Hey there!! I'm Lily or Mallow, I'm seventeen and a cis pansexual woman!
masterlist - music alt - links for palestine - ao3
This is my silly little corner on the internet for me to share my writing and headcanons, (ps. You don’t have to interact with anything on the internet, so if you don’t like something click away or put your phone down! :D) I try to my best to interact positively and respectfully with everyone here and expect the same in return.
I'm not the best at writing but I'm using this blog as an opportunity to practice more and get some feedback if possible!!
Full time student with a part time job! So if it's a little slower over here it's probably because of school or work or just life getting in the way.
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CW: Domestic abuse, nonconsensual drug use, needles, weapons (including guns, knives and bombs), assassins, fighting, fraud, thieving, manipulation, suggestive language, alcohol, minor character death, medical negligence and malpractice, misuse of medical supplies, mentions of (eating disorders, drugs, sex, infertility)
Siblings.
That’s what they have been ever since they first met in his fifth-floor office at the hospital. Pandora was shy, timid, and meek; and she stumbled over every word on her tongue until she finally spoke.
She begged Evan, with a stack of cash equivalent to more than he could make in a year in her hands, “Please kill him for me.”
1.6k (1/3 first chapter) - Ao3 link - fic masterlist
CW: Guns, assassins, fighting, fraud, suggestive language, alcohol, manipulation, mentions of (minor character death, drugs, bombs, suicide, sex)
“For the record, I’m never doing anything like this again—” Barty stresses, talking to the earpiece that’s sitting on the right side of his head.
He is currently en route to The Royal Hotel, where a gala and auction for The Harmony Network is taking place tonight. THN is some shitty mental health non-profit that was opened by one of the most influential families of this and last century, the Blacks. The organization ‘advocated’ for equal men’s and women’s support. They collected donations in hopes of opening a centre one day and creating a ‘safe space’ for everyone to get the support they need.
And, while that all sounds fine and dandy, awesome even—it’s all a lie. THN is actually fake. A sham. A way for the Blacks to launder money while keeping profits up and their image intact. But Barty doesn’t care about exposing them for their heinous crimes or shutting the entire thing down. He is more interested in getting paid. And he will be paid handsomely once he completes his mission—which is the whole reason he’s headed there in the first place. And the mission?
Murdering the heir.
Anyone who wants the Blacks gone knows that the quickest way to ruin their lives is to expose the charity. And where better to start from than the face of THN, Regulus Black himself? Sure, the kid’s barely 24 and is more often found on magazine covers rather than the streets (with the rest of his family). But he’s the block at the bottom of the Jenga tower. And pulling the block from the bottom means that tower will fall. Then, when their fraudulent charity goes down, they will too. Their image, their wealth, their power. It’ll all tumble down.
It didn’t really matter to Barty, but it’s good to know the motive before the murder.
The windows of the limo he is being driven in were tinted, so no one could see the way he’s currently sitting. Which is, of course, not sitting, and instead just laying in the leather backseat, popping complimentary mints into his mouth occasionally.
“—no more parties or galas, or weddings—anything of the sort. I’m not doing it,” he declares.
“Barty, it’s a fucking suit jacket,” James replies.
The suit jacket is entirely too small. It’s uncomfortable, limits his mobility, and does absolutely nothing to flatter his body. Barty wasn’t too fond of wearing a suit in the first place, so to find it didn’t fit was just perfect.
And who got the lovely suit for him? James Potter.
He had been Barty’s ‘handler’ for a few years now. It’s not an official term or position or anything. But James finds jobs for Barty to work, then keeps him safe and updated for a cut of the profit.
“Okay? It’s way too small, and I can barely grab my gun from here,” he defends. He always keeps his gun strapped to his torso, which usually is a very accessible location, but now, with the jacket, he’s too scared of ripping it. Thank God it’s only a simple hit.
“Barty! Shut the fuck up about the gun! Does the word ‘undercover’ not mean anything to you?” James exclaims over the line.
The assassin flinches. Even though James may not even be in the same country as him right now, he could feel his wrath through the communicator.
He checks his watch, then sits up in the limo, seeing that they should be close to the hotel now. A quick look out the window tells him that they’ve arrived as his driver pulls into the parking lot of the hotel. Perfect timing.
The building is beautiful. Magnificent. Gorgeous. Whatever other word you can think of to describe how disgustingly posh it is. Marble pillars, hand-laid stone pathways, luxurious gardens, and valet service. Golden lettering spelled out ‘The Royal’ atop doors big enough ogres could fit through them. Hmm, fitting. The hotel is a whopping fifteen floors and contained so many amenities it sounded like a tiny town itself. One of which is the grand ballroom, where the auction is being held.
“Okay! Okay! Fine, but the next time we do something like this, I’m having a proper fitting.”
“Thought you said you were never doing this again?” James asks smugly.
