I said I might continue it and I did. Kinda fell in love with the boys. I gave them names. Kit = Whumper. Brey = Whumpee.
Belly Up
Tw: Hand whump (ish), psychological mind fuckery, sick fish (??), Assume The Worst.
Kit really loves his fish. One of them is sick conveniently after Brey had his adventure upstairs. So Kit decides to swing Brey around mentally. (Physically coming soon)
“Sweetheart, set those down for me. I want to talk to you.”
He didn’t have to tell Brey twice, or perhaps even once. A single look would have sent the linens falling to the floor. The slight flicker of Kit’s eyes to the side was all he needed. Brey was good like that, wasn’t he? Good at reading Kit’s mind, good at knowing what to expect, good at knowing when to hide and when to whimper. Such a sweet thing he had turned out to be after all that trouble…
Having the luxury of staying in the finished basement also came with the catch that Brey was expected to do all the laundry. Which didn’t matter to him at all; in fact, he was glad to have something to do instead of stare endlessly at a screen or paper.
Kit’s head cocked to the side as his pet scampered over, gaze following along the length of the boy before snapping to the clothes discarded on the ground. “Were those clean?”
Brey snapped his head around, almost as if his master had dug his hands into the sweet boy’s curls and ripped at his skull. Dread swelled in the center of Brey’s belly, acidic and burning. “Yes—yes, mas—master. Sorry—sorry—I can—I can pick ‘em up. I mean—I can wash them again!”
What a beautiful little fawn. Freshly rebirthed from his sinful past. Before, he had been feral, wild, a creature whose jaw clamped down upon any hand. And now he was a stumbling, shaking, pitiful little thing. Truth be told, Kit almost missed the times that his precious had been so incredibly feral as to dare to talk back or, heaven forbid, purposefully disobey.
“Well, they’re dirty now again, aren’t they?” Brey shrank as his master grew. He never seemed to stop growing. 6 feet, 10 feet, 20… Towering like a beast, casting Brey down, down, down into his shadow. So dark he’d never find his way out. Even if he wanted to. “I didn’t mean throw all the clean clothes on the floor, baby. I didn’t know I had to specify that.”
“Sorry—sorry! I can—I can—” Wild, panicked eyes snapped away from the bundle of sin on the ground and back to the awaiting dark eyes. Brey twisted his fingers, a nervous habit that he had adopted throughout the years. He’d grab one digit, then turn and turn, nearly pulling the skin straight from the bone. “—fix it—I can—I can—”
Kit’s smile was all teeth and slow warmth, that kind that settled on top soft and smooth and yet curdled underneath. He leaned forward, palms flat on his knees, making himself smaller as if to offer comfort. “You are such a stupid little thing.”
Brey’s throat was slick with fear. “Yes—yes, master. A stupid—stupid puppy. Sorry, ‘m sorry.”
“You know I hate messes.” Theatrical disappointment coated the master’s voice, almost like a grave lullaby. “And yet you throw perfectly clean clothes to the ground?”
“No—no, mas—Kit, please, I didn’t mean—” Brey’s apologies were a rapid, ragged percussion. He edged backward reflexively, as if distance might diffuse whatever storm was gathering.
The sound barely left his lips before Kit’s hand lashed out, the crack of palm against cheek echoing in the basement. Brey staggered back, clutching the side of his face, eyes wide and wet.
“Kit?” The word was poison in his master’s mouth. His smile stretched thin as glass about to shatter. “Who gave you permission to say my name, baby?”
“I—s-sorry, master, sorry—” Brey’s apology stumbled out, his body folding inward, small as he could make himself.
“Do I look like your friend?” Kit hissed, circling him slowly, each step deliberate. “Do I look like a boy you grew up with? A name you can just toss out whenever you like?”
Brey shook his head frantically, hands twisting, breath catching on every inhale. “No, no, master. You don’t. I was wrong—I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, but you did mean.” Kit bent low, voice velvet, brushing over Brey’s ear. “It slipped out of that pretty little mouth because you were comfortable. Because you forgot.” He let the silence sharpen for a beat, then whispered, “What happens to puppies who forget?”
Brey’s breath rattled, his lips trembling on the word. The bandage around his hand, barely healed, throbbed. “They… they get punished.”
