(Hairspray) Sugar Melt
Title: Sugar Melt
Fandom: Hairspray (2007 movieverse)
Pairing: Amber/The Dynamites
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2185
Notes: Masturbation. For 10lilies, prompt "secrets".
Summary: Slowly surrendering, alone in her room.
She couldn’t admit it, couldn’t acknowledge it, but Amber found herself captivated by the way they moved. She found herself almost eagerly anticipating days when The Dynamites were due to perform on The Corny Collins Show.
Her mother had insisted she do everything possible to remain on the show after the debacle that was the Miss Teenage Hairspray pageant. After all, until Velma Von Tussle found another television station that appreciated her amble talents, it was the only way Amber could remain in the spotlight.
Not that there was a spotlight, not anymore.
Amber had been a little surprised when Corny had allowed her to remain on the Council with hardly any pleading. She hadn’t quite been sure how the show would run, now that it was officially integrated, but she found it stayed much the same in terms of format.
Except now the cameraman focused on whoever he pleased, and it was never Amber. She found herself dancing at the back, every attempt to get into the shot blocked by the other Council members, and she’d learned enough from her mother to charm the male members and keep them attentive but that only meant they apologised when they told her they didn’t want to dance with her, instead of straight out snubbing her.
So Amber had grown used to watching, rather than being watched, and she noticed how the Council members didn’t seem to notice the colour of each other’s skin, yet it was all Amber could see. Two different styles coming together, mixing and merging, clothes and hair and the dance, and together they formed a messy and raw and wildly popular combination that Amber could never quite mimic.
Arched backs and rolling hips and the shimmy of their chests, and Amber had never quite been aware of the tension in the air, the stifling presence of love and lust and hormones, but now there was little escape from it.
And The Dynamites swayed like nobody else, every deliciously synched movement a symphony of confidence, and Amber couldn’t take her eyes from them, and couldn’t make her own hips move like that, one sensual movement that rippled through their entire bodies, voices swirling through the air and drawing everybody in.
It was Tracy who’d noticed Amber’s closely-guarded fascination. Tracy was one of the few dancers who actually smiled at her, and there was no anger or pity or gloating there, just a genuine smile, because Tracy knew that Amber was no longer a threat to her happiness. Tracy had gotten over her ill feelings, and that made Amber determined to do the same, to prove that she could, so she’d accepted the record with a stiff nod and sincere appreciation that sounded false even to her own ears.
Tracy had just smiled back, and pressed the record against Amber’s chest, and there’d been the strangest look in her eyes, something older and more assured, when she’d told Amber to loosen up, to strip it all away.
Amber had watched her skip away, long hair bouncing behind her, and had absolutely no idea what Tracy was talking about, and when she’d looked down at the record in her arms, it was The Dynamites that smiled back at her from the sleeve, sequins and ruby red lips and the glint of knowing in their eyes.
The studio was warm, yet Amber found herself shivering.
She’d smuggled the record home, wrapped tightly in a flowery scarf, although there was little need for the secrecy. Her mother was rarely there when Amber arrived home, now always busy trying to salvage her career, so Amber had rushed upstairs and raised the needle on her record player before nerves could stop her.
She merely sat on her bed for the first listen, and their voices filled her room, so at odds with the weak pastel pinks and peaches and yellows, with the stuffed animals and memories Amber kept there. The sound was too rich, too powerful, and it seemed to shake the very walls around her, and she could see them, twisting fingers and stiletto heels dancing behind her tightly closed eyelids. She saw their hands reaching out, saw them brushing together, skin against skin, and she heard the rustle of the fabric as their dresses pressed together, and realised with a start it was actually her fists balling in the silk sheets.
She crossed the room and raised the needle, skipping it back to the beginning, and this time, as The Dynamites’ voices began to rise around her, Amber danced.
It didn’t feel right. The Pony, the Mashed Potato, none of it fit. She could find the rhythm easily, felt it shiver through her, her heart speeding up to match, but it seemed bigger than all the steps she knew, it seemed more real.
Her mother’s voice, instructions and criticism, had always been there with the music, telling her exactly how to move, and Amber had memorised the steps and performed them with an almost clinical perfection, and her mother had praised her for each chaste movement.
