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Apr 1, 2021

False God

A/N: So… I’m back. This is for the amazing @harrystylescherry’s playlist fic challenge. She was kind enough to let me participate, and I can’t imagine how much work it was to set this whole thing up. This fic is inspired by Malcom & Marie, but I changed a bunch of shit to fit with the story. This one’s for Miss Swift, cause who doesn’t love a sexy jesus jazz song?

Content Warnings: angst, smoking, and ofc smut (fingering and oral, fem receiving).

Word Count: 5.5k

“And I can't talk to you when you're like this

Staring out the window like I’m not your favorite town

I'm New York City

I still do it for you, babe.” -T.S.

Harry and you rarely fought.

In fact, you prided yourself on the lack of arguments that occurred between the two of you. There was always an unsung understanding that circulated throughout your relationship. A mutual mindset that the two of you shared that filled in any potholes in your road that otherwise would have thrown you over the highway barrier and into an abyss of agony.

Harry has never been a passive person. He just simply isn’t afraid to confront you when you’re getting unusually snipping with him. And if the two of you do get into an argument, he’ll often try to dissolve the problem before it escalates (taking note that the reason for any specific disgruntlement that he smooths over is caused by something that he did or said that you found inimical). And you did the same, once you let your pride slip and acknowledge that you were in the wrong. It was something Harry always found very peaceable of you.

But tonight was a whole other fucking story.

And now halfway through your journey home, you were more aggravated than ever, while Harry was still blissfully unaware of your frustrations. But could you really blame him? He had done what millions of others could only fantasize about while clicking through Facebook at their 9 to 5s. He had done what thousands of musicians struggling to make ends meet had dreamed about since they learned how to sing their first note.

He’d won a Grammy. And as you held it in your sweaty palms, gripping onto it just a little bit tighter when he slammed on the breaks, all you could think about was the words that he uttered at the podium -- or rather the words that he didn’t. He didn’t have a tattered piece of notebook paper with an acceptance speech scribbled onto it tucked into the pocket of his eccentric suit jacket, worn from how many times he had opened and closed it. He didn’t have an outline of words strewn together in his head from the nights he’d stayed up worrying about his various outfit changes and the choreography for his performance. His win was unexpected, to him at least, and it didn’t settle in until you stood up with Jeff, a beaming smile seemingly engraved on your face as you gazed at him with amazement. He shook his head in disbelief before standing up and embracing Jeff, planting a purposely damp kiss on his cheek while his manager let out a hearty chuckle.

Then, he made his way over to you, a grin as equally big as yours now planted on his face. His manicured hand went up to cup your face and a shiver racked down your spin as the cool metal of his rings pressed into the skin of your cheek. His lips glossed over yours chastely, quick enough not to be distasteful, but long enough for you to relish in his uncharacteristically public display of affection. He parted from you as Jeff gave a small tug to his tweed-clad arm, and you gave his hand a reassuring albeit brief squeeze before he was off to the stage to express his gratitude. His words were shaky as he spoke, his hands gesturing nervously. Maybe you had missed the utterance of your name over the ringing in your ears. Or maybe you were too distracted by Harry’s outlandish scarf to acknowledge his recognition of you. Maybe he--

“Baby? You alright?” Harry’s voice was soft as it disrupted your thoughts, and intertwined with concern. His words ricocheted in your skull before you could process them fully, and once your brain was able to decipher his simple question, your lips parted in an attempt at responding, but the words couldn’t conquer the uphill battle to your mouth. You settled on a default response. It was lame and unconvincing, but it got Harry off your back — at least for the rest of the ride home (because if you knew anything about Harry, you knew that he would interrogate you further until he found what he was looking for).

