Art!Harry sneak peek (Patreon)

Hello! Here is a very lengthy sneak peek of art!harry that only you guys are getting (and its girthy, I'm telling ya!) 

__________________________________________________________________________

i.

Harry hasn't slept for over twenty-four hours. 

This was not his intent though, not in the slightest! He'd woken up yesterday morning around half past six from an excruciatingly realistic nightmare of a specific ravenous, grizzly maw retaining creature that's plagued his dreams since he was ten and couldn't find his way back to sleep. So he got ready for the day, showered the sleep from his bones in hot steaming pellets of water, got dressed, and messed about on his computer for a little while with his kitten nestled in his lap until it was time to go to is 9AM lecture. He went about his day as normal from then on, going to class, sitting in a shadowy bit of the quad to eat his lunch while the autumn air still wasn't harsh enough to draw him indoors, met with Alexa so that Liam could give him a brief update of the party life he was missing, and then they both met up with Adam who is two years his and Liam's senior and ruffles their hair and recommends them books to read like the proper English major (with a double major in law). After his classes were over he retired to his flat, fed Bubbles (his kitten, who loves crawling around on the sink while he's washing dishes and bats at the soap bubbles that float into the air), realized that he had about twenty separate commissions to do (he creates art for people who can't do art themselves and while he wishes he could do this for free, he shares his talents at a price) and then promptly got to work. 

He'd not realized just how long he'd been up until the sun filtered through his window in a gentle gleam across his coffee table and Bubbles was nudging at his palm for her brekkie. After five cups of coffee (premium roast, at it's finest -- Adam got him turned onto it) he guesses one might lose the time, all jitters, finishing up his last piece with just enough time to shower again, redress, and show up for his art studio course. Was fine until about five minutes in, then he realized just how fucking  exhausted he was and how fiercely his eyes wanted to weld themselves shut. 

He thinks he might look like proper ass but he can't find it in himself to care all too much. Not when his hand is the only thing keeping him from face planting into the table, and he startles himself back into full consciousness with a soft little snort and attempting to suck threatening drool back into his mouth. It's not like he was a wuss or anything, he'd pulled his fair share of all-nighters, but the crash from the coffee hit him hard and he's surprised he's able to even scramble together a coherent response when the bloke besides him asks if he's got a piece of gum. 

So its safe to say that he'd been blocking most of what the professor was saying out, until a certain sentence drug him right from the depths of whatever exhaustion filled despair he had thrown himself into. 

"Let's discuss your final." 

Harry doesn't think that it would've had every goosebump pimple up his skin had it not been that it was the beginning of October. That's two solid months before anybody even really gives the thought of finals the time of day, and she's bringing it up now, which means that it's going to be a fucking doozy he's sure of it. He's not the only one either -- everyone seems to lean in close, nerves rattling the room like loose change in a car's cupholder, the drowsiness that Harry had once been feeling, now swept away in a tide of panicked emotions waving through him. He thinks, if he listens closely enough, he can hear the boy's heart thumping against his chest right beside him.

"I'm warning you what it is now, in case any of you would like to drop. It is forty percent of your final grade, so its best to be meticulous in your planning and fluid within your work," she begins, the keyboard clicking beneath her fingers as she pulls the Word Doc up on the projector, seeming as casual as ever -- as if she hadn't just planted the seed of worry into two dozen art majors, "It'll be a series. You will come up with the theme of your choice as long as all the pieces tie into it. There will be a total of five; the medium is of your choice along with the color pallet. Some thing that might help you is if you write up a statement on these pieces -- you won't be turning them in, but this might help guide you." Harry's shoulders soothe some. That was all? He'd expected much worse if he's -- "The catch is, this series will be based off a singular person. I have selected an assortment of people of all different shapes, sizes, skin tones, etcetera." 

Harry feels his face flame up already; he prefers to work in solitude, which doesn't include having a stranger sit before him as he sketches out their features. Plus what if he accentuates something that they aren't particularly fond of themselves for? What if they call him a shit artist and refuse to continue being his model? Well, maybe he could pick the nicest looking of the bunch? Or at least the one who looks like they might be just as quiet as he is, then they could sit in silence as he works -- he doesn't really like talking while he's going about his business either, but he's too polite to tell someone to shut up. 

The professor walks towards the door, leans her head out of the classroom before waving her arm and soon a group of people begin filing in. And Harry's stars must be perfectly aligned, because amongst the pack of students there was Daphne -- the softest, sweetest girl he's ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on. They had Sociology together last semester and she sat right besides him so they did a lot of partner work; her voice was gentle, her touch soft (at least when she'd hand him papers), her smile enough to make his heart grow ten times too big for his chest. He thinks she's gorgeous and if he's quick on his feet, he'll be able to go somewhat first so he can pick her as his subject. As anxious as he is about drawing someone from a human model, Daphne would be easy, and maybe even then something might spark -- or at least he can only dream. Imagining capturing the amiable gaze she has gets him all kinds of excited too, so maybe this final wouldn't be so bad after all. 

