Faithisrllycool

your parties were known all throughout LA. anybody who knew somebody who knew somebody was allowed inside. staff ran around with the fanciest cocktails, the place was always trashed by the morning, and every celebrity was in attendance. your house was where dreams came true.

as somebody who grew up in eastern los angeles, malcolm todd was always hearing about your house. it was located right in the hills, and it was a masterpiece. huge balconies on every floor, an outdoor pool, and apparently, you had quite the eye for decor. your home was feminine and messy in the most classy way it could be. there was nothing like it.

thursday night was when his assistant said he was in. friday night was when his stylist found him a perfectly fashionable and comfortable outfit he could wear there. saturday night was when he showed up.

“take your shoes off,” is what the security guard barked at him when he came inside. “she doesn’t like dirt on her hardwood,”

malcom obliged, sliding off his loafers and walking inside further to find his buddies.

“man, you made it!” his industry friends greeted him, dapping him up and snapping staff over to get him a drink. “isn’t this shit wild? charli xcx is here, dude!”

all malcolm could do was nod, casually eyeing up all your decor, and all the gorgeous people at this party. this was insane, it was so loud and packed, and your house was amazing. “i’ve gotta go explore, guys. the fuck is this place? crazy,” malcom lets out a suprised breath of laughter after his sentence, taking it all in. “i’ll be back.”

so he took his fancy, albiet girly drink, and walked deeper inside the pineapple-scented mansion. now, malcolm loved girls. held this deep respect for them, admired them from a distance, and found them sexy. being inside your house felt like being inside pretty girl avenue, with pink rothko paintings on the walls, magazines on every flat surface, mirrors everywhere… he was surrounded by femininity, and fuck if he didn’t like it. this was his heaven.

“hey, is that malcolm todd!” a voice greets him when he enters another crowded living space. “are you having a good time?”

he turns around and sees you. god, you look even better in the flesh. you were adorned in your best party attire, hair a bit messy from the dancing and cheeks flushed from the alcohol, you were a dream. and, you knew his name. does it get better than that? “hey, y/n. fuck yeah i am. i just got here. your house is gorgeous,” he answers you, going to give you a side hug. you stumble into his 6’4” frame, alcohol bugging your ability to balance.

“i’m so glad!” you smile over the music. “thank you! don’t you love it?” you ask, looking around at your work of art. “i mean, you don’t need to love it, i’m just so proud of my design. want a tour?”

—

he was a couple drinks down when he clocked that he was shirtless in your locked bedroom. you two had spent twenty minutes chatting about your home, showing him every detail. your waxed hardwood floors, backdoor, third floor, and cookies in your pantry… he had thought it was the drinks making everything you said seductive, but he wasn’t delusional. you were underneath him in a gorgeous lace set that was hidden underneath your former attire. that pantry had a lot to hide.

“so all off that was a metaphor, huh?” malcolm smiles down at you, kissing your neck. you just giggle, going in for a kiss, that turns into a heated makeout. the music is muffled from the closed door, and your lights are all of except for the LEDs on the wall. your bed is a cloud of pink and cheetah print, and it’s gigantic. malcolm figures he could spent all his time in there.

“it was a pleasure to be your hot tour guide, malcolm todd,” you say in between kisses, squeezing his bicep to exentuate your point.

with a smile, he breaks the kiss, undoing the fly of his baggy jeans and unzipping the crotch. his vivienne westwood boxers are visible now as he slides his jeans off. “yeah, uh, gorgeous place, gorgeous tour guide. hard to complain,”

so, under the LED lights and royalty-level bed, you lie down beneath him, draping over the array of pillows. the floor vibrates every couple of seconds from the bass speaker below, and the voices drown into the background the more you focus on malcolm. your legs spread as he climbs on top of you in his boxers, his tattoos darker underneath the light. blinking up at him, you ask..