The Wall of Love is a love-themed wall in the Jehan Rictus garden square in Montmartre. The wall was created in 2000 and is composed of 612 tiles of enamelled lava, on which the phrase “I love you” is featured 311 times in 250 languages
um, is everyone out to kill me tonight? because the only asks i get is harry and travelling JUST TO KILL ME
but noooo Paris with Harry would be a dream. you know when he looks like a prince? that’s how I picture him. in a flowy white shirt, somehow looking casual as ever, and maybe the hat he’s been wearing lately. and his hair? it would be looking like it did on carpool karaoke. soft enough that it would almost be irresistible to not run your fingers through it, so much so it’s annoying.
he would be in the best mood. being on holiday with you? just you? it’s enough to put him in a mood where he thinks he could light every street light with his happiness. but being in Paris, he’s filled with a little extra love and a little extra compassion for you. he wouldn’t know what it is about the city. the busyness that’s always going on, yet somehow it always seems so calm. how, even surrounded by people from all places (the tourists with their cameras and smiles all around, or the locals who seem so in their place you should be taking photos every moment) he feels as though it is only the two of you.
he’d be looking at you constantly. while you’re walking up the eiffel tower (deciding to take the stairs because “come on, love, we don’t get to do this everyday. got t’ appreciate it in all it’s glory”). when you’d look back at him, a little puffed and slightly red faced from all the stairs, all he’d see is the blush in your cheeks that he thinks he could compare to roses, and the look of awe he thinks fills your eyes - like you’re looking at the entire world in front of you.
or maybe, when you get back to your hotel room, he’d be struck by just how beautiful you look. when you’ve got no makeup on, fresh and bare faced. you’d be standing in door way to the balcony, windows open while the sun begins to set in front of you. he wouldn’t be sure if it was the array of colours that dusted over the city, or the way the sun seemed the melt your skin golden in front of his eyes. how you hair would sit on your skin so delicately that he could compare it to the dew that sits on flowers in the dawn of the morning.
he’d find you irresistible. as you would him, of course. it’s something about Paris, right? something about Paris that makes him stand behind you and brush the hair off the side of your face. his fingertips would be soft, tickling your skin in the most beautiful way. and he’d be warm. warm when he wrapped one arm around your waist to turn you around, and warm when the other hand would rest on your jaw to move your lips to his. you’d been like this a million times before but, the hitch in your breath wouldn’t go unnoticed. with the barely there touch of his lips that burnt each spot they touched, and the heat that sunk into your skin from his tattoo-drawn hands, you truly felt ‘butterflies in your stomach’.
he had decided he would blame in on Paris, the cheesy words that fell from his lips.
“you know” he had whispered on your lips. “i think tha’ we should get married here. when it happens”
he had smiled, before he put his lips on yours. it was the kind of kiss where the world fell away beside you. it was slow and gentle and one of his favourites. you had your small hand against his chest and his finger tips squeezed a bit at the skin of your waist. he decided he would blame it on pairs but, he could stay like that forever.