“Mmm. Exactly.” Kit tapped two fingers under Brey’s chin, forcing him to look up, savoring the trembling wide eyes, the way blood had already flushed the cheek he’d struck. He lingered there until Brey’s knees trembled with the effort of not collapsing.
Then Kit straightened abruptly, his expression smoothing into something lighter, almost curious. “Speaking of forgetting… I meant to ask you something, sweetheart.”
“Y-yes, master?”
“Remember your little escapade upstairs?” Brey froze, throat tight. “Remember my fish tank I have up there? I think you’ve seen it a handful of times now, right?”
No words. He couldn’t.
But Kit continued on anyway, pulling out his phone and twisting it around. The screen was bright, burning Brey’s eyes until he blinked and found himself staring at a picture of the tank, zoomed in on one of the striped fish that Brey remembered. The color was not as vibrant, almost a dull orange, and her fins wilted like flowers.
“This one isn’t doing so well.” The master turned his phone back around, lips quirking to the side as he studied the picture himself. “Strange, isn’t it? She was fine a few days ago.”
He tilted his chin down, eyes cast upon the terror bleeding over his precious’s face. “You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”
Brey’s lips parted, but nothing came out—just a soft croak of denial. His knees bent instinctively, shrinking, as if that could shield him. “N-no, master. I didn’t—I didn’t touch—”
“Ohhh, didn’t touch?” Kit chuckled softly, too softly. “But you were upstairs, weren’t you? Near the tanks. Near her.”
Brey’s chest tightened, his hands twitched at his sides. “I—I only looked. Just looked, master. I didn’t touch—”
Kit’s head tilted, the faintest flick of amusement in his eyes. “Just looked?” He moved closer until Brey could feel the warmth of his breath. “You have such sticky hands, darling. How am I to believe you at your word?”
“M– mas— I swear! I swear, sir—master—please. I just—I just looked. She’s pretty and—and I remembered that movie with the uh—the fish like her and the uh—uhm…”
Brey’s words tangled themselves into silence, and his face burned hot. He wished he could shove the stupid sentence back into his throat, bury it deep where Kit couldn’t reach. Puppies didn’t talk about movies. Puppies didn’t think about pretty fish.
Kit’s expression shifted—first sharp, then curiously smooth, then a smile crept across his lips. Not the cold kind this time, but something soft, amused. “A movie,” he echoed, and then, to Brey’s horror, he chuckled. “Sweetheart, were you standing in my house thinking about Finding Nemo?”
Brey flinched, his stomach curdling, but Kit only shook his head slowly, still smiling. “Oh, my darling boy.” He leaned closer, voice velvet-sweet. “That’s almost cute. You—down on your knees, all big wet eyes—and in that head of yours, you’re thinking about cartoons. That’s adorable. Almost makes me want to forgive you.”
“Master, I didn’t mean—”
Kit cut him off with a finger pressed lightly to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t spoil it. Let me have the picture, baby. My puppy with his silly little movie thoughts.” He laughed again, a quiet, private sound, as if Brey were an inside joke only he could understand. “You really are a soft, stupid thing.”
The warmth in his tone didn’t last. Kit’s eyes sharpened as they flicked back to the photo on his phone, then to Brey. The smile lingered, but it had curdled at the edges. “Still,” he murmured, “she’s sick. And it happened right after you looked. That’s not so cute, is it?”
Brey’s throat clenched. His lips trembled against Kit’s finger, still hovering at his mouth. “I—I only looked, master. Only looked. Didn’t touch.”
Kit withdrew his hand, but the smile remained both fond and frightening. “Does it really make that much of a difference?”
Brey’s whole body convulsed at the words. Heat flushed his face, and the bandage across his hand ached like a fresh bruise. He couldn’t find the courage to answer; only a wet, broken sound escaped him.
Kit’s smile softened—so soft it felt like a hand closing over Brey’s throat. He crouched, bringing his face level with the trembling boy, and let his fingers trail down Brey’s jaw, deliberate, possessive. He tapped the photo on his phone until the image zoomed in, then swiped to a short video he’d recorded the day before: the clownfish flicking, then idling oddly near the surface. The movement was small, but Brey felt it like an accusation.
