(Permission to reply if you’re not busy because I’m am the shyest of muns when it comes to asking to plot with people?)

she followed him to a bakery -- what an interesting cover she had to say -- keeping to the shadows like she had been taught a lifetime or two ago ( she’s always been quick and quiet and sneaky, always managing to squeeze herself into the smallest of spaces just to see if she could, time in narnia, she’s gathered, only enhanced those traits. not that she really remembers how they were enhanced ).

the bakery is nice, she had to admit, and she waits until the one customer pays and leaves before approaching the man behind the counter. 

“ so i think i figured it out,” she’s conversational, nonchalant even, and she stands on the tips of her toes to rest her hands on the counter.  “ you’re an assassin, or a killer-for-hire, or something like that because everything has been much too calculated and purposefully for it to be random.”

(omg I may have quietly admired your writing from afar with one of my oooold canon blogs?)

           “   it  depends  what  you  wish  to  know         -                -   ”

He had just said goodbye to his coworkers, relieved to actually be off early for once, the time still in the double digits before the clock reset. Maybe the universe didn’t hate him as badly as it liked to make him think. Desmond paused at the alleyway exit of the club, zipping up his hoodie over his black button-up shirt, taking a moment to shiver and exhale a chilled breath by finishing with flipping up his hood, pulling it past the strap of his bag. He shoved his hands into his pockets, aware of just how underprepared he was for the approaching winter, starting to walk out of the alley. Laughter down the street had prompted him to glance over, seeing people still ready to pour into the club -- but it had been a mistake, given that he had gone directly into some guy.

MEME.