Harry Styles Imagines and Preferences

You're Famous

 You never got sick before your own appearances or events, only when it came to Harry's. Your stomach would become home to the most hyperactive butterflies and, you swore, they were armed with machetes and machine guns to keep you feeling particularly uneasy. When the sitcom you played the sarcastic misunderstood teenage daughter on was nominated for its first round of Emmy's last year, Harry accompanied you on the red carpet and to the ceremony. You were fine. Your dress cost more than you were worth dead and the jeweller warned you of what Hell was in store for you if you lost an earring or broke the bracelet, but you still didn't sweat in the slightest. It was your night and you had the time of your life. However, when it was an event where you were the date and Harry was the guest, you always felt like you were about to be violently ill.

Doing up his cufflinks on the dress shirt that his stylist had laid out for him along with other options, Harry leaned against the closed washroom door and called in for you. The makeup artist had left a half hour ago and the town car was already waiting downstairs, Harry was worried that you weren't already out with your heels on and ready to head out. He wasn't as glitzy as he seemed. Red carpet events were not the be all end all to him, but this was the London premier of the Keith Richards documentary he helped fund and make happen. He was mostly just looking forward to celebrating the project and seeing old friends again. Harry didn't care what anyone had on or how they looked, as long as the night was a success.

"Are you alright, [Y/N]? The car is waiting and traffic is a mess." It was always a mess in London, but Harry hoped that would make you come out quicker.

"I'm fine." Holding a hand mirror behind your head while you squinted furiously into the bathroom mirror, you replied. You had been studying your low side bun ever since the makeup artist left you, your eyes smoky as Harry always liked them. It seemed like as soon as he saw the dark gray shades smudged over your lids, he forgot about everything and just wanted to keep you to himself all night, bent over a kitchen counter or underneath him on top of helplessly tangled bed sheets. As you put down the hand mirror down on the counter, you straightened out your strapless turquoise dress over your body with both your free hands. Harry's fans were critical. They had an opinion to share on everything and, when it came to you, they were rarely positive remarks. Even tabloids didn't understand how the mega star was wrapped up in a television supporting actress. You tried to let it go in one ear and out the other, Harry always urged you to ignore all the extra noise, but it was easier said than done. So, tonight, you wanted to look as good as you could. Fans would be there by the hundreds to see your boyfriend and cameras for every website, magazine, and television station across the globe would show up with flashing bulbs. Sighing, you picked up your clutch from where it was waiting next to the sink and turned to leave, but the bathroom door flew open and Harry was revealed.

"What's taking you?" He asked, sounding a mixture of concerned and annoyed. "I never think you can look any more beautiful and then...wow...." He changed his tune completely, looking you over from your pedicured toes that peeked out underneath the skirt of your dress to the few hairs that were falling purposefully out of your finished hair. "I don't even know if I want to go now." He bit his bottom lip and purred at you, walking closer to put his hands on both your sides and steal a kiss. "You're stunning. It's no wonder Teen Vogue wants you on the cover for September." He smirked and kissed you again. You had got the call that morning while you were still lying in bed and wishing the sun hadn't screamed its way through the curtains. It was your first cover and you couldn't have been more excited for the shoot.

"Harry, I'm so nervous for tonight." You admitted quietly, resting your head on his shoulder for a moment and taking a look at you both in the bathroom mirror. While fans were warning you not to break his heart and claiming you two weren't real, you understood in that moment why some blogs thought you two were cute together. With his hands on your hips and your head the shoulder of his dress shirt, you thought the two of you did look quite sweet. You would never feel good enough for Harry, but you were thrilled he thought otherwise.

"Why?" He laughed. "I'm nervous! I need you to be the rock." He laughed. It wasn't as if the Rolling Stones were some well-kept British secret. There had been plenty of rock docs made about them, but Harry still wanted this one to be the best reviewed. Critics were always hard on him due to his boy band roots. "Why are you nervous, baby?"

"I'm always nervous when it comes to your fans. When those girls came up for a picture while we were in line at Wendy's last week, I nearly had a panic attack. They have the most judgemental eyes, you know, and they all have Twitters!" One of the girls had eyed you like you two were long time sworn enemies, but the other had asked for a picture with you two and told you that she was a big fan of Split-Level the family sitcom you were on.

"You need to get a Twitter." Harry hugged you closer, knowing full well that being his girlfriend hadn't been a smooth transition for you. You were fine when it was the two of you or your close friends, but when you were outside for the world to judge, it was much harder. "Because if they heard your weird thoughts after midnight like I do, they would absolutely love you." He kissed you once more, even though you were in the middle of laughing.

"Thank you."

"Let's go, babe. I dare someone to not like you in this dress." He curled his fingers between yours and led you out of the bathroom, eager to get a start on the night he had been waiting for for a while.