Only she couldn’t hear her mother’s voice, not anymore, and Amber wasn’t sure if it was because, even inside her daughter’s head, Velma Von Tussle had no desire to be associated with rhythm and blues, with race music, or if it was because The Dynamites’ voices were simply more powerful.
Amber frowned, and reached for the player, and the song started again.
This time she didn’t immediately launch into a catalogue of steps. She listened to the rhythm, embraced it, let it move her, beat by beat. Let her fingers tap against her thigh, let her head dip slightly, perfect timing, let her knees loosen, let a slight bounce take over her. She could see The Dynamites in her mind, see the way their hips moved, and Amber wanted to move in that way, wanted that grace, but all she could hear when she tried was the slide of her dress over her petticoat, the stiff fabric as awkward as Amber felt.
It was frustration, more than conscious thought, that had Amber growling to herself and reaching for the buttons, and for once she didn’t immediately hang the overly expensive dress up as it dropped to the floor, only kicked it aside.
There was a slight chill to the room, but Amber barely felt it, the determination she’d inherited from her mother taking over, and she was barely conscious of the picture she must have made, face set with concentration, focused entirely on the music, wearing only her underwear. But there was something about it, something about that layer being pulled away, that felt right. There was no rustle of fabric as she moved her hips, no restriction at all as she dipped and swayed, and The Dynamites in her mind nodded and smiled and beckoned to her. Their hips rolled, thrusting to each side, but there was no jerkiness, just one continual wave of a movement, and Amber copied them, let her hips dictate the movement of the rest of her body, letting the swing of it grow, utterly swept along in it. Without her clothes, she felt so much more aware of her body, more in tune with the potential and value of each inch of skin, and she thought of the dresses she wore, necklines that didn’t dare expose her collarbone, and thought of the plunge of The Dynamites’ clothes. The exposure, and they were so powerful in it, drawing attention to their sexuality but in control of themselves and everyone who dared to look, and Amber blushed a little to think of the way the bolder and more dramatic moves couldn’t help but echo across their cleavage.
Perhaps she was a little too lost in the music, a little too lost in the image in her mind, but the next time she skipped the needle back over the record to replay the song, Amber’s hands reached for the fastening of her bra, and she could feel the tremble in her fingers. She was so used to being covered, even in the privacy of her own bedroom, that it felt scandalous to allow the bra to drop to the floor beside the dress. Her first instinct was to cover herself, but she willed her arms to the side, willed her hips to keep swaying, just adjusting to the feel of her chest moving more freely with her movements.
The Dynamites smiled in encouragement, their voices coaxing her on, and Amber dipped lower, allowed a little shimmy to work its way into her shoulders, and she could feel herself blush as a particularly fierce motion caused her breasts to bounce slightly, and she almost felt like laughing, except it was serious, the heat that flared through was serious. It wasn’t just the warmth of a blush, it was something else now, developing and growing and making her more restless, and the music only urged her on. She was no longer trying to imitate, only feeling, and her arms were rising, wrists crossing unconsciously above her head, eyes closed to everything around her, seeing only The Dynamites as they purred along to the beat. Her hips were moving more wildly, and she found her feet moving as well, sliding across the floor, spreading, shifting her weight and leaning into each movement. Finding her own steps, finding her own dance, spine arching, head tilting back, panting with something that wasn’t anything to do with exertion, something that was everything to do with vulnerability and power and the way her thighs slid over each other. Sweat-slick slide, and she never noticed it with her voluminous skirts wrapped around her, but now that brush of flesh against flesh felt sinful.
Her arms were slowly dropping back down, and she was barely aware of the way they traced a path over her torso, gasping as her hands slid over the curve of her breasts, fingers ever so lightly brushing her nipples. It felt like somebody else’s touch, and The Dynamites smirked in her mind, and their fingers were reaching for each other, echoing her movements across their own chests, and Amber was starting to grow dizzy and she wasn’t even aware of the way her teeth worried at her lower lip. She felt a flutter in her stomach that didn’t leave her, that only grew and morphed into something that made her tremble, that made her flush hot and cold as her hands travelled down her waist, and the rhythm never left her, never stopped coaxing her hips along.
