I was inspired to try and find the oldest piece of writing I hadn’t deleted and it’s from right after I turned 14. It… is the most pretentious thing… omfg. I was so proud of this shit. It was my featured deviation, back when the dA lit community was active and cool. I thought I was a fucking prodigy. At least I can confirm that my obsession with girls who have boy names and kiss girls has been ongoing for at least twelve years.
Notes: Today is M’s birthday and she wanted kagune cuddles, so here is a very stupid fic I wrote on my phone to celebrate her womb exiting day. I’m sorry, dear, we both know I can do better, but I still hope you enjoy.
James Potter had never been so afraid of anything as he was of baby Harry.
Tiny Harry with his little fingers and kicking legs; smiling Harry with crinkles in his cheeks; happy Harry, barely big enough to handle a Snitch, let alone a Quaffle. There was something inconceivable about the boy, and it might well have been the fact of his existence. At only twenty years old, James Potter was a father, and he might never have known the word for all that it meant now. (It hadn’t seemed like much from his own mouth, but from Harry’s…) Lily had brought their child into the world, of course—his brave, beautiful wife—but still this precious little boy had come from him. For one who has born into a world of wonders, this was something else entirely, and in spite of all his parents praise, James had not thought himself capable of… this. It was magic, wasn’t it? The newfound father had achieved an awful lot in his still short life, to be sure, and had performed some remarkable magic at that, but never had anything been quite so magical as this. Tiny Harry. Fragile Harry.