“I’m fine, H. Really,” You give him a small, feigned smile. A “nice” touch to your already shitty falsity. He gives you a worried once over, obviously not convinced, but you weren’t in the mood to brawl with him over how he thought you were feeling. You ignore the fretful glances sent in your direction, keeping your eyes solely focused on the cluster of trees that seemed to stretch on for miles. Staying in the city certainly wasn’t an option, so Harry had rented a house essentially in the middle of nowhere in the suburbs of Los Angeles. It was a beautiful home— too beautiful if you were being honest. You felt out of place when standing in the kitchen evidently crafted for a five-star chef, and often uncomfortable when trying to unwind in what felt like a hotel suite. These feelings would never be voiced to Harry, they couldn’t be. Well, they could if you wanted to sound ungrateful like you’d rather be sleeping somewhere else. And you didn’t want to sleep anywhere else. You only wanted to sleep where Harry was. But tonight you wish you were back in London, dozing off on the turquoise couch placed smack dab in the middle of the living room as Friends played quietly in the background.

Maybe next week.

Harry turns his head back to the road in defeat, his expression unreadable as he stared at the road ahead. Pain pricked at his insides at your blatant lie, your effortless brush-off. Was something really wrong or was he just being paranoid?He took your silence as a warning not to stir up any unnecessary conversation. You weren’t in the mood for small talk-- or any talk at all. The radio was still quietly humming. You had made no effort to turn it off so Harry assumed it was fine to leave it on for the time being. It made the spacious silence between the two of you a tab more bearable. And Harry’s spirits were soon lifted when the intro of Everywhere began to play through the speakers, his rings clacking against the steering wheel as he drummed his fingers to the beat.

You snuck a look over at the man beside you as he began to sing along with Christine McVie, a small smile beginning to tug at the ends of his perfectly pink lips. His auburn curls were tousled from how many times he had nervously run his hands through his hair, more often than not getting his rings stuck in the holy mop that sat atop his head. Your teeth bit down on your lips, trying to keep your mouth from breaking out into a full-fledged grin at the image of him struggling to remove an unruly lock stuck to the silver and gold placed on his fingers. The anger coursing through your veins was slowly dissipating as the song continued on, Harry continuing to sing along rather terribly. He would undoubtedly insist later on that he was only singing like the delusional X-Factor auditionees to brighten your mood, to make you crack a smile. And it worked, but you would never let him have that victory.

A sense of relief washed over you as the house came into view, cooling down your frustrations and diminishing your concealed bitterness. You opened the door as soon as the car came to a complete stop, letting it slam shut behind you. And as you planted both of your feet on the ground, sharp pains began to flood your heels and shins. A wince threatened to escape you, but you dug your nails into the palm of your hand so harshly you were certain it would draw blood. Stilettos were every long night’s enemy.

Harry followed closely behind as you made your way to the front door, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets and oblivious to the strange way you were walking. He watched as you grabbed the key from under the welcome mat, stabbing it into the keyhole and hurriedly turning it this way and that. You let out a victorious hum when the door finally unlocked. It was swung wide open before Harry could blink, and you were inside, wobbling near the bar as you toed off your heels, clutching the counter for support. He stepped inside with a pensive air, shutting the front door gingerly behind him before venturing on to find you. He knew you were upset with him, that it was just a matter of time before the gears in your head stopped turning and you finally fessed up to what was bothering you, but Harry couldn’t rush that. He knew better.

He had hoped that his small concert on the way home would have lifted you up from whatever hell you were forcing yourself to sit in. And maybe it did. Maybe you were just tired, or hungry, or just upset in general. Maybe someone had something to you at the after-party. He knew you were second-guessing your outfit the minute you put it on this morning, but you had insisted that it was fine and that it was too late to change anything. It wasn’t-- it never was with Harry. He had a handful of assistants for a reason. But you were always adamant about doing everything yourself, which he loved, but sometimes he wished you would surrender and let him help you. He tossed his wallet onto the bar where you had abandoned the house key and sauntered his way into the kitchen. Music, that’s what he needed. Something to fill the echoing silence of your temporary home.

You wanted to scream when Billy Holiday began to blast through the surround sound speakers that Harry had installed in the kitchen. The peace and quiet that you had prayed for was long gone now, and you squinted your eyes shut while leaning forward on the toilet, desperately trying not to let frustrated tears coast down your cheeks. Your pantyhose were in a crumpled heap at your feet and you made no effort to collect them as you pulled your underwear up your legs and into its rightful place before flushing the toilet. The dress, the Versace dress that Harry had bought you, clung to your figure beautifully, but the length of the skirt was a pain in the ass. You held it up by the side in your left hand, lifting it up off the ground, making it easier for yourself to stroll freely without the fear of tripping over the expensive fabric.

