tomorrow. She's gonna buy a fucking bass and take this town by storm.