Harry Hook Fanart Novels & Stories

Naomi. Harry’s daughter was seventeen now, bright, talented, restless. She had inherited her mother’s expressive eyes and Harry’s stubborn jawline. Usually, she hovered near the stage during rehearsals, sketchbook in hand, drawing musicians as they tuned their instruments or capturing dancers mid-motion. Harry encouraged it, happy she had found her own language in art. But lately, he had noticed something new. That boy. Marcus Jameson. Sixteen, lanky but with a confidence that didn’t quite fit his frame, always hanging around with the volunteer crew. He had a smile too wide and eyes too curious, and Harry had caught him looking at Naomi more than once. Worse, Naomi had started smiling back.

So I walked to the full length mirror in my bedroom and turned my back to it, looking at my naked reflection on its shiny surface. There it was. The word ‘Harry’ written in clear cursive handwriting. Harry had chosen the tattoo shop, the tattoo artist — he insisted it be a woman, the tattoo design, everything. Thankfully, it was a small tattoo and he didn’t ask for his face to be drawn on my whole back. With a sigh, I wore my robe again and returned to bed. What a fool I was.

A screenshot of a trending tag: #PLANTGIRL My soul left my body and filed a complaint. “Why,” I croaked. “Why would they call her that.” Sienna looked offended on my behalf, which was almost sweet considering she was still convinced it was me. “Because she hid him behind a plant! People love a theme.” I stared at the screen. Someone had made fan art. Not good fan art, more like a doodle of a girl in a hoodie heroically standing beside a potted palm while Jace hovered in the background like a rescued prince.