“You looked and looked and forgot your place. That slideshow in your head—cartoons, pretty fish—what else was in there, Brey?” He leaned so close Brey could smell the faint soap on his skin, the clean scent that always made Brey feel smaller. “Tell me. Imagine I believe you. Imagine I think you’re innocent. Wouldn’t that be… dull?”
Brey choked on a sob and shook his head, words falling out jagged. “N-no. I didn’t touch—only looked. I swear. I don’t—”
Kit hummed, delighted by the flailing. “You swear.” He tapped the screen, watching the fish drift in the dim light. “You know, I could make you prove it.” The tone shifted, the amusement curdling into something colder. “Come here.” He extended a hand—not rough, not yet—but the command in it was absolute.
Brey crawled forward on his knees, fingers scraping the basement floor. His palms trembled as they met Kit’s. Kit took his hand, held it there a second, then let it go. When it dropped useless and broken to the ground, a heel was there to meet it. Hard leather, digging against the bandages, pinning that treacherous hand to the floor. Blood seeped out, the wounds reopened. “Say it again. Out loud. Tell me you only looked.”
Brey’s breath hitched into ragged little sobs. The bandage around his palm tore as the heel dug into it; hot, metallic pain flared, and he gasped, the sound half-choked by the sting. Blood beaded against the coarse fabric, dark and quick. “I—” he tried to speak, voice thin as tissue.
“Out. Loud.” Kit’s voice was patient, clinical, as if he were asking for a grocery list and not the truth from a broken animal. He pressed his boot a fraction harder. Brey’s nails scraped uselessly against the floorboards.
“I only—only looked,” Brey croaked, each word a splinter. He tasted copper. His throat worked; tears slicked his cheeks. “I didn’t touch her. I swear—I swear—”
Kit’s smile was a slow, private thing. He lifted his heel, letting the pressure ease so Brey could breathe, then tapped the floor with the toe as if testing a note. “Again,” he said softly. “And mean it this time. Look me in the eyes when you say it.”
Brey’s head snapped up, eyes wide and raw. He stared at Kit’s face—the angles of his jaw, the calm behind the smile—and forced the words through his shaking mouth. “I only looked. I didn’t touch. I promise, master—please believe me—”
Kit watched him for a long, delicious second. Then he reached down and brushed the wet hair from Brey’s forehead, fingers gentle enough to be tender. “Oh, my puppy. My sweet little thing. See what happens when you look at things? When you want things? You look so harmless and yet you are poisonous.”
He straightened and pulled Brey up by the hair, not roughly, but with an authority that left no room for bargaining. Brey stumbled, legs made of liquid, palms slick with blood. “Pretty things don’t last around you, do they? Flowers wilt. Innocent creatures die. Even thoughts of them make trouble.”
Brey pressed his good hand to his mouth, muffling a sob. “I don’t—I don’t want—I don’t want to hurt anything—”
“You don’t get to want.” Kit’s laugh was small, bitter. “Wanting is what gets you in trouble. You look, and the rest follows. I hold you down so you can keep from killing whatever you happen to admire next. Someone has to keep a dangerous dog like you on a leash.”
“I… I didn’t—didn’t mean for her to get sick, master. Is she… is she going to die? Did I— my-my fault?” His words tumbled out jagged and frantic, each one a desperate plea.
Oh, he loved his puppy. Loved him so very much. Such a small creature, incapable of hurting even a fly. Yet he had ruined the laundry, poisoned the fish, and all that without a single intention in sight. Kit could do this all day long.
“Why would you care?” His expression fell, cold, no warmth that Brey could huddle up against. The only thing keeping him from freezing was the hot blood dripping down his wrist, slick against the floor.
Why would Brey care? The question sank into his brain before his mouth could run off. Brey wasn’t supposed to care. Not about movies. Or fish. Or flowers. He was only supposed to care about his master.
But…
His voice cracked as he slunk forward, using his clean hand to reach up toward his master, seeking refuge from God. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t—I don’t want to hurt anything, sir—I won’t ever look again! Master—please—please I promise I won’t!”
Kit marveled inside, drunk with power and love for the shaking, pathetic thing at his feet. It was sweet as nectar, slipped down his throat so smooth, rushed straight to his brain. “Oh, my darling. Puppy, come on now. Do you really think I’d let her to die? All because you couldn’t keep your pretty little eyes to yourself?”