The feeling of the fabric of her panties seemed foreign under her fingers after the expanse of heated flesh, and Amber stroked her thumb over the hem, hooked it under the waistline at her hip. And it wasn’t intentional, just her hips rolling while her fingers remained still, but her thumb inadvertently tugged the waistband higher up her hip, and she felt the material pull taut between her legs, a shock of pressure, and Amber shuddered and stumbled but the music kept playing and The Dynamites wouldn’t let her stop. She felt confused, still swaying, stretching and releasing the fabric, and it became another part of the beat, steady throb over sensitised flesh, and Amber’s mouth was open as she struggled to breathe, and she found herself pulling more at the material, pulling it higher, feeling the material rub so maddeningly over her, between her thighs. Her free hands was moving down, fingernails raking lightly over her thigh, and Amber felt like she was being stifled, like there was no air, like she couldn’t breathe, and she was trembling without pause. The muscles in her legs burned and twitched, but there was no pain, only the steady pulse of the music and her heartbeat, and her hand was moving, moving between her legs, so close, and Amber was making a noise but The Dynamites were drowning it out. Singing to her, praising her, and the look in their eyes made Amber weak, made her feel as though her knees would give out, but there was no stopping the dance. There were words in her throat and there was blood on her lip and Amber fingers pressed higher between her legs, the material of her panties pulled taut, feeling the cotton and everything underneath, damp and hotter than she could bear and the harmony was washing over her, her head was swimming with it. Crying out, her voice joining their song, as her hips moved to the rhythm, beyond her control, pressing down into the touch, and Amber couldn’t stop, felt something pulsing within her and all around her, something that overwhelmed her, that made her body course with pleasure. She could feel her heartbeat racing, feel it as her fingers pressed deeper, cotton rubbing against her, and her strength was leaving her, she was sinking down to her knees, and she couldn’t see anything beyond the scarlet haze that blackened her vision. And Amber felt dizzy and alive and needy and spent, and The Dynamites continued their serenade, singing only for her, their little secret.
Fandom: Hairspray (2007 movieverse)
Pairing: Amber/The Dynamites
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2185
Notes: Masturbation. For 10lilies, prompt "secrets".
Summary: Slowly surrendering, alone in her room.
She couldn’t admit it, couldn’t acknowledge it, but Amber found herself captivated by the way they moved. She found herself almost eagerly anticipating days when The Dynamites were due to perform on The Corny Collins Show.
Her mother had insisted she do everything possible to remain on the show after the debacle that was the Miss Teenage Hairspray pageant. After all, until Velma Von Tussle found another television station that appreciated her amble talents, it was the only way Amber could remain in the spotlight.
Not that there was a spotlight, not anymore.
Amber had been a little surprised when Corny had allowed her to remain on the Council with hardly any pleading. She hadn’t quite been sure how the show would run, now that it was officially integrated, but she found it stayed much the same in terms of format.
Except now the cameraman focused on whoever he pleased, and it was never Amber. She found herself dancing at the back, every attempt to get into the shot blocked by the other Council members, and she’d learned enough from her mother to charm the male members and keep them attentive but that only meant they apologised when they told her they didn’t want to dance with her, instead of straight out snubbing her.
So Amber had grown used to watching, rather than being watched, and she noticed how the Council members didn’t seem to notice the colour of each other’s skin, yet it was all Amber could see. Two different styles coming together, mixing and merging, clothes and hair and the dance, and together they formed a messy and raw and wildly popular combination that Amber could never quite mimic.
Arched backs and rolling hips and the shimmy of their chests, and Amber had never quite been aware of the tension in the air, the stifling presence of love and lust and hormones, but now there was little escape from it.
And The Dynamites swayed like nobody else, every deliciously synched movement a symphony of confidence, and Amber couldn’t take her eyes from them, and couldn’t make her own hips move like that, one sensual movement that rippled through their entire bodies, voices swirling through the air and drawing everybody in.
