Work Text:
Ocher eyes struggled to see against the flashing lights that were far too bright, pale ears struggled to hear the Russian accented voice next to them over the far too loud 'music'. Scowling, Amélie turned to look up at her companion, irritation clearly written across her face, that only provided a laugh to the Amazon of a woman. The Frenchwoman was not meant to be in a place like this, where flashing lights and countless hot bodies pushed against her from all angles. No, clubs were not for her, yet here she was on behalf of Lucio bailing out at the last second due to a 'family emergency'. She doubted the DJ would lie about such a thing, but that didn't make up for the fact that she was here instead of him. She wasn't even sure how the two had found this stinking hole in the wall, and she didn't want to know at the moment. Zarya stared back into the icy eyes that were intent on damning her soul before she finally relented with a laugh, strong -but oh so gentle- hands carefully taking the smaller woman's shoulders into their grasp, and expertly maneuvering Amélie to the safety of the bar that was significantly less crowded than the dance floor.
"Merde, Zarya!"
The words spill from her mouth with enough venom to freeze most people, the glare she has aimed at the Russian nearly enough to send those still moving to the grave. Pink hair bobbed as Zarya threw her head back and laughed, nearly sending Amélie back into the crowd with a strong pat to the back. "Oh, come now. You cannot tell me you are not enjoying self!", she practically yells, "This is what it's like to live, malen'kiy pauk!" A scowl tore across the dark haired woman's face, eyes having to watch the other's lips to make sure she understood what she was saying. Clearly, the Russian needed a new definition on 'living'.
"If this is your idea of living, I would rather be dead."
"Tishe! We are here to have good time, no? And I promise you will have good time before we leave this paradise!"
Amélie groaned, closing her eyes as she felt her eyebrow start to twitch. They had only been there for thirty minutes, and already she could feel a headache that would undoubtedly last more than a day forming in the back of her skull... She has a feeling that in will take more than a day for her hearing to return as well. She says nothing more, she did volunteer to come along. The wicked grin on Zarya's face tells her that they aren't leaving anytime soon, and it takes every strand of patience she has not to storm out of the building as a new song began to assault her already throbbing ears with deafening amounts of bass. The electronic noises that follow, sounds she would describe as demons screaming or metal scratching a chalkboard, causes a hiss to leave her throat. This was the last time she stepped in for Lucio.
"Fine, fine... I'm going to the bathroom before we go back to that... 'paradis'."
She doesn't give the Russian time to answer as she quickly turns, long legs carrying her to the ladies room on the other side of the bar. A sigh of relief leaves her mouth as she finds the restrooms to be moderately soundproof, the roaring bass no more than a dull thud now. Or maybe her eardrums had finally ruptured... She waits a moment to see if Zarya will follow, but it seems the weightlifter has left her to her own devices for the time being. The facet turns on with a squeak, cold water pouring over her slender hands before it's splashed against her face, the pounding in her head lessening from the refreshing temperature drop. Golden eyes stare back as her as Amélie looks herself in the mirror. Her pale skin is flushed, either from frustration or the sweltering heat of the mass amount of bodies outside the door; she can't tell. A smirk is plastered on her lips, and she has a feeling that it's going to be there for the rest of the night. A minute passes, then five, then eight. No one surprisingly comes into the bathroom as the time reaches the fifteen minute mark. The Frenchwoman half expected Zarya to be breaking the door down by now, but the pink haired woman still doesn't show as another five minutes pass. Five songs have played, and as the sixth starts up, Amélie shakes her head.
She knows she can't hide in here forever, no matter how much she wants to. With a deep breath, she straightens her spine, giving her reflection a small nod as she turns to go back into the mind melting madness. She resists the urge to retreat back to the bathroom as a bass drop literally shakes the floor beneath her, several curses flowing from her mouth as her eyes scaned the area for... Where was Zarya? Sunglow eyes widened, irritated panic starting to coil up in her stomach like a viper. Surely the Russian hadn't left, she wouldn't dare leave her behind. She spots pink hair in the crowd for the briefest of seconds, her form relaxing. 'Of course you would be in the middle of this mess...' she thinks bitterly, shaking her head before beginning to move through the thriving mosh of people. It's not until she reaches the middle does she realize that the pink hair did not belong to her friend but instead it belonged to someone far shorter.
