Harry Styles Imagines and Preferences

His Friends Are Rude To You When He's Not Around - Part 1

*YOUR POV*

I stood in the kitchen silently, dreading the next two hours. I stirred my tea with a spoon, chewing on my bottom lip as I awaited our impending guests.

Harry's friends.

My boyfriend is the most loving, caring, beautiful person I could ever ask for, which is why his taste in friends confuses me. To be fair, most of them are great people. I have hilarious memories with Ed Sheeran whenever he'd stay over, laughed along to Nick Grimshaw's jokes and had many a playful banter with Jeff. Liam, Niall and Louis were all also lovely, charming lads.

But four of his friends, who go by the names of Justin, Kevin, Ben and Chuck are the complete opposite of Harry's other social groups. It's like they make it their mission to put me down whenever Harry's out of earshot, or not around us for a few minutes of torture.

He has no idea, of course. If I told him, he'd flip. I don't even know what he'd do. I'd seen him get protective, angry or downright fuming when I'm mistreated, especially if it's in front of him. Whenever paparazzi got too handsy, or pushed too far with their always intrusive questions - some of which cause my cheeks to burn and eyes to water - Harry seemingly forgets his usually cool attitude, showing for a few minutes the extent of his quick temper.

There were few times I'd ever seen Harry hit another person. He was never one for violence, claiming it isn't the answer, until it is the only answer. The first time I'd seen him lash out at someone was when I had just come out of hospital after breaking my wrist by slamming the car door on it (foolishly, but painfully). Paparazzi completely swarmed us, momentarily distancing us, not for long, but enough for one of them to catch my broken wrist in a tight hold to catch my attention. The action alone made me scream through gritted teeth, the noise getting lost in the symphony of loud voices, pained expression caught by dozens of flashing cameras.

Harry must've heard me, because he turned around faster than I'd thought possible, shoving paparazzi out of the way and putting his arms around me.

"Who touched you?" He growled in my ear, eyes ablaze with anger.

"I-I..." I trailed off, scanning the crowd, trying to find the man responsible for my throbbing wrist. I cradled it, in its sling, closer to my chest.

"Has it gotten worse?" He asked, keeping me close. "Do we need to go back in?"

I was about to answer when the same man that had grasped my wrist set his hand on my backside, calling in my ear. "Y/N, how does it feel being Harry's newest fuck?"

I gasped, throwing myself away from him as Harry grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it painfully and throwing a punch at his jaw. The man reeled, expensive camera clattering to the floor as he clutched his bruised skin. I stood, frozen, watching Harry's chest heave with remaining anger, hearing the crowd around us grow even wilder, furiously clicking at the devices directed precisely at my boyfriend.

"Don't you ever lay a hand on my girlfriend, you understand me?" Harry roared, looming over the cowering, pathetic man on the concrete. He nodded quickly, gathering up his camera and sunglasses before scurrying away.

Harry took my good hand, holding it tightly, guiding me through the crowd after muttering 'fucking arsehole' under his breath. I'd stayed close to him, kissing his cheek softly, relieved when the movement of his chest steadied. He was calm.

I snapped out of my reverie, still holding my mug of tea. Harry called my name from upstairs, but I didn't bother answering because he was thundering down, dressed simply in a black t-shirt and ripped skinny jeans, blue bandanna tied around his neck. I smiled weakly at him as he entered, grinning while slipping his arms around my waist and kissing up and down my neck playfully. I giggled softly, tilting my head back, allowing him to pepper small kisses all over my skin.