Kit moved the constant back and forth, the sway. The harshness followed by the kindness. However, Brey could not say the same. It made him dizzy, spinning around and around, feet stumbling, never knowing which way the world would tilt next.
“You’ve torn your hand back open, baby. Look at the mess everywhere. What did I say about messes?” Kit tsked, standing to his full height, seeing the blood speared in beautiful swirls around his pet. “You can’t help it though, it’s okay. I’ll make sure your pretty fish survives another day, as long as you don’t try to poison anything else, okay?”
“O–o… kay…” Brey managed out, dropping his head to the ground, curling his wounded hand to his chest. He didn’t feel the pain anymore, but he knew once his mind returned to his body, he would.
“Stand up for me. Let’s get you cleaned up, then you can redo the laundry. And if you’re extra good, maybe we can watch Finding Nemo, alright? There we go, such a good boy. Don’t worry, I’m here. I’ll take care of you. Forever and always. I won’t let you hurt anything.”
The puppy, limp in his master’s arms, barely able to get his trembling feet beneath his heavy, useless body, managed to nod. Exhaustion coursed through him. Laundry… Kit… Fish. His cheek stung first, then his hand.
I keep forgetting to post this but I attempted a redo of a comic page I made a few years ago... you might recognize the character from concept art I posted of her lol
Anyways I have literally no experience with comic so if I follow up on this, expect it to change drastically in style or execution
This Monday I wanted to share something I’ve been messing around with for a while. Several drafts of this have been sitting in my folder forever. It was something I really liked the concept of, but wasn’t sure I could do justice. As of right now, it’s just a one-shot, but I’ve considered writing more. If I do, it probably won’t be every Monday, just for the simple fact that this took me so long to stop messing with. Either way, Enjoy!
Rating: T (as of right now)
Warnings: I’m very much an American. I try to get a lot of the terminology and whatnot as close as I can to not take people out of it, but nothing is perfect. Also, I suffer from insomnia. It doesn’t sound bad, but a lot of my editing was done under sleep deprivation.
Notes: If you guys like this, make sure to leave a comment. As I’ve said, this is a one-shot right now. For me to even consider writing more, I’d have to know that people were actually enjoying it!
Summary: When Voldemort killed Harry, it was not Dumbledore he met at King’s Cross, but an angel of fate. Harry threw his fate off course, and she’s not happy about it. There is only one thing to do. Start over.
Although Harry knew death would come quickly, he hadn’t quite understood it until he was standing in the ghostly version of King’s Cross Station. Was this… heaven? Did wizards even believe in such a thing? It didn’t seem like the heaven Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon went on and on about every Sunday after church. There were no puffy clouds or harps. Most importantly, there were no people. Where were his parents? Where was Sirius or Remus or Tonks? Maybe this was some kind of… purgatory? Harry shuttered at the thought. Had he not done enough? Had he not earned his right to be with them? His whole life he had been nothing but a puppet on a string, dancing by the will of others. In the end his life wasn’t even his, but he sacrificed it anyway. If that hadn’t been enough to re-
His thoughts were cut off by his own (admittedly, embarrassingly high-pitched) scream as he turned to find a woman not much other than himself sitting on one of the pearly benches. She looked serene in this place that wasn’t a place. Her eyes were a haunting silver to match everything else around her, but her hair was a wild nest of black curls. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He didn’t know why, but he had expected her voice to echo within the not-place.
Nervously, Harry wiped his hands down the front of his trousers. “Err – not your fault I suppose.” He tried for a polite smile, but the twitching of her full lips told him he had failed. “Where are we? It looks like King’s Cross…”
“I suppose it does. Though, I’ve never seen it in person.” She hummed, her expression neutral as she looked around. “I think it’s supposed to be symbolic. Either way it came from your subconscious, so it’s hard to say.” She shrugged and moved to one side, patting the bench beside her.
He hesitated, his nerves from being on the run still frazzled. But what was the worst that could happen? He was already dead after all. Carefully, Harry moved to sit beside the woman. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”
Again her lips twitched as those sharp mercury eyes turned to him. “I know who you are, Harry Potter.” She hummed again, taking in his appearance. “I’ve been watching you since you were a baby.”