Icy blue and blazing red lock onto her like a sniper from underneath a pair of spiked goggles, a grin resting beneath them as their owner drew closer. A leather jacket covered thin arms, studs and spikes adorning the shoulders and chest of the article, a matching choker wrapped around a fair toned neck. Amélie finds herself unable to move as the stranger works her way around people as if they weren't there, golden orbs landing on glowing blue. Some sort of contraption is strapped across the woman's chest atop of a torn, white tank top, a Union Jack proudly displayed on the side of the shirt. It's gold in color, a neon blue cover surrounding it that has white skulls painted all over. Whatever the device is, it's pulsating to the beat of the music, wavering and vibrating with every drop. The dark haired woman gets a brief glimpse of pink and turquoise leggings before the woman is directly in front of her, mismatched eyes still staring intently at her.
"Cheers, luv. Never seen you 'round 'ere. First time visitin' this cesspool?"
The woman talks in a British accent over the music, and for some ungodly reason, Amélie can hear her words as if the sounds around her weren't there. Her lips part to speak, but it seems she can't find her voice. She gives the stranger a curt nod, their grin spreading into a full blown smile that nearly covers half of their face. "Thought so! Name's Tracer." She holds out her hand in greeting, the appendage covered by a fingerless glove and... Some form of gauntlet is strapped to both of the girl's wrists, the word 'PUNK!' painted sloppily across the bright blue plastic-metal?-that made them. Amélie hesitates before shaking the Brit's hand, curiosity igniting behind her eyes. Tracer gives her hand a firm squeeze, smile still on her face. It takes the Frenchwoman a second to realize that she's being pulled further into the crowd now, but she doesn't fight it. "No offense, luv, but it's pretty easy t' tell it's your first time 'ere."
Again, her voice is crystal clear like the music isn't there, the strange machine on her chest flicking with the tone of her voice. "You need to relax, feel the music." Tracer could have very well been the smaller sister of Zarya as the younger woman laughs at the annoyed expression that has covered the other woman's face. "Don't give me that look. You're just hearing the music. You need to feel it. Close yer eyes, feel the bass take over you. Then let it loose!" The smile on her face and her vibrant eyes are enough to make Amélie consider the words. Her hand falls to her side as Tracer lets it go, the punk in front of her watching her intently as if she's waiting for her to take the advice given to her. A sigh leaves her lips, something she believes she'll be doing more of shortly, before she slowly closes her eyes. She can see the flashing behind her eyelids, dull sparks of light blooming from the darkness. The bass shook the floor beneath her again, the vibrations travelling up her legs, and settling in her chest. Hands on her waist almost sends her reeling, eyes almost opening until-
"Relax, lovely. It's just me. Keep them eyes closed, I'm gonna help ya."
She's surprised at herself for listening to this woman, this complete stranger, as her eyes stay shut. Tracer's hands are warm against her hips, the pressure on them tightening as the shorter woman rocks them for her. Something hard is against her back, a soft weight resting on her shoulder. Hair tickles her neck, and Amélie has to fight the shudder trying to crawl down her spine. A fast beat kicks up from the speakers, snares and some sort of drum following after, and Tracer moves both of their bodies in time with every note. A blush is slowly starting to form on the Frenchwoman's face, but her body is starting to relax. The hands slowly leave her waist, her form moving on it's own accord to the music. The weight leaves her shoulder, her eyes opening to find Tracer back in front of her, that same bright smile across her face as if she never left the spot in the first place. "There we go."
Amélie quickly loses track of how many songs have played, not bothering to keep up with the time. She's mirroring the smile Tracer still has on her face, both women moving in sync with one another. Slender fingers rest on slim hips, the taller of the two standing behind Tracer, lithe form pressed against the Brit's back. Her head is resting on the pinkette's shoulder, and gloved hand lightly tangled in Amélie's hair. Their eyes were locked, faces slightly flushed. Teeth are clenched to hold back a groan as Tracer drops with the bass, hips generating a delicious bit of friction against Amélie's front. She responds in kind, fingers digging into her dancing partner's side, surely causing bruises as she pulls Tracer back against her. "See, luv?," Tracer purrs, "All you had to do was feel it."
"Oh, I feel it, ma cheri."
"Ha! I knew you would have good time!"
The next thing Amélie felt was a strong smack on her back, nearly sending her and Tracer to the floor.