Warnings: author does not drink so take portrayal of intoxication lightly, love triangle, afro/curly haired Black reader, solo masturbation, teetering on the edge of obsession (?),
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The interior of Marlon's baby blue 1975 El Dorado Convertible was fresh–a result of the pure care he put into taking care of his "baby"– the premium leather wrinkled slightly from four years of worn use, scented almost sweetly. Marlon drove smoothly, his right hand settled on the wheel, and his left resting on his jean covered thigh, legs spread apart casually leaving just enough room for someone else.
Ironically, "Be Thankful for What You Got" sprouted from his speakers, a song about staying grounded in what you have. Yet, he did have a car. And it was a Cadillac. A product of hard work, that was no doubt, but still extremely ironic.
His brother, Michael, bopped along with the song, mumbling the lyrics as he stared out across the wide Pacfic, sprawling beneath the Bay Bridge. He sat in the passenger seat, grunts of annoyance leaving his mouth when he saw you in the backseat. He told Marlon he didn't know you were coming and he would've sat in the back if he did.
The drive from LA to San Francisco was one for the books, full of jokes and witty comments, a quick weekend getaway before Michael and Marlon were forced to return to their regular demanding schedules.
You looked up, fluffing a hand through your hair as you wore your curls down framing your face. Midst hair fluff you freeze, catching Marlon's gaze in the rearview mirror.
He smirked, teeth catching the inside of his bottom lip. "Tryin' to look fly for them boys at the party, ain't it?" He asks, tongue brushing over his bottom lip before dropping his focus back to the road.
Michael's ear wiggles, a brief amusing sight, as if it were preparing to engage in your conversation itself. Despite this, he continued to focus his gaze on the streets passing by, his ears now tuned for your response.
Your stomach fluttered. Butterflies. Again.
It was such a simple interaction, one between two completely platonic friends.
Not like you wanted to stay that way though.
You had liked Marlon for years now.
The wild crush beginning ever since you'd met the Jackson Five for the first time at a concert of theirs. You were just sixteen, and had loved them ever since they started at Motown. They were five teenage heartthrobs, but for some reason Marlon had especially caught your eye.
Maybe it was his charming smile, one he always wore because God knows he loves to laugh.
Or maybe his lips. Paired with that tiny mustache on his upper lip, you knew they were extremely large, soft, and kissable.
No, no, it was probably his-
"You in there?" Michael asks, his voice ringing out softly, abruptly ceasing your thoughts. His middle finger and thumb joined in between your eyes as he snapped, the sound flashing you back into reality. The sound would've echoed if you were indoors, his fingers large enough to make such a distinct sound. He had turned—shifting where his seatbelt would allow—to face you.
You forgot to reply. Too caught up in Marlon's looks it seemed.
Michael noticed this, a pang of something intangible lingering in his stomach. Still he waited, eyes soft and dare I say, adoring, as he watched you from the front seat. He tilted his head, a puppy dog gesture of confusion.
"What if I was Marlon? Maybe one of 'em will swoop me up and whisk me away tonight so I won't be stuck dancing with you baboons." You leaned forward, pad of your index finger brushing Michael's nose with a soft boop.
His eyes widened and he laughs, eyes crossing as he watches your long manicured finger retreat back to its quarters at your side. He shifted in his seat, turning to face his door again, his hand tapping a gentle rhythm along the muscle of his thigh- seemingly tuned back into the song. What you couldn't see though, was the faint blush he felt stinging his cheeks, his hand a steadying gesture in strong attempt to reel back his feelings.
Michael's crush had been steadily growing over the past few weeks. So steady he didn't even notice them creeping up on him.
Glances across the dinner table when you were invited to family dinners.
Skin tingling when you slid past him, his hand grazing the small of your back as he squeezed through.
You offering to help pick out his Afro after he complimented the shape of yours.
The feeling of your hand steady on his shoulder while your dominant hand fluffed out his crown.