When you reached the kitchen, Harry was humming along to the song blaring throughout the house while fixing a pot of water, presumably for the box of mac and cheese he had set on the counter. He didn’t notice when you padded up beside him and grabbed a glass from the overhead cabinet, filling it up with tap water. But, the sound of the sink gushing snapped him out of his haze. He smiled softly when he realized you were beside him. He extended his hand out to reach for your arm, but you already had slipped from his grasp, making your way over to the kitchen table, ignoring him. Don’t pressure her, that’ll only make things worse.

“You looked beautiful tonight, baby,” Harry shouted over the music, a small, tight-lipped smile growing on his face. He watched you carefully as he ripped open the box of mac and cheese, awaiting your reaction.

“What?” You shouted back. You couldn’t make out his words over the echoing voice of Billie Holiday. Harry took that as a sign to turn off the music, which he did. Clumsily picking up his phone and pausing his apple music.

“I said ‘you looked beautiful tonight’,” He repeated himself, equally as sincere as before. You placed your glass of water down on the table, trying to even out your breaths before responding. Your whole body was tense as an all too familiar anxiety plagued you. It’s just Harry, you thought. Harry who unknowingly made the biggest fuck up of his life.

“Thanks, H,” You replied, your faux pleasant tone unconvincing. Your chair squeaks against the floor as push it out from the table, filling the blanket of silence that had fallen over the two of you. You grab your empty water glass, giving him a flash of a smile as you place it into the sink. This isn’t over, you know that. So does he. But as long as he doesn’t say something stupid, you’ll push your frustrations down for as long as possible.

You pad over to the assigned ‘junk drawer’ hidden underneath the counter and pull it open by its intricately designed silver handle. You loudly rifle through it until you find what you were looking for. A half-gone carton of cigarettes and a candle lighter. The two objects are soon out from the back of the drawer and onto the countertop, where your fiddling with the pack of cigs, extracting the one that catches your eye. You take your chosen cigarette along with the lighter and make your way to the backdoor, opening it up and lingering in the doorway. The cigarette is soon caught between your lips, sparking a bit as you touch the end of it with the lighter.

“You know, love,” Harry begins, smiling to himself as he stirs the macaroni around in the pot, “I didn’t see a single person who didn’t gawk at you when you walked up to them. Who didn’t stutter their words. Can’t blame them really, had a hard time containing my gawking myself, and I get the privilege of laying my eyes on you every day.” The last part was meant to be a joke if Harry’s dry sense of British humor still held true. Which it did, but you still couldn’t help the amused scoff that left your mouth.

He furrowed his brows at your reaction, obviously expecting a much different response. His tone was gruff as he spoke and the crease between his brows deepened. “What?”

“Cut the shit, Harry,” You took a long drag from your cigarette as Harry’s eyes widened in shock at your blunt reply. You turned your head in the opposite direction of the house to exhale, flicking ash into the grass surrounding you as his lips parted, his brain trying to conjure an appropriate response, but all he could come up with was his previous question.

“What?” He repeated himself, his tone more distressed than terse. He fiddled with the lion head ring that was placed on his pinky finger, twisting it this way and that while waiting for you to answer. You looked at the decorative ashtray that was placed conveniently by the backdoor blankly while stabbing your cigarette into it before speaking again. Your words were sharp and jagged, and you threw them at Harry without a care in the world, hoping that they would pierce him.

“Your speech, Harry. You know… the one where you thanked everyone. Jeff, your label, every single one of your producers. For fucks sake Harry you even thanked the other people who were nominated. But you know who you didn’t thank?”