“Meh,” Barty shrugs. The more that Barty studies the hotel, the more he realizes how nice it must be to have one of those rooms. Maybe he’ll find someone tonight that has a room that he can spend the night with, just so he can see what their room service is like in the morning—actually, that creates the perfect alibi too. “It’s growing on me. The event, I mean, it’s a real fancy place. I still hate the jacket.”
“Wait, you arrived?”
“Yeah? Don’t you have like trackers on me or something?” Barty huffs a laugh.
“Well, I do. But I thought I made you promise to communicate with me this time. Or do I need to remind you of the last mission—?”
Last mission, of course. The whole thing went bottoms up because Barty forgot to mention he swapped guns with one of the security members in the haze of the fight, leading to not having the proper ammo to refill and being stranded, having to rely on hand-to-hand, which he didn’t practice much of back then. He’s much more prepared now. He hopes.
“Okay! You can forget the recap! I’ve arrived at the hotel, and I’m reaching for the door handle—” Barty responds sarcastically, narrating his movements for better ‘communication.’
“Wait!” James groans, clearly annoyed with Barty but needing to relay more important information to him.
“What? Need to tell me to stay safe and that you love me?” Barty responds in a mocking tone.
“Close. It’s actually called ‘let me know if you understand what the hell is happening tonight,’” his handler deadpans.
The assassin groans, his hand still holding onto the handle, fingers tapping the metal. “Want me to spell it out for you?”
“That would be great actually.”
A loud, dramatic sigh leaves Barty’s mouth. They’ve only gone over this like, two thousand times already. What’s another one? “Okay. Find the baby—Regulus.” He quickly corrects, not wanting James to pester him about his nickname for him again. It fits; he is the youngest and the cutest. “Kill him, and leave.”
“And…?” James prompts.
“And? There’s an and?” He falls back into his seat, letting go of the handle to run his hand through his hair. Then quickly pausing mid-action because he actually took the time to style his black hair today. What is he missing? That’s all that the job is. Just a simple hit.
“We went over this,” his handler responds, frustrated by Barty’s lack of memory.
“We did? Wait! Okay, I remember it now.” He groans, remembering the stupid rule James put in place for him. “Don’t get distracted by pretty boys.” There goes his idea for an alibi tonight and the chance for five-star room service.
“Good!” He responds patronizingly. Barty just rolls his eyes at him. “That’s the most important part, honestly.”
“Oh my god! That happened one time, okay?” Another big part of why the last mission went so horribly wrong was the fact that someone stole the hard drive—what he needed to retrieve from the nightclub—off of him. Some pretty blonde doctor that he was trying to take home. Nicked it right off his person. Barty tried to chase him afterward to get it back, but, again, his hand-to-hand wasn’t as polished as it should have been, and he was a little…distracted.
“Yeah? And it derailed the entire mission! You were looking at him like he hung the stars.”
“He punched me in the face; that's practically the same thing,” the assassin smirks. He kills people for a living; sue him if he’s a little masochistic.
A scoff came through from the other end of the line. “Right. Well, now you can actually head inside. I’ll be here—”
“—the entire time, remember to communicate, blah blah—yeah, got it, James. You keep me safe from your basement; I’ll do my thing.” Barty interrupts, having heard this line many times before. He sits up in the car and grabs onto the handle again, ready to get this over with. A simple hit.
“It’s not a basement—! Just get going. Nothing you haven’t done before,” James encourages, giving up on his protest. Barty would never believe him if he did, for all he knows James could just be some nerdy teenage boy in his basement, or the second Alfred Pennyworth. But he keeps him employed. That's all that matters.
“Haven’t done it in a jacket from the kids department before.”
“Barty,” his handler warns.
“Okay! Going!” Barty says quickly, not wanting to piss him off further and make things worse for himself. He pulls on the door handle to open it but quickly turns around and grabs a few more green mints for his pants pockets before actually leaving the car.
The moment he steps foot onto the cobblestone path outside the hotel is the first time he feels nervous. But he always has the jitters before a mission.
A chilly breeze passes by him, making the fall weather feel colder than it actually is. He felt a little bad for the amount of women with sleeveless dresses heading inside. But events like these would host the ‘beauty is pain’ crowd, so he’s not surprised.
He shuts the limo door behind him and fixes his clothes slightly. Straightens out his black vest, making sure his black dress shirt is properly tucked into the black slacks and trying to adjust the black suit jacket to something actually comfortable. It's pretty obvious what his favourite colour is, isn’t it?
And! Before anyone comments that black is ‘just a shade,’ what’s the difference between navy and Columbia blue, hmm? Wait, that's saturation. Well, whatever! Black comes in every 24-colour pencil crayon box. So at least he has Crayola on his side.
Okay! Enough winning fights in your own head! Let’s do this!
After his last mission went bottoms up—no thanks to one sexy doctor—Barty needed to complete this next one and complete it well. It was simple enough; murder the face of a charity at a very fancy gala, then escape. Literally a hit and run. But when four other assassins arrive at the gala, Barty’s simple hit and run becomes more complex than he could’ve ever guessed.