Michael nipped his bottom lip, a gesture of nerves. You could already hear the music from the house party and the car had only rounded the corner.
Your first thought? This would be a blast! You would dance for hours, maybe get a drink or two, and party with your closest friends.
Michael's first thought? This would be a blast! How do I hide my attraction to Marlon's best friend.
Michael physically shrugged, drawn from his thoughts, the blue mobile skidding to a stop as Marlon parked across the street that was lined with at least twenty other cars. He wouldn't think about it. That's the solution.
You were the first to exit the car, enthusiastically hopping out, ignoring the complaints from Marlon who claimed you slammed his car door and would sprain your ankle sprinting out of the car in those heels.
Michael already couldn't think, his eyes dropping to the curve where your ass meets thigh, trailing down the expanse of leg and onto your heels.
The perfect black pump complemented the flow of your raven dress with ease. The dress a short skimpy little thing, covering only what it must, yet one wrong move or gust of wind and everything was to be revealed. It was a party, you were in your twenties, who's stopping you?
Marlon bumped Michael with his shoulder, voice brushing past his brothers ear mid-whisper. "You're starin'. Pick up your jaw and act like you've seen a pretty girl before."
Michael closeed his mouth, squinting at Marlon, now picking up pace- his strides longer, calculated.
So he knew you were pretty. It was visible, yes. But it was a mutual feeling. Hmph.
The function was an overwhelmingly cacophonous place, the two men strolling behind you like bodyguards as you entered, Marlon cutting sharp glances at men who stared at you a second too long, them holding their hands up in a placating gesture. You were oblivious to this, elated at the opportunity to have a night out.
And as if on cue, the familiar electric bass and congas begin and you raise a brow, turning to face Marlon who folded his arms over his chest.
You could almost hear Michael audibly groan, his own body slumping at the sound. He loved his music. He did. But hearing it over and over usually meant he had to perform it. And he absolutely hated that. Not performing, not on its own. But on nights like this, when he wanted to relax, to have fun, to just be Michael.
"Body language, body language. Let you move it 'til your secrets deep within."
His frown didn't last long because your enthusiasm was contagious. Effortlessly, your body wiggled from the foyer towards the makeshift dance floor—the living room stupendous and rid of furniture—urging them to join you with a few wags of your index finger, the men following like eager puppies.
Michael found his position in front of you, swaying to the rhythm as the song continued, watching closely as Marlon slide behind you.
Michael visibly swallowed, his lip twitching for a moment, eyes glazed with a flicker of barely concealed annoyance.
Your eyes must've been fooling you, there was no reason for him to be upset.
But your body? Your body must've been deceiving you.
Marlon ever so gentle, rested his hand on your hip swaying side to side, movements punctual- the bridge of the song guiding them.
Michael's moves were similar. No, no. They were the same, except he didn't have you in front of him, his arms in the air, hips gliding side to side.
"Shake it to the east, shake it to the west. Shake it to the very one you love best. Do the love dance."
Marlon leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. Before he could even speak a full body shiver wracked your frame, a heat crawling up your spine, and residing in your chest. The smooth-talker leaned his head back, letting out a soft chuckle before speaking, his voice just loud enough over the music. "Is holdin' you like this, okay?"
The corner of your mouth twisted into a smirk, voice quiet but laced with mischeivous intent. "For now."
Marlon laughs again, and Michael moves a bit closer unintentionally, his body moving before his brain could catch up. He was curious about what you two were talking about, and now that he thought about it.. why did the grip his brother had on your waist seem so possessive? You two were friends, anyone could dance with you.
You slipped from Marlon's grip and into the now limited space between he and his sibling.
"Shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it!"