"The catch is," the professor begins once again, "You won't be choosing your model, they will be choosing you. There's no swapping; learn to love one another because I would imagine you'll be spending quite a lot of time together these following weeks." 

Even then, Harry isn't too worried. He locks eyes with Daphne and sends her a smile that she returns, recognition swallowing her features as she lifts a hand to wave. Ecstatic little bubbles boil through his veins as he tries to calm the excitement rising in his belly -- he'd never been so lucky in his life. There's at good chance that she would come over to him and then he can spend loads of time with her, show her just how beautiful she is through the stroke of a brush or the sketch of his pen. 

When the professor sends them off to pick their artist, Harry watches as Daphne does a quick scan of the room before she heads in his direction and his heart might just beat out of his chest! He can't believe it, honestly, can't believe that he was going to be able to --

"Hi," a voice startles him to his left, and he turns to see one of the models has sat next to him, "I choose you, yeah? Is that okay?" 

Harry's mouth opens because no! No it isn't okay, his crush was about to make her way over to him and he could have spent weeks developing some sort of relationship between the two of them, picking up where they left off in Sociology. But when his gaze flickers to where she was now, she was slipping down into the seat besides a bloke called Christopher -- a very beautiful bloke called Christopher, and she's shooting him a smile he could only dream of having. Harry feels his whole spirit deflate, eyes landing back on the girl who had unintentionally been holding the needle. And he's not going to very well tell her to bugger off and try to get Daphne because that would be. . .that would be rude, and a mess, and he'd probably look like a dick and Daphne wouldn't like that he knows it. 

So he nods. 

"That's okay," he swallows the lie down thickly, "I'm Harry." 

The girl grins and as warm as it is, its not as warm as Daphne's, "I'm Y/N! Nice to meet you." 

"You too," he answers, trying not to let the forlornness translate through his words -- even though its technically her fault, it's not really her fault -- she couldn't have known, "What made you choose me?" And maybe he's hoping for a really good answer. Something like You're heir to a thrown over in Scotland and loads of money is waiting for you, I was sent in disguise to tell you or I'm a witch and we're about to go on a cute little zany adventure that leads to the girl you like falling in love with you, or even I'm a time traveler and I have to make sure you do super fucking good on this final because you're going to be making works of art that sell for millions. Just something that would make him feel better -- like his luck hadn't truly been at its peak then dwindled out before he could actually see any of the fortune. 

But Y/N merely leans in, lowering her voice, "You seemed like the least pretentious of the bunch," she murmurs nodding her head, "Well, you and Christopher, but I gave Christopher a blowie in the bathroom at a party like a year ago and he nutted off in my hair, so now he won't look at me. Plus I like your sweater." 

He smiles softly at the compliment but says nothing, feeling himself deflate even more so. She picked him, got in the way of him connecting with his crush because she liked his sweater and Christopher nutted off in her hair. There wasn't some amazing reasoning for it in the slightest, she just decided and that makes him more upset than anything he thinks. Even more so when he sees Christopher and Daphne getting chummy with one another just a few rows down from him, her laughing that laugh and smiling that smile, all of which could have been towards him and it fucking sucks. 

Harry doesn't think he'll like this girl much at all. 

"So when did you want to start?" She asks him eagerly, "I'm excited, yeah? I've never done anything like this before. Dr. Beckert said that we might have to be nude for some of the paintings which m'fine with, jus' lemme know ahead of time so I can mentally prepare for it." Then she gets close to him, lowering her voice, "I've got no problem showing my tits, but if you want like pubic action then m'definitely g'na need to know how you want me to groom." 

His cheeks pink up -- he doesn't think he's ever meant someone so brash before -- and he shifts in his seat, hearing it crick beneath his weight, "Um -- I. . .I dunno yet," he clears his throat soundly, reaching up to reset his glasses on his face, "I still have to come up with a theme and uh. . .then I'll let you know what to wear and stuff." 

Y/N nods understandingly, brushing a few strands of hair from her face, "Alright! Well, lemme write down my number for you," she reaches into her backpack, dragging out a slip of paper from between her folders and a pen that's accessible, scribbling them out quickly before sliding it over to him, "I'm ready when you are. I hope m'pretty enough for your canvas." 

Her grin makes a bead of guilt dribble down to his tummy but then hears Daphne laugh once more and he doesn't feel as horrible anymore.  No, instead he peeks down and looks at the both of them, struggling not to show his disdain as he slips the paper from the table, folding it and cramming it into his pocket. 