Many people had watched Harry his whole life, it seemed. Still, a chill of unease worked its way up his spine. “Are you… an angel then?” She certain looked angelic enough, if not for the mass of untamed curls that reminded him slightly (unnervingly) of Bellatrix’s.
“In a sense.” Her tone was light. “I’m a fate weave. One that happens to be in charge of your fate line.” His confusion must have been clear because she continued on. “The Greeks had it right – for the most part. Every person on earth has a fate line. Like… a thread that represents a path. You still have freewill, so sometimes that thread gets knotted. It typically sorts itself out, or it had been. Everyone’s thread is woven together into a… tapestry of sorts.” Standing, she held out her hand a moment before a wall of what appeared to be glowing, golden yarn appeared next to her. He couldn’t see the top, as it faded well above the not-place. The edges stuck out over what would have been the tracks, going on for quite some time. Most of the lines ended before it reached the thin frame that held it in place. It didn’t have a particular pattern, and there were loose ends sticking out in places, but it was… beautiful. Harry could have sworn he heard it humming in the silence of the ghostly King’s Cross. There was something about it that humbled him... made him feel insignificant for the first time in years.
“So that - that’s everyone on earth right now?” He asked, standing slowly. Millions of tiny strands, each practically dancing between several others, humming and pulsing it’s siren’s song. “Their fate lines I mean.”
“This is just a small portion.” Standing on her toes, she pointed to a strand of thread, following it with her finger. “This one is yours.” She came to the first small knot. “This is Ron Weasley’s… and a little further down, Hermione Granger’s.” The bands wove together into an elegant braid, at least, from what Harry could see. “You don’t know how hard it was convincing the fate weaver in charge of her line to keep her out of Ravenclaw. In the end, we knew it was for the greater good.”
Hearing their names hurt. He would never see them again. Here he was learning about their lives - their fates that were changed because of him. Maybe this wasn’t heaven or purgatory. Maybe this was hell. Sure, Harry hadn’t been horrible during his time on earth, but he hadn’t been a saint either. “Why are you telling me these things?” It didn’t seem possible in this not-place, but Harry felt… tired. He had been so tired for so long.
“Because you knotted your line.” The woman’s face had been a mask of calm until that point. At this, she looked distraught. “You really mucked it up, you know! I worked day and night to keep you on track, and then you threw your line off course with a bit of idiocy and panic! Because of that, several others were changed.” She pointed to a few loose ends before landing on a tight knot along his own line.
It wasn’t like the small knots that represented his life with Ron and Hermione. This was a nest of tangles that reminded him very much of that one time his Uncle Vernon made him spend the day unknotting Christmas lights. From the sides of the knot, several edges frayed and stuck out in all directions. Only a handful went on after that. Harry’s, he noticed, did not end. “Those ends… are they…”
“Deaths.” She hummed. “I’m going to get demoted now…” Her tiny tone of distress wasn’t meant for him this time.
“So you’re telling me… it’s all planned? I never had a choice at all, and I would always end up here? Dead?” A weight settled in Harry’s stomach that almost made him feel dizzy. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I fought Voldemort or just enjoyed my time with my mates?”
“Of course it mattered, Harry.” Her voice was gentle, her eyes soft. It was almost worse to be pitied. “Typically fate is set, that much is true. You would have always ended up here, but the journey could have been much better for everyone. You’re the first person I’ve ever met that managed to rewrite the outcome of several lives. In fact, this wasn’t meant to be your last stop at all. You were meant to go back.”
“Cheers.” Harry nearly barked. Of course he was the exception. “If fate is set, I don’t see how I could have rewritten it in the first place.”
“It’s like…” She paused, biting her bottom lip before reaching into her nest of hair and producing a hairpin. “This pin is meant to hit the floor, yeah?” She waited for him to nod. “It’s this pin’s fate to land on the floor. It will do so. I want you to try and rewrite its fate.” She released it.
It was only through war-trained senses and years of playing seeker that Harry was able to reach out and grab the hair hairpin mid-air. Holding it up for her to see, he raised an eyebrow feeling satisfied with himself. “That wasn’t very hard. I’m surprised more people don’t rewrite their fate.”