It was Tracy who’d noticed Amber’s closely-guarded fascination. Tracy was one of the few dancers who actually smiled at her, and there was no anger or pity or gloating there, just a genuine smile, because Tracy knew that Amber was no longer a threat to her happiness. Tracy had gotten over her ill feelings, and that made Amber determined to do the same, to prove that she could, so she’d accepted the record with a stiff nod and sincere appreciation that sounded false even to her own ears.
Tracy had just smiled back, and pressed the record against Amber’s chest, and there’d been the strangest look in her eyes, something older and more assured, when she’d told Amber to loosen up, to strip it all away.
Amber had watched her skip away, long hair bouncing behind her, and had absolutely no idea what Tracy was talking about, and when she’d looked down at the record in her arms, it was The Dynamites that smiled back at her from the sleeve, sequins and ruby red lips and the glint of knowing in their eyes.
The studio was warm, yet Amber found herself shivering.
She’d smuggled the record home, wrapped tightly in a flowery scarf, although there was little need for the secrecy. Her mother was rarely there when Amber arrived home, now always busy trying to salvage her career, so Amber had rushed upstairs and raised the needle on her record player before nerves could stop her.
She merely sat on her bed for the first listen, and their voices filled her room, so at odds with the weak pastel pinks and peaches and yellows, with the stuffed animals and memories Amber kept there. The sound was too rich, too powerful, and it seemed to shake the very walls around her, and she could see them, twisting fingers and stiletto heels dancing behind her tightly closed eyelids. She saw their hands reaching out, saw them brushing together, skin against skin, and she heard the rustle of the fabric as their dresses pressed together, and realised with a start it was actually her fists balling in the silk sheets.
She crossed the room and raised the needle, skipping it back to the beginning, and this time, as The Dynamites’ voices began to rise around her, Amber danced.
It didn’t feel right. The Pony, the Mashed Potato, none of it fit. She could find the rhythm easily, felt it shiver through her, her heart speeding up to match, but it seemed bigger than all the steps she knew, it seemed more real.
Her mother’s voice, instructions and criticism, had always been there with the music, telling her exactly how to move, and Amber had memorised the steps and performed them with an almost clinical perfection, and her mother had praised her for each chaste movement.
Only she couldn’t hear her mother’s voice, not anymore, and Amber wasn’t sure if it was because, even inside her daughter’s head, Velma Von Tussle had no desire to be associated with rhythm and blues, with race music, or if it was because The Dynamites’ voices were simply more powerful.
Amber frowned, and reached for the player, and the song started again.
This time she didn’t immediately launch into a catalogue of steps. She listened to the rhythm, embraced it, let it move her, beat by beat. Let her fingers tap against her thigh, let her head dip slightly, perfect timing, let her knees loosen, let a slight bounce take over her. She could see The Dynamites in her mind, see the way their hips moved, and Amber wanted to move in that way, wanted that grace, but all she could hear when she tried was the slide of her dress over her petticoat, the stiff fabric as awkward as Amber felt.
It was frustration, more than conscious thought, that had Amber growling to herself and reaching for the buttons, and for once she didn’t immediately hang the overly expensive dress up as it dropped to the floor, only kicked it aside.
There was a slight chill to the room, but Amber barely felt it, the determination she’d inherited from her mother taking over, and she was barely conscious of the picture she must have made, face set with concentration, focused entirely on the music, wearing only her underwear. But there was something about it, something about that layer being pulled away, that felt right. There was no rustle of fabric as she moved her hips, no restriction at all as she dipped and swayed, and The Dynamites in her mind nodded and smiled and beckoned to her. Their hips rolled, thrusting to each side, but there was no jerkiness, just one continual wave of a movement, and Amber copied them, let her hips dictate the movement of the rest of her body, letting the swing of it grow, utterly swept along in it. Without her clothes, she felt so much more aware of her body, more in tune with the potential and value of each inch of skin, and she thought of the dresses she wore, necklines that didn’t dare expose her collarbone, and thought of the plunge of The Dynamites’ clothes. The exposure, and they were so powerful in it, drawing attention to their sexuality but in control of themselves and everyone who dared to look, and Amber blushed a little to think of the way the bolder and more dramatic moves couldn’t help but echo across their cleavage.