Harry’s stress rose so drastically he was sure his entire head would begin to grey. “Me. Your girlfriend of three years. Remember?” You could practically see the gears turning in his head, whirring so fast they might break altogether. With your cigarette discarded in the ashtray, you made your way back inside and closed the door, kindly shielding the world from the screaming match that was about to begin. You felt bad for a second, selfish even, doing this to Harry on the best night of his life. But all you wanted was some recognition, some thanks. Without you, Watermelon Sugar wouldn’t even exist. It wouldn’t have topped the charts and brought him that worldwide success that ultimately led to him getting three Grammy nominations and a win. Were you really asking for that much?

“Baby, I’m--”

“I mean, I bet you would’ve thanked fucking Camille out of all people… but not me,” You uttered the last part softly, knowing that what you had said was a low blow, a deep cut from a sharp dagger. And you felt bad. But you wanted to make Harry hurt like you had. You wanted him to feel so much empathy that it rattled him to his core and haunted his every thought. You wanted him to know that you were tired of living in Camille’s shadow, tired of the snide comments his friends made, tired of his comments. If they were about something they had done together previously or something that reminded him of her, it didn’t matter. They still hurt.

“So that’s what this is about? You being jealous of something that doesn’t even fucking exist anymore? Something that crashed and burned so hard that it can never even stand a chance against what we have?” He motioned between the two of you, his words pleading. “Baby, your upset over something so worn down that it is beyond repair. And tell my why I would ever want to fucking repair it?”

Jealousy. It rattled your bones and warped your mind, stirring your thoughts into cruel images of Harry’s possible infidelity. The whole thing was foolish and implausible. Just a way for your subconscious to manifest your insecurities into something to punish you for thinking such horrid thoughts about your boyfriend -- for thinking such horrid thoughts about yourself.

“No, Harry. This is about you not thanking me on the best night of your fucking life! This about you completely ignoring the whole entire point behind the song! Riddle me this, H. Whose fucking pussy is the song about?”

Harry puts his thumb and index finger up to the bridge of his nose and sighs, evidently frustrated. You roll your eyes at his actions, taking a step back and trying not to scream out at the top of your lungs in frustration.

“Enlighten me, Harry. Whose fucking pussy tastes like strawberries?”

He scoffs incredulously. It’s a wretched sound and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You want to slap his hand away from his face and make him look at you, but you knew that would only make the situation ten times worse.

“Are you really so solipsistic that you can’t let me have one night to celebrate the biggest achievement of my career?”

Ouch.

“You didn’t answer the question, H.”

He freezes for a moment, finally removing his hand from his face and looking directly at you. He’s about to say something. His lips part and a noise comes out but no sentence is formed. Wait… is it about you? Was Harry right? Were you being solipsistic? You knew you were coming across as selfish on Harry’s day to be the sun, but you thought-- well now you didn’t know what to think. Now you didn’t even fucking know the answer to the one question you had been beginning Harry to let you in on all night.

Maybe you did know the answer. But maybe you were too afraid to even string the words together in your mind. The possibility was itching at the back of your brain. You tried to ward it off, but it seemed to wrap itself around every one of your thoughts. It made you sick to your stomach. You were punishing yourself but you couldn’t help it. She seemed to eclipse you in every aspect.

A golden girl left a golden man so he got stuck with the moon, forced to live in eternal darkness. Harry would laugh at her dramatic analogy and tell her that she was his sun, and everything good about his life. So why didn’t he thank her?

“Baby, every song I write is about you. Every good one at least. And I fucked up majorly. I’m sorry, I really am. Now go get ready for bed. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

Oh. The song was about you. He fucked up. He forgot to thank you. He forgot about you all together at the precipice of his life. And now he wanted you to go to bed and pretend like it never happened. Well, if that’s what the king of the world wants, then that’s what the king of the world gets. Why would anyone ever object to such a kind offer?

You shook your head in disgust. “Go fuck yourself, Harry.”

The sound of the tub filling up almost lulled you to sleep as you rested your head on the edge of the ceramic wall. Your shoulders, the only part of your body that wasn’t submerged in warm water, were prickled with goosebumps due to the unusually cool temperature of the bathroom. You were certain Harry had turned down the thermostat on purpose. And speaking of Harry, you could hear his footsteps approaching the bathroom, the heels of his Gucci dress shoes colliding with the wooden floors. You only looked up from the tub when he softly cleared his throat, his figure taking up most of the doorway from how he was leaning his shoulder on the molding.