Your hands find space on the floor as you bent over, the pre-game you had before the party giving you the liquid courage you needed. You twerked, hands steady on the floor, your dress riding up with every movement. Michael's lip slips between his teeth, head tilted though he tried to seem reserved earlier. Marlon on the other hand was already reaching to swoop you up, he'd let you drink too much. Or maybe this was how you wanted to be. Regradless, everyone did not need to see the edge of your black lace thong beneath your dress.
Transitioning from the floor, your hands finding your knees, ruffles on your dress bouncing rhythmically with each shake.
Michael reaches his arm out, limb a barrier between him, Marlon, and the sight before him, unabashedly staring at the way your ass recoiled in time with the song. By this point, he was eye-fucking you.
Though he tried not too. So hard. Speaking of hard. He was. Extremely. His dark blue Levi's were no competition to the thing beneath them straining tight against the fabric. He gaze was far-off, mid-visualization of what you looked like on top of him, doing that same exact move on his aching cock.
The song concluded a few long moments after, wandering eyes locked on your performance.
You stand, catching your breath. The song seamlessly blending into "Tell Me Something Good", your gaze challenging. You pop an eyebrow at Marlon who's arms were once again, crossed over his chest. He was more sexually experienced than Michael and took a bit more to get worked up, but he still fought back his amusement, tongue in his cheek and his gaze locked on you.
Michael physically restrains himself, pivoting quickly on his heel- sentence running together like a track relay. "Grabbing us drinks..I bet you're parched."
Marlon yanks your arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but so you could be near, hear every word he spoke. "Tell me somethin', what are you tryna do tonight, mama?"
He said it casual, it was a casual thing. But in this moment, nothing felt casual when his hands gripped you with a vice like this. The gusset of your thong grew damp, a testament to the ever growing heat between the three bodies that shared this moment.
"Whaddya' mean?" You ask, looking up at him through your mascara, eyes bestowing an innocence he knew was faux.
"You're a sly foxy girl. And you know it. That's how Michael acts when he's gotta crush on ya. Is that why you keep teasin' him, hm?" He joked. his humorous expression carrying a familiar sense of truth.
Your eyebrows shoot up. Forming connections over the past few weeks that Marlon wasn't present to see. No. That's not why you kept teasing. Hell, you didn't even know you were teasing. You were just DANCING. I mean provocatively, yes! But if anything it was for Marlon to see.
You sigh. Marlon recognizes the look in your eye, a mix of confusion, realization, and a pinch of regret. He urges you in the direction Michael walked without asking questions, knowing he's had his own complicated internal battles with his feelings.
"Go on, I'll be here..y'know he didn't go off to grab drinks. Find 'em."
Michael had been gone for at least five minutes, so it wasn't surprising when you didn't find him at the cooler or the punch bowl. It was ten minutes when you didn't find him outside the gate or in the sea of people dancing.
You circled back to Marlon and he shook his head, no sign. Worry creased his brow, expression shifting into his instinctive overprotective behavior. Michael was his brother before anything else, and the plan was to stay with each other all night.
Stay together, leave together. He'd expressed that strongly on the five hour drive there.
If it became forty minutes, Marlon said he'd join you in looking. But it didn't.
Twenty one and a half minutes of searching for Michael and you'd finally located him after searching what felt like every crevice of the mansion.
Your worry subsided, eyebrows furrowing.
Well, you didn't find him.. you heard him, rather.
You stood outside the upstairs bathroom, ear invasively pressed against the heavy warm mahogany door.
The sounds were muffled and easily mistakable. His voice murmmuring out some inaudible things-and for all you knew someone else could've been behind the door with him. You didn't linger, refusing to look like a creeper, rushing back downstairs to soothe Marlon's nerves which you knew had been sky-high.
Michael's head leaned back against the bathroom wall- the back of his Afro smushed from the pressure. His dark eyes squeezed shut, body succumbing to the unforgiving pressure on his cock.
You were semi-right, he was in the bathroom.. just not in the position you expected.
He stumbled in the bathroom, intoxicated from the drinks that didn't make their way into neither Marlon nor your grasp.