Perhaps she was a little too lost in the music, a little too lost in the image in her mind, but the next time she skipped the needle back over the record to replay the song, Amber’s hands reached for the fastening of her bra, and she could feel the tremble in her fingers. She was so used to being covered, even in the privacy of her own bedroom, that it felt scandalous to allow the bra to drop to the floor beside the dress. Her first instinct was to cover herself, but she willed her arms to the side, willed her hips to keep swaying, just adjusting to the feel of her chest moving more freely with her movements.
The Dynamites smiled in encouragement, their voices coaxing her on, and Amber dipped lower, allowed a little shimmy to work its way into her shoulders, and she could feel herself blush as a particularly fierce motion caused her breasts to bounce slightly, and she almost felt like laughing, except it was serious, the heat that flared through was serious. It wasn’t just the warmth of a blush, it was something else now, developing and growing and making her more restless, and the music only urged her on. She was no longer trying to imitate, only feeling, and her arms were rising, wrists crossing unconsciously above her head, eyes closed to everything around her, seeing only The Dynamites as they purred along to the beat. Her hips were moving more wildly, and she found her feet moving as well, sliding across the floor, spreading, shifting her weight and leaning into each movement. Finding her own steps, finding her own dance, spine arching, head tilting back, panting with something that wasn’t anything to do with exertion, something that was everything to do with vulnerability and power and the way her thighs slid over each other. Sweat-slick slide, and she never noticed it with her voluminous skirts wrapped around her, but now that brush of flesh against flesh felt sinful.
Her arms were slowly dropping back down, and she was barely aware of the way they traced a path over her torso, gasping as her hands slid over the curve of her breasts, fingers ever so lightly brushing her nipples. It felt like somebody else’s touch, and The Dynamites smirked in her mind, and their fingers were reaching for each other, echoing her movements across their own chests, and Amber was starting to grow dizzy and she wasn’t even aware of the way her teeth worried at her lower lip. She felt a flutter in her stomach that didn’t leave her, that only grew and morphed into something that made her tremble, that made her flush hot and cold as her hands travelled down her waist, and the rhythm never left her, never stopped coaxing her hips along.
The feeling of the fabric of her panties seemed foreign under her fingers after the expanse of heated flesh, and Amber stroked her thumb over the hem, hooked it under the waistline at her hip. And it wasn’t intentional, just her hips rolling while her fingers remained still, but her thumb inadvertently tugged the waistband higher up her hip, and she felt the material pull taut between her legs, a shock of pressure, and Amber shuddered and stumbled but the music kept playing and The Dynamites wouldn’t let her stop. She felt confused, still swaying, stretching and releasing the fabric, and it became another part of the beat, steady throb over sensitised flesh, and Amber’s mouth was open as she struggled to breathe, and she found herself pulling more at the material, pulling it higher, feeling the material rub so maddeningly over her, between her thighs. Her free hands was moving down, fingernails raking lightly over her thigh, and Amber felt like she was being stifled, like there was no air, like she couldn’t breathe, and she was trembling without pause. The muscles in her legs burned and twitched, but there was no pain, only the steady pulse of the music and her heartbeat, and her hand was moving, moving between her legs, so close, and Amber was making a noise but The Dynamites were drowning it out. Singing to her, praising her, and the look in their eyes made Amber weak, made her feel as though her knees would give out, but there was no stopping the dance. There were words in her throat and there was blood on her lip and Amber fingers pressed higher between her legs, the material of her panties pulled taut, feeling the cotton and everything underneath, damp and hotter than she could bear and the harmony was washing over her, her head was swimming with it. Crying out, her voice joining their song, as her hips moved to the rhythm, beyond her control, pressing down into the touch, and Amber couldn’t stop, felt something pulsing within her and all around her, something that overwhelmed her, that made her body course with pleasure. She could feel her heartbeat racing, feel it as her fingers pressed deeper, cotton rubbing against her, and her strength was leaving her, she was sinking down to her knees, and she couldn’t see anything beyond the scarlet haze that blackened her vision. And Amber felt dizzy and alive and needy and spent, and The Dynamites continued their serenade, singing only for her, their little secret.