“Can I come in?” His voice is soft when he speaks, his demeanor rather demure for how he usually behaves around you. He walks timidly into the room when you signal your approval, grunting quietly as he takes a seat on the floor next to the tub. Time seems frozen for a moment as the two of you sit in silence, you pruning, and Harry reflecting. It takes you by surprise when he releases a small sob, letting his head fall onto the brim of the tub. Your hand twitches, wanting to run your hands through his hair and comfort him, but you restrain yourself. He came in here to apologize, and you’d only forgive him if his pleas were adequate.

“Baby, I am so fucking sorry. I fucked up--” Sob “so badly. I-if you can’t forgive me I understand. But I love you so much. You mean the world to me and I… I couldn’t have done this with you. You know that, right?” You reach out and brush a stray tear from Harry’s cheek, your own tears beginning to pool in your eyes at the sight of your boyfriend breaking down because of you. You blink them back the best you can, shushing Harry softly whilst brushing his sweaty auburn curls off of his forehead. He was thankful, you knew that. And that’s all you wanted to feel for a fraction of the night. Appreciated.

“I know, H. I know,” Your words now stitch up the cuts that you had made with your previous ones, trying to heal the damage that both of you had done in the kitchen with your verbal sparring. He looks at you as if your the most beautiful creature in the universe, even with charcoal-colored makeup smudged under your eyes and your blemishes now visible to the open eye. His hand caresses your face, ghosting over your cheek, your nose, your lips.

“Should get out. You know, before you start pruning,” He says, pushing a lock of your hair over your shoulder. You hum in agreement, starting to stand up. He adjusts the bath mat and helps you out of the tub, letting his eyes linger on your dripping body a bit too long to be considered innocent. Your towel is handed to you by a familiar jeweled hand, the man attached to it draping the towel across bother of your shivering shoulders. You go to peck his lips, but he’s already gone across the room, rummaging through your makeup cabinet until he found the package of makeup wipes that he knew you would need. He peels open the package and carefully removes a wipe, handing it to you with a small smile. His eyes were still swollen from crying, but the uncertainty from them had faded. It was now replaced with lust.

“You look so fucking beautiful. Even as a raccoon.” A playful smirk tugged at his lips as he watched you remove the makeup from under your eyes. You let the giggle that was bubbling up in your throat escape your mouth, no longer caring about coming off as gruff. Harry and you now had an unspoken forgiveness and he deserved a reward for winning best solo pop performance, besides the golden award that was now half haphazardly placed on the bar.

“I think you should show me how beautiful you think I am. You know… for scientific purposes,” You said impishly, a smirk of your own painting your lips. Harry’s breath got caught in his throat as your words registered with him, his mouth suddenly ridden of saliva. You pushed your towel from your shoulders, exposing your now dry, incredibly soft skin. Harry dug his nails into his palm, biting down on his plump bottom lip to contain the moan threatening to spill out at the sight of your naked body.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” He asks but knows he’ll never get a response. You raise your brow at him, testing his resistance. He swallows down his jitters and strides across the room, placing his hands on your hips and pulling you into him. Your nipples drag across the material of his dress shirt, hardening at the friction. He feels you shiver but ignores it, brushing a strand of annoying hair from out of your eyes.

“Do you want me to touch you, doll?” He asks his hand ghosting over your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. You bury your face into his neck at the contact, choking on your breath at the sweet relief of his touch.

“Yes,” You breathe out, a whimper threatening to escape you as he tweaks your nipple, releasing it when it fully pebbles.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” He inquiries, his mouth brushing against the top of your head, breathing in your shampoo. His other hand tangled itself in the hair on the back of your head, tugging on it just enough to fully expose your neck to him. You let out a whimper at the feeling of Harry pulling your hair, then a staggered breath when he pulled harder.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” He repeats, his polished thumb gliding across your bottom lip. Each breath he released taunted your nose, the warmth of his mouth teasing your own.