"Yeah, I'll. . .I'll keep in touch." 

He shoves himself up from the seat, forgetting that his phone had been in his lap and it drops to the floor with a clatter, "Oh --" he leans down but gets tangled in his headphones, slamming his elbow against the table, "Shit, I --" 

"Here," Y/N begins, reaching down to help him but Harry doesn't hear soon enough. 

"Wait --" he starts off once again but Y/N's already bending over, and while Harry begins to stand up to untangle himself from headphones. Her head butts into his crotch and Harry squawks some, dragging attention to them and Y/N lifts up quick, eyes going wide and apologetic. 

"Oh, oops, I'm sorry," she started, leaning down again when Harry had straightened out with his face burning bright red, retrieving his phone and handing it to him with a small smile, "Gives a new meanin' to givin' head --" 

Harry cuts her off "I'll keep in touch!" He scrambles for his things before darting out of the room, wishing that he hadn't felt all the eyes in the room flicker to them and watch as the whole encounter went down. It feels like his face is on fire and he wants to bury himself deep in a mound of covers and pillows and never come out again. Hopes that Daphne didn't hear that, or see how he'd fucked up and dropped everything, or how pink his cheeks had been. 

If this was how the entire project was going to go. . .well, let's just say Harry's never been more fucking worried in his life. 

                                                                    .                               .                             .

Harry had spent a solid four days brooding over his dilemma. 

The first day had been the worst he thinks; he'd still been sleep deprived when he went out and bought canvases and a new set of Palomino Blackwing pencils, and only glanced over the paints to see the exact blue he would've needed to paint in Daphne's irises and the fiery red of her hair before feeling depleted all over again. He wouldn't have even needed to bring her around with him to know the tints and shades necessary to illustrate her on paper. That's a trip he would have to make with Y/N, which would be a pain in the arse trying to match her out of the hundreds of shades that may or may not fit her ( while it isn't critical that the paint to be an exact replica to the shades of her skin, hair, or eyes, that's a preference that he has for his pieces).

His second day was a little easier, but he stumbled upon Christopher in the studio room already sketching out what looks to be Daphne's eye beneath some bullet points and scrawled writing of concepts. Harry knows he could do far better and it makes him a bit grumpy that Christopher is making her gaze look so lackluster. He knows that it would be hard to capture the exact beauty she withholds beneath the stony blue, but he just knows that he could. . .just knows it! So it tosses him into a little bit of a sour mood, tugging his cardigan closer to his body, finds the fountain pen his professor had borrowed from him the other day (that he'd forgotten to take back since he ran out of the fucking room), then ducked out so he could stop by the library to study for his Criminology course. 

The third day Harry expresses his distaste for his situation with Liam and Adam in the least whiney way he could think to. He already knows he sounds like a dick to say he doesn't think this will go well and he hadn't even said more than a couple sentences to the girl, but he's hoping for at least a little bit of understanding and pity. They know how much he likes Daphne so they watch with their own grimaces as he explains the scenario to them, Harry explaining that the girl was a lot from the first few moments of being with one another. When Adam asks for a deeper description of her, he realizes that he knows her, "She's a nice girl, really -- doesn't have a very good filter, but she's sweet enough. I know she's no Daph, but at least she isn't some asshole." This made him feel a little bit better, because the odds could have been way worse he supposes. Since they were getting paid to be subjects for the project, there were plenty of people who had no interest in art at all but Y/N seemed intrigued by art at the very least. So he knew he would be sketching, drawing, and painting someone who might make an effort to understand his craft and not get pissy staying in the same position for what could be hours if needed. 

On the fourth day, Harry finally decides he needs to work out a theme. So on Saturday morning, he takes a nice hot bath to soothe his achy muscles (he desperately needed a new mattress) and ward away the chilled bite that accompanied waking up with the window open on a particularly cold night. Puts on his softest olive green sweater that slumps around his body in rumples and sweatpants, makes himself peppermint tea in his favorite floral printed mug, and sits on his couch with his sketchbook on a fresh page. Bubbles jumps her way onto the cushion besides him, her collar's bell jingling as she places her paw to his thigh and looks at him curiously. It's almost enough to make him forgo planning for one more day in favor of holding her in the cradle of his arms and napping with her while Criminal Minds plays on the telly. He'd pushed this off for far too long though, so he only allows himself to stroke between her ears for a moment before picking up his pencil and titling the page. 

