Harry Styles Imagines and Preferences

Red Carpet Drama

"Not a very hard thing for you to do." He manages to make you blush and laugh a little, probably his intention, and you sigh and squeeze his hand.

"Thank you, Harry."

"Thank you for coming with me." His eyes are now rounder, thankful and sweet.

"I'm really happy to have you with me." You feel his warm breath on your face and quickly dodge his kiss before it can land on your lips.

"No kisses! You'll smudge my lipstick." Harry pouts hard enough to make you giggle.

"Fine," he complains, choosing to kiss your hand instead. He settles back into the seat and glances out the window, and over his shoulder you can see the overwhelming number of people and bright camera flashes, the muffled sound of an eager crowd filtering from outside of the limo. You're two cars away from the red carpet entrance, and you shrink down in your seat, holding onto Harry's hand like a lifeline.

"Baby, look at me, you'll be fine." He can sense your apprehension and your ever growing nerves as the car nears, your fear filling the back of the car with nervous tension, he rubs your back, cooing softly to you as the limo finally rolls to a stop.

"Just remember what I told you; some of the photographers will get quite rude to get your attention so don't listen to anything they shout at you and stay with me at all times. Right?" His eyes, looking sea green in the moment a camera flash shines through the window, watch you intently until you nod back at him, and then he only has time to kiss your hand again before someone opens the limousine door and you're plunged into chaos.

Flashbulbs go off at what seems like an impossible rate, there are people milling around everywhere, some of them you recognize as actors or other celebrities, and there's so many people screaming your boyfriend's name that you don't know how he can stand it. If it weren't for Harry keeping a firm grip on your hand you'd feel dizzy from it all. He slips effortlessly into his public face, looking dapper in his polished outfit and well seasoned as he confidently makes his way to where his assistant, a short but stern woman in her thirties by the name of Wendy, waits to efficiently guide him through the throng of famous people and news reporters. You, on the other hand, you're sure you look like a lost duckling, ankles slightly unsteady in your taller-than-you're-used-to heels as you trail meekly behind him.

As expected, there's a large group of One Direction fans huddled together and caged in by a railing, screaming for Harry and shoving phones, papers, and sharpies in his direction. He gives you a smile and a wink before he goes to meet with them, and you feel lost and isolated once his hand leaves yours even though he's only a few feet away. As your boyfriend takes photos with fans and signs their shirts, you take the opportunity to glance around. Photographers are practically falling over themselves to get a good shot of him, and you know that you'll end up in the background of many of them. You swallow hard and try to keep a calm, pleasant look on your face and to keep your back straight, even though on the inside you're filling with self consciousness, going through a mental list of all your physical flaws that are going to be magnified by high definition cameras. Your dress choice will probably be analysed all over the internet tomorrow, comments about your hairstyle and your accessories and that scar on your arm filling up your Twitter feed once you check in. You're very close to feeling as if you can't take it and you just want to run inside when Harry comes back to your side.

"Sorry about that." He gives you a subtle once over.

"You alright babe?" Determined not to ruin things for him, you give him a tight lipped smile and a nod. He doesn't believe you, you can tell, but he doesn't have an opportunity to say anything before Wendy is shuttling the two of you further down to the photo op area, where you'll be posing. It's hard to concentrate with all the noise and lights but Harry remains your anchor, his arm wrapped tightly, proudly, around your waist. You give your best smile and stand as still as possible, focusing on Harry's warmth at your side and not on whether or not your makeup is smudged or if you missed a spot when shaving your legs or how big your thighs might look. Harry's hand is wrapped securely on your hip, and he had told you how lovely you looked about ten times before you left and during the ride, and that's all that should matter.