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saoirse quinn
she/her
twenty-eight
october 27th
circhester, galar
bisexual
physicist / inventor
executive
every night i burn, dream the black crow dream
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4,351 posts
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TAG WITH @lulu
Lulu Flint
i coldly stare out
POSTED ON May 1, 2021 8:37:30 GMT
Cillian Quinn likes this
@hades SLEEPLESS IN SLATEPORT MISSION She stood in the mirror for a long time. It wasn’t to apply makeup, or to gauge the appropriateness of her attire. Rather, it was to assess how she’d changed. Saoirse had been a very quiet child. She’d been years late speaking, and it had stunted the whole dynamic of the household and how she had been treated following developmental issues. She’d suffered poor self-worth and lack of familial bonding, while holed up in a big quiet house—when Cillian Quinn hadn’t been being yelled at, of course. Through a series of wild events and on the power of a breaking heart, she’d ended up in the mafia, and over time, they’d brought her out of her thick shell. Through crime, she’d bonded with her first real friends. A family. It had made the outside world not matter anymore. It’d been just them, the money they made—not that she’d cared about it, then—and the thrill of their lifestyle. Rocket had its similarities, or it could have had. She could have still been that person. It had been prison, first, which had begun to drain her. The first time she’d had her nose broken and not been able to do a thing about it. It had been the two years she’d spent in cell block 19, and the things which had happened behind concrete walls, and the things which had happened after she’d been let free from them. Everything that had happened leading up to Hoenn. Everything that had happened after. She’d never expected to make it so far from home, and so far from herself. It was strange, though, because she’d never felt like she’d had an identity to begin with. Without a sense of where she’d started, she wasn’t sure if she was further or closer to knowing herself. She also wasn’t sure if it mattered anymore. With essentials in tow, she took one last sip from a bottle of tequila which sat on the counter, and black heels then clicked their way out of the apartment. ☽ The location was a restaurant called Waldroop’s. It was a nice place, with a blend of fusion fare with a nice alcohol selection—which would be much needed, but most importantly, it was dark. The tables were spaced well, with strategically placed décor and subtle dividers to provide privacy for intimate dates, and business dinners. It buzzed with light chatter and music at a tasteful volume, encouraging conversation. And it was nice. She would cover the bill. Her appearance was sharp. Arms were beard in a black halter top, the inward curve of its cut over her shoulder only covering the scar of bullet-hole about half the time when she shifted. Black pants fit for work to evening, fit snug all the way down to her ankles and the tops of her feet, where the tattoos of her past poked out—to minimal a display to matter. She sat at a table already, having made the reservation for fifteen minutes earlier than she’d told him. She’d wanted to make sure the table was acceptable, and that no one dining around them would be unsavory or suspicious. An top-shelf anejo was ordered and reached her hand before he arrived. |
PATISSERIE HM RP