“But you haven’t rewritten it.” She pointed out, a smug smile lighting her face. “Its fate is the same. You might not put it down now, but I imagine you don’t intend to carry it with you always. Maybe to make a point you would for a while, but sooner or later you’ll forget it. Eventually, it will fulfill its destiny. We can manipulate or alter the roads humans take based on their choices, but the outcome will always be the same… except... in your case.”
“Look, I’m sorry miss…” He balled his fist around the hairpin, willing it to dig into his skin and take away some of his pain.
“Lyra.” She offered, her eyes moving to his fate line in dismay. “Lyra Black.”
Harry’s anger left him in an instant. “As in the Black family? Sirius Black?” It would make sense, now that Harry thought about it. She had the eyes and hair for it, though she looked younger than Sirius.
“Yes.” She was smiling again now, the tapestry nearly humming in protest as she turned from it. “I was his aunt - or second aunt’s cousin? It’s all terribly confusing when it comes to pureblood lines. I never cared for them. I am sorry about him passing through the veil, love. You’ll be happy to know he talked my ear off about you when he passed through here.” She gave him a small smile. “But where were… ah yes.” She pointed to the beginning of the large, unsightly knot. “Mr. Malfoy.”
Harry was still processing the information about his godfather when she mentioned the name. He scoffed, taking a step back in shock. “Lucius Malfoy screwed up my timeline? I should have known-”
“No, no. Don’t be silly.” She waved him off with her free hand. “Draco Malfoy. You used a spell on him… Sectumsempra. Nasty bit of work. Poor dear.”
“P-Poor dear!?” Harry’s anger returned in a flood. “He was going to crucio me! I’ve been fighting a war while he sat on his arse having tea with the dark lord! I hardly think-“
“Don’t be daft.” He was cut off by the sharpness of her gaze. It was easier to her relation to Bellatrix at that moment. “He was a scared child. Don’t you remember what Voldemort told you when you tried to use the cruciatus curse on Bellatrix? He wasn’t wrong when he said that you have to mean it. I hate to be the one to tell you this, Harry, but Draco wouldn’t have meant it. You weren’t meant to hurt him that day, you were meant to save him.
“He never wanted anyone’s life on his hands. Why do you think he didn’t give you to Voldemort when he had the chance? Doing so would not only have saved his family, but given them a standing social status in the new world. He chose to save your life instead.”
Harry blinked, his eyes moving back to the tapestry. The gaudy knot stuck out more than anything else. Was it true? Was it all true? Part of Harry wanted to believe that Malfoy had not recognized him that day at the manor, but the larger part knew that he had. “I was meant to… save Malfoy? That’s ridiculous! Dumbledore tried!”
“Well Albus wasn’t meant to save him, now was he? Keep up, Potter!” He couldn’t argue with that. “Because you found that blasted book, everything was thrown off. Several deaths could have been avoided and now- are you alright? You’ve gone a bit green.”
Deaths. More death was on his hands. It had been more than just cutting Malfoy open, which he had already felt terrible about… he had killed people. “I think I need to sit down…” He sunk back into the bench behind him as the tapestry flew upwards and out of sight, making the not-place seem even emptier. “All those people… I could have…” He took a deep, shaky breath.
“You still can.” Harry’s chin jerked upwards to meet Lyra’s determined gaze. Suddenly, she looked a great deal more like Sirius than Bellatrix. “It’s against the rules, you see... There will be some things that you cannot change. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. However… if we can unknot the tapestry, you’ll get the fate you deserve and I won’t get sacked.”
Harry wasn’t sure how an angel could even get sacked, but he imagined it wasn’t pleasant. What did she mean? Did she want him to dabble in bringing the dead back? He had no desire to make Inferi, and he didn’t know of any other way. “I… I won’t bring them back to life.”
“Of course not, Harry.” She rolled her eyes. “But what if you could go back to that moment? What if you could do it all over knowing what you know now?”
In the back of his mind something prickled dangerously. It sounded an awful lot like Hermione warning him not to meddle with time. But what if he could. He would still be a horcux… he would still have to fight… but maybe, with more time, he wouldn’t have to die. Not like this. “Okay… yes. I want to do it over.”
Her smile was cat-like as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Chin up Harry. You’re going to love where this leads.”
As everything faded to white, the last thing Harry saw was the glint of light off the small black hair pin sitting quietly on the floor...
Also being posted to AO3 (in case). You can follow it HERE
