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“one day the universe will curl up beside you and begin to purr. don’t worry. you’ll know exactly where to place your hands.”
they say that if cities were people, london would be a rebellious teenager. los angeles would be a tanned and hollow girl in her twenties and new york would be an eclectic man in his mid-twenties, hands raised into the sky. but paris, paris would be a brunette boy in love with an older woman.
autumn in paris is beautiful. harry fits right in alongside the dying leaves and the windy streets, and it’s like he never left. three months in los angeles, three months of sun and liquor burning in his throat is enough. this is where he belongs. this is not the place where he was born, or where he first fell in love, but it’s still the place that makes him feel at home.
♡
everything is hazy. the air inside the bar is filled with smoke and loud words, the overhead speakers are blasting out smallpools, and there’s a beautiful girl under harry’s arm. her name is louis, and she’s loud and brash and thirty years old and she has a job behind a desk and harry could never give her what she deserves.
“want you spread out underneath me,” he whispers in her ear, because it’s true and his mother taught him that lying is a sin.
“is that so, young harold?” louis giggles into the hollow of his throat, and he can hear the blood rush through his ears because she’s so beautiful and he wants to purse his lips around her clit and suck. then there’s a gap, a hole in his memory because they’re stumbling onto the pavement and she’s holding his hand and there’s autumn light seeping in through his skin and settling in his bones.
when they’ve stumbled into harry’s dingy apartment with it’s space heaters and cold walls and harry’s shirt is strewn across a chair, louis pushes him into the couch. the way her dress frills around her tan thighs makes his pants feel tight. she smirks when she gets situated on his lap and leans forward. her voice is raspy from cigarette smoke and tequila shots, and she sounds like solace when she whispers against the shell of his ear.
“want to ride you haz, please,” and harry obliges. he always does. raking his hands along her thighs, feeling lace under his fingers and he tugs, wants to be close to her, nothing between them.
“can i- can i please-” he gestures towards the part of her body where her thighs meet, almost embarrassed to ask because he’s so desperate for her wet against his tongue.
her eyes are wide when she nods yes please fuck yes harry and she slides off him, settles against the headrest to see him unbutton his pants, long legs like a deer and pale thighs against the fabric of the carpet.
when he hooks his arms under her thighs, he looks up at her because he’s nineteen years old and desperate. he nuzzles his nose into the damp curls on her mound, and all he smells is her.
“get to it,” she says, smile on her lips, and he can feel the world turning inside out because there’s a pretty girl under his mouth.
the gasp she lets out when he puts his mouth to her clit sounds like snow storms and the way she fists her hands in his hair makes him growl against her skin. “fuck, ha- harry,” her words coming out like a never ending song, syllables jumbling together.
she arches off the couch when she comes, and her gasp echoes between the walls of his flat, and harry could start crying when he holds her hips down. he won’t. but he could.
“tha- that’s so fucking good, haz, fuck,” she says, tongue darting out of her mouth to lick across her lips.
his chin is covered with her, he can feel it glistening on his lips, the musky scent of her overpowering every sense. she reaches out towards him, fists her hand in his hair and pulls, wants him close.
he goes easy, fits himself against her chest and his lips slide against hers, her hands in his hair soft and pliant.
♡
she’s still there when he wakes up. her bum in the air, hair sticking out in all different directions and she’s snoring lightly, face smushed into his forearm. she’s beautiful.
harry has only known this woman for about 12 hours but he wants to eat her up, wants to find out everything there is to know about her and stuff it into separate drawers in his brain so that he never ever forgets. he takes a mental picture of her, just like this in his bed and sleeping, and goes.
she mentioned something about being vegetarian, and he remembers because she had laughed as she said it. laughter is a turn on, even if said person doesn’t eat bacon in the mornings. he putters about in his tiny kitchen, making scrambled eggs and preparing two cups of green tea. he's humming a song under his breath, and he thinks it might've been played at the club last night. he likes it. he’s just put two pieces of bread in the toaster when he hears padded feet behind him. he doesn’t turn around just yet, just wants to stay right here, right in this moment. she slips a hand around his belly, nails slowly raking through the soft hair disappearing into his boxers.
“mornin’,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “sleep well?” she adds, nuzzling into his shoulderblade.
he nods as he turns around, fits his arms around her waist easily. she’s wearing nothing but one of the shirts he’s strewn across his office chair. just like any other boy in the world ever, the sight of a girl you just slept with in his clothes makes his head spin. looking down at her, her blue eyes peering right back up at him, he speaks up with a grin.
“has anyone ever told you that you snore?”
the tickle fight that breaks out is totally not louis’ fault. he started it, or so she says.
when she has him pinned down against the cold tiled floor, she just grins down at him.
“a tomlinson woman doesn’t snore. take it back, or i’ll tickle you to death. it’s a tommo tradition. i’ve killed two men by tickling this month alone.” her grin just gets wider, and she’s grinding down against his belly just a tiny bit. she’s wearing nothing underneath his shirt, and he can tell she’s wet against him.
her teeth are white against the pink softness of her lips, and it’s like a halo of light around her, with hair short hair stood in all directions. her hands are rested lightly on his chest, nails scratching lightly against his nipples. if she notices the fact that he’s getting a semi, she doesn’t mention it.
“fine. babe, you don’t snore. it must’ve been some other short haired girl named louis i took home last night. you look a lot like her tho-,” and that’s when he gets cut off by her lips colliding with his. she’s determined, her tongue impatiently pressing against his lower lip. he goes easily, because why wouldn’t he?
his hands come up to grab against her bum, and he squeezes around her full cheeks. she groans, low in her throat, and retaliates with sinking down lower, her naked cunt against his boxer-clad semi.
“we can both play this game, styles,” and she comes back down, her hands fisted in his hair.
the taste of her feels a lot like home.