“You know where, Harry,” You replied desperately, fluttering your eyes shut and breathing deeply in an attempt to soothe your need. Harry wasn’t dumb, he could feel your thighs clenching together, feel the heat that was hidden between them, but he wanted to hear you say it. To fully submit to him.

“Mmm, I don’t think I do,” He said, starting to trail teasing kisses down the column of your throat, “think you should enlighten me, love.”

You let out a frustrated groan, trying to sneak your hand between the two and down to your aching cunt, but it was to no avail. Harry snatched your hand before it could reach your navel, bringing it back up to his own lips. You watched as he placed a small peck to the back of your hand before intertwining it with his, still pulling on your hair with the other one.

“Showing me works too,” He mutters snarkily, finally trailing his hand down your chest, your navel, and to the hood of your clit. The pad of his finger started to work your sensitive bud in small, harsh circles while his mouth sucked marks into your neck. Your hands grabbed onto his shoulder, sinking down to his shoulder blades before digging your nails into them.

“Is this what you wanted, baby? Hm? Wanted me to touch your little clit?” You moaned out in response, helplessly resting your head on his shoulder.

“How about I sink a finger in your cunt?” He asks you, already knowing the answer, but he wanted to tease even you further. Wanted to see you squirm in his arms until you were a stuttering, begging mess. You muttered something like a please, but it was so garbled that Harry had a hard time making it out. His finger kept prodding your clit at a cruel pace as he slid his middle finger into your soaking cunt, almost grinning as you moaned out his name.

“‘S that feel good, button?” He questions, another rhetorical inquiry regarding his fingering skills. He thrusts his middle finger in and out of you in time with the circles he was drawing on your clit, and you hold onto his shoulders even tighter, afraid you might collapse.

“Yes, God, yes. It feels really fucking good!” You moan out, jumping as he brushes against the spongy spot inside you that he know drives you mad. Your breathing is harsh and uneven as you feel yourself come closer to your orgasm, but Harry’s pace is relentless. His finger seems to speed up inside of you, so much so, that you can practically hear how wet you are each time he sinks his finger back into your cunt.

“Y’gonna come for me soon, baby?” His tone is taunting when he speaks, purposely catching your clit on the callous that was on the pad of his thumb.

“Mhm,” You reply, digging crescents into his shoulder blades. A gasp leaves your lips as he gets down his knees and gazes up at you, his finger on your clit and his finger in your cunt never slowing down once. You practically scream as he replaces his thumb with his tongue, stroking the textured, flat of it across your clit. Your hands tangle in his curls as you toss your head back freely back in bliss, your neck now free from Harry’s constraint. He licks up this way and that, prodding at the nub as he works his finger in and out of you. It’s not long before you can taste the beginning of your orgasm, your moans getting louder and the grip on Harry’s hair getting tighter.

“You can come, doll. Want you to,” He mutters against your heat, making that he hits you g-spot with every stroke of his finger. You close your eyes and let the coil in your stomach snap, succumbing to your orgasm. It shakes you to your core, pushing unimaginable pleasure out into your veins as Harry laps at your clit and your opening, hungrily licking up everything that your cunt gushes out. Once you’ve finally come down, you release Harry’s hair and take a step back, trying your best to steady yourself without his support.

Your boyfriend pops his fingers into his mouth, happily sucking off the juices that still lingered on them. You shiver at the sight, your clit beginning to throb again.

“Taste so good, baby. You know I could eat you out forever, right?” He tells you breathily, wiping off his fingers on the back of his trousers. You let out an airy laugh, covering your pebbling nipples while wrapping your arms around your torso, trying to warm yourself up.

Harry notices your shivering and goes over to the back of the door where your satin robe was hanging, grabbing it and making his way back over to you. You take it from him graciously, slipping it on and making a neat bow in the front. You watch as your boyfriend uncomfortably adjusts his trousers, making his bulge rather evident.

“H, let me--”

“No, love,” He grabs your wrist delicately, “don’t worry about me.” He sandwiches your hand in between his large ones, placing a lingering kiss to the tips of your fingers.

“Come on,” He beckons to you as he turns around and starts to exit the room, “wanna show you something.”

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