Based on Take My Nirvana by PVRIS.
2/8 Chapters - M - M/M - Graphic Depictions Of Violence
CW: Child abuse, domestic abuse, needles, weapons (including guns, knives and bombs), assassins, fighting, fraud, thieving, manipulation, suggestive language, alcohol, minor character death, MCD (only for a minute), medical negligence and malpractice, misuse of medical supplies, descriptions of injuries, grieving, mentions of (suicide, eating disorders, drugs, sex, infertility, drugged drinks)
Barty’s dad throws out all his nail polish after finding out that he owned a small collection of it. So Barty just started colouring his nails with sharpie in retaliation and now his dad is forced to explain why Barty’s cuticles are constantly stained purple.
@rosekillermicrofic, December 11th - Need, Word Count - 395
He doesn’t know why, but for some reason Evan just couldn’t concentrate today. Sure he knew the answers. And the work wasn’t hard. But he just couldn’t get it done.
But no matter how long he stared at his paper or at the textbook, it was all just escaping him right now.
Which made no sense because the library was silent; there was nothing that could possibly be distracting him, but even then he still couldn’t focus.
He doesn’t know how much time elapsed between when he first sat down and now, but Barty must have been looking for him because he appears behind Evan.
“Not done yet?” He teases, looking at the work Evan still has out.
Looking frustrated, Evan nods. “It’s hard—”
“Hard? Rosie, these are like… first-level runes,” Barty chides, interrupting him.
“— to concentrate. I’m not an idiot, Bee.”
The other boy laughs. “Sorry!”
Evan shakes his head and looks back down to his books; he doesn’t know what he expects, though; he still can’t focus. “It’s fine,” he sighs. Maybe he should just pack up and try again later?
The chair beside Evan slides out from under the desk, and Barty takes a seat, leaning his head on Evan’s shoulder.
“Want me to do it for you?” He offers, reaching for the quill.
“No, I can do it.”
Dropping the quill, Barty relents. “Alright.” He goes back to resting his head on Evan’s shoulder, trying to stay silent for him.
Even with his boyfriend now beside him, he still couldn’t focus. He knew all the answers, but his hands still wouldn’t move.
But then Barty started softly humming. A low sound that seemed to awaken Evan’s motivation again. He took a deep breath and then finally started on his work.
Huh.
It’s not Barty, or else he would have started a few minutes ago. So was it the humming?
But what was it about the humming?
Evan’s only ever worked in silent environments before. The library, his dorm, his parent’s kitchen. He always did best when the world was quiet.
Well, he’s never worked in silence before. Usually there’s someone else at his table, or something else that he can hear. Like the hushed voices of other people studying or the low hum of his refrigerator.
Maybe it wasn’t entirely silent. Maybe he just needed a bit of white noise.
@rosekillermicrofic, December 10th - Glow, Word Count - 420
The dull glow of the bar’s lights reflected in the puddles Barty was currently kicking his feet in. Momentarily entertained by the water splashing and watching the ripples while waiting for his boyfriend.
He was a little drunk right now, and after one phone call where he was crying over how hot Evan was, they decided he needed to come home. Barty, because he wanted to see Evan in all his ‘glorious hotness,’ and Evan, because he wanted to try and ease the hangover before it even started.
His boyfriend’s car pulls up moments later, coming to a stop right by the curb where Barty was waiting for him.
“Hi Rosie,” Barty smiles, quickly getting into the passenger side, escaping the light drizzle that was making his hair curl. He then kicks off his shoes, abandoning them under the seat to stretch out his toes; dancing was fun until it hurt.
Evan admires him. It was moments like these that made him realize the lengths he would go to for Barty. To make sure that he was always back in his arms by the end of the night. “Have fun tonight?” He asks, shifting gears again and pulling back out onto the street, ready to get the both of them home.
Barty nods. “Yeah. Did you have fun all by yourself, hot stuff?” He smiles, leaning over to get closer to Evan, ignoring road safety in favour of leaving multiple kisses all over Evan’s face.
He grabs ahold of Barty’s chin and holds his face away from him. “I did. Even managed to clean the whole house.” Barty licks at Evan’s hand, making the other boy grimace and pull his hand away, placing it back onto the steering wheel.
“Bullshit. I bet you just sat at the door like a dog waiting for me,” Barty declares in a very narcissistic voice.
Evan just shakes his head. “Bet you wish I did.”
“Obviously!” Barty falls back into his seat, bringing down the mirror on the sun visor in front of him to look at his own face. Tracing some parts on the metal of the mirror and other parts just on his face. “Evan?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you still think I’m pretty when I’m drunk?”
“Of course I do, baby. I always find you pretty,” Evan admits.
“Good.” Barty looks over to him again. “Guess that makes the both of us pretty and hot, huh? Get it? Pretty hot?”
Shaking his head, Evan laughs at Barty’s joke. God, he loves him.