He was painfully hard, telling himself he'd ignore it, just waiting for it to go down.
But he didn't have the patience, and didn't want to risk you of all people seeing him like this–not yet.
He was sure you'd only seen him as a brother, your very focus on Marlon. So he found himself in the bathroom, pulling down his briefs and jeans in one quick swipe, handling his hard-on.
He wouldn't be back to this house, fuck it.
Michael held his palm open, parting his lips just enough to spit in it, continuing to palm his dick from base to tip, thumb brushing over his tip on the upstroke the way he knew he liked it.
He had practice being quiet. Yes. In a house of eight other siblings, he had to.
His trick? Gnawing at his bottom lip.
His hips instinctively thrust into his crucifying grip, chasing his release with every buck. Eyes still clenched, Michael's hand slid from his side, up the planes of his chest, and resided on the base of his neck. He squeezed once, imagining it was you, that all of this was you.
He squeezed his neck and dick tighter simultaneously, his lip falling from his pearly whites in an instant, along with his jaw.
Minutes later, Michael decesended the stairs, locating the two of you with ease. He didn't stop moving, sliding through the slowly thinning crowd of people and towards the foyer, gesturing both you and Marlon towards the door.
"Hotel?" His voice was quiet, yet lingering in a lower timbre, lower than you'd ever heard from him in your six years of knowing him, or rather semi-knowing him in comparison to your knowledge of his brother.
You and Marlon shared a confused glance, following Michael out of the crazed environment and into the oddly still night. The sky fully bloomed into night, stars whispering secrets against the heat of the late summer evening.
The three of you had booked a hotel, knowing that you would be leaving the party late and did not want to take that long drive back to Encino for a number of reasons. One? You knew you would be under the influence. Two? Joesph. Though he wasn't your father, his presence was something you couldn't linger in for over a few minutes–nervous he'd say something or do something that would linger on your mind for years. You'd seen how he'd treated the brothers, Marlon himself extremely apogletic after an outburst.
And that's how this weekend became.
Michael's usual reserved pop was replaced, the movement dissipating into a discombobulated sway. It was unnatural. He portrayed himself in the highest fashion, a quintessential man, yet now under the moonlight did his true colors show—or rather his imperfections highlighted.
You slip your heels off, and before you could part your lips to speak Marlon reached over, holding them for you, knowing exactly how you got after a night out. Quietly you thank Marlon, offering him a small smile.
You turn to face Michael. "Hm?" You raise a hand, thumb swiping over the combination of perspiration and cum that was on his chest.
You hadn't registered what the mixture was, just that it looked out of place against his deep skin. At least at this moment.
Michael glanced down, breath catching, now shaking his head as if to disregard everything. He'd forgotten to fully clean up, so focused on.. you.
"Just sweat and liquor, too much fun tonight." He cleared his throat, his lie very much so that– a lie, an unbelievable one at that. But you didn't press, not your place.
Instead you settled in the front seat, you and Michael swapping places because he insisted–a part of him a chivalrous gentleman and another part of him wanting nothing more than to to sit where you sat, where your legs and ass pressed against the leather, to be in your skin.
The drive to the hotel was short and silent, three minds together processing different realities.
Marlon was in deep thought behind the wheel, his body moving on autopilot, foot on the gas, foot on break, red light. His real thoughts stuck on trying to place his feelings for you. This was a dilemma.
Michael knew where he stood. But he also wasn't left with the complications of a six year friendship. Sure, you've known him just as long, but the bond was no where near as strong.
He was a philocalist, he saw beauty everywhere it dwelled. And you were beauty personified. He was always told he struggled to hide his emotions, eyes burning into the back of your Afro, expression of raw admiration.
You wanted redamancy. Simply.
At the beginning of the night the answer was easy.
But as this night progressed, the lines blurred.
And at this moment, you weren't exactly sure.
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