After a solid hour of writing, scribbling out, putting question marks (because sometimes he really has no clue what the fuck he'd been thinking), groaning in distress, covering his face with his hands and messaging Liam asking if it was too late to become a doctor, and wearing his lip swollen beneath his top set of teeth -- he finally comes up with a theme involving seasons. At first he doubts it, but he sends an email to his professor (who he knows loves the change of seasons, if the way she went on about them for an entire lecture hour expressing her love for each and every single one), explaining loosely his plan for it and when he gets a reply like Yes! Sounds wonderful. I always enjoy your work so I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with -- then he delves into it a little more. 

What he would like to do is use the colors associated with each season to depict them, rather than doing defining seasonal things, like Autumn having leaves or the blooming of flowers in Spring. A more abstract version of it that he gets pretty excited about in the first place. However, he has no clue how he's meant to incorporate Y/N into this -- where he could imagine Daphne amongst these colors vividly in his mind, it takes him a little longer to find the vision of her. So he figures then that he'll have to spend time with her just sketching her features, getting used to her proportions, the curves and lines, freckles and spots, hairs and all. And if he wanted todo that then that means he definitely would have to start with her soon in order to be on track. 

He has to scout out the pants he'd worn that day, digging into the back pocket for the crumpled up paper, finding it, straightening it out on his thigh then immediately messaging the number scribbled across it. 

Hi, this is Harry. Would you be willing to meet me tomorrow so that we can start? 5PM, if that's okay?

Sure! Just let me know where you want to meet. See you then :) 

A heavy sigh rattles through him as he closes his eyes, nodding to himself. This would be good for him -- he's a firm believer in the fact that everything happens for a reason, and perhaps that reason is that Y/N is his one-way ticket to an A in this course. Maybe he would've gotten to distracted with Daphne anyways, or maybe he would've made a fool of himself trying to impress her doing some complicated art piece that ultimately got him a failing mark. Daphne makes him feel a lot of different emotions and he doesn't know if he'd be able to keep that from translating into the painting which might muddle parts of the project, and as much as art professors hoot and holler about how much they love to see passion, they only mean they like to see put together passion. Not the turmoil he's feeling when he's getting all nervous around her. And, admittedly, his palms get a bit sweaty in her presence and that's not good for drawing in the slightest.

So this was good thing, he tells himself, that this happened for a reason. Even though he's not going to come out of this with a much wanted relationship and a happy heart, he might very well come out of this feeling good about four pieces of work he'd put out. And if its really favored, then they might place it in the winter art exhibit. . .future employers always come around to scout and buy, so that opportunity would be endlessly amazing. Sure, he'd been peeved that she didn't give a great answer to why she'd chosen him in the first place but maybe that's because she didn't know the fate of it all herself. Maybe she's the reincarnation of some art deity that wants him to do well, even.

Reaching down, Harry grabs Bubbles up by the soft of her tummy when she nudges his ankle with her head. Tilts her so he can press his nose to her fur, "Wish me luck would you?" He murmurs when she begins to purr, nestling closer to him, "Somewhere I read cats are s'pposed to bring good fortune." 

Bubbles turns her head like she'd heard him say it, here eyes all wide and sweet and for a moment Harry thinks it's a sign that everything is going to be just fine, until she sneezes right in his face with a little shake of her head.

Harry sighs once more, shoulders deflating. 

                                                                   .                                .                                 .

"So we might use my tits?" Y/N says a little too loudly for the quiet nook of Coffee Pot (the sweetest little coffee shop on campus that Harry visits it frequently because they have the best pumpkin spice lattes around autumn) and Harry feels his cheeks redden immediately as he looks around to make sure they'd not disturbed anyone. He'd taken her there so he could explain the intricacies of what he wanted to do with the series, how he might want to focus on the female form in its natural beauty and her being unbothered by the change in seasons. He had swung his sketchbook around to face her so that she could follow along with his bullet points, diving in to how he would need some time with her so that he can begin sketching smaller features separately so he can get a feel on how to bring it all together. 

Harry clears his throat, circling the possible nudity if she is okay with it once more with the very tip of his pencil, "If you're alright with that, then yes, your. . .your breasts would be something we would depict in the project."

Y/N's face lights up, clapping her hands together and squirming excitedly in her seat, "Yay! I always knew these puppies would have a purpose in college, and I'm not keen on tit jobs," she's got either hand clapped over them, giving a toothy grin that exudes happiness and Harry hasn't seen one so ecstatic to show off a part of them more (besides maybe his friend Nick, who likes to whip his prick out when he's a few bevvies in), "Niall told me you wouldn't want to paint my tits, but I told 'im I might be able to persuade you." 

"Niall?" He questions, sliding the sketchbook back towards himself and underlining the 'possible nudity' and drawing in a dark checkmark. The name sounds vaguely familiar but not immensely. 

She nods, "He's my friend but he can be a right prick when he wants to be," she rolls her eyes, "Asked me to ask you if he'd paint his cock but I told him no for you."