#the initial image i always have is him finger-picking the guitar with his claws while she's snuggled up behind him listening

[vinjaryou]

warm, lazy morning coffee & serenade~ ♥♥

vincent/reilena, based on a visual i get whenever i hear this particular cover of his theme

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She woke up alone, the blanket rumpled on his side, the ghost of a kiss still warm on her cheek. Violet opened slowly, a hand raking through disheveled dark auburn hair as she sat up with a yawn, arms stretching over her head with a soft “mmnh.”

A slight head tilt, a raised brow as she listened closely, hearing something else other than the twittering birds outside.

Soft strings echoing through the cabin.

A soft smile as she tossed the covers side, Reilena drew up the loose right strap of her faded blue nightgown as she climbed out of bed, walking out of the bedroom with another soft yawn.

The music was slightly louder, and a few more seconds of listening told her where it was coming from. A silent giggle as she headed for the kitchen, straight for the coffee machine. Another quiet laugh at a missed note, a hushed grunt, as she filled the machine, taking their mugs down with a sigh as the scent of coffee filled the room.

Cream and sugar set on the counter as the machine clicked off, Reilena poured fresh coffee into both mugs, lightly biting her lip as she let a faint sway run through her body, in time to his strumming.

Vincent liked his coffee a touch sweeter than hers, and a final spoonful of sugar was added to his mug, the cream replaced in the fridge once both drinks were stirred to perfection.

Her footsteps were nearly silent on the wooden floors as she strode down the hall to his studio, the music taking on a softer intensity.

She paused in the doorway with a tender smile, simply taking in the view.

He sat before an easel with a fresh canvas, yet he was turned away from it, a set of pencils on a small folding table. Their weapons – both his firearms and her blades – were displayed on a wall, empty spaces denoting the ones they currently carried.

Vincent still wore the black satin pajamas he’d gone to bed in, though by the drape of his shirt she knew it was undone, and as she watched, his right foot tapped out the beat of the tune he was playing. Black hair cascaded down his back, some still draped over his right shoulder, and listening closely she could hear him singing wordlessly under his breath.

Warmth flooded her face as she sighed softly, walking quietly into the studio. Their mugs were set on the table, beside the set of sketching pencils, and she brushed his hair over his shoulder, pressing a tender kiss against the side of his neck. Smiling against warm skin when she heard a husky chuckle, she rested her chin on his shoulder, watching fingers fly over guitar strings.

Seconds later he strummed a final note, letting it linger in the air as he turned to nuzzle Reilena’s hair, sighing deeply as she kissed his neck again.

Fingers sifted into her hair, and she drew back, crimson meeting violet over soft smiles. Noses brushed against each other, and then he leaned in, lips closing over hers in a gentle, passionate kiss.

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unedited, as i wrote this in Helly’s notes (Helly is my phone) and originally posted it on the bird app earlier today, so please excuse any spelling or grammatical errors

♥

#final fantasy vii #vincent valentine #original character #canon x oc #final fantasy 7 #ffvii #ff7 #vinrei #just a little peek into a morning at his place post-canon #the initial image i always have is him finger-picking the guitar with his claws while she's snuggled up behind him listening #and it ends with the tender kiss and a murmured greeting

[magnoliasinbloom]

Someone to Stay - AU

Previous chapters

Chapter 10

Your heart is worth it.

Claire’s heart sank and stuttered as she stared at the ceiling in the gloom. Her shades were pulled down, allowing only a minimum of light to seep through the edges. Her fists were clenched tightly at her side, legs tangled in the sheets. 

So this is what heartbreak felt like. Fault lines with jagged edges carved into her chest. Dry heaving sobs, her eyes burning and red. So much worse than before. That hadn’t been heartbreak. This… this felt like the loss of life itself.

Her hair—the lovely, wild curls he had claimed to adore—were damp and plastered to her face. Tears had dried over and over in shiny silver tracks, sliding down her cheeks, across her temples, or onto her pillow as she tried unsuccessfully to sleep.

Joe had taken her home after the initial shock, where she had just sat on the couch. Her right hand had scrunched up the newspaper until it was  blurred and the strangled crying had begun. Joe had made her tea which had sat sullen and cold on the table. And so had she. Wrapped in her robe, she hadn’t attended classes or work, Joe calling in sick for her.

He knew. The unimaginable bastard had known from the beginning – she had been betrayed once. And she, stupid and foolish and trusting, had fallen for another liar. Again.

Her mind was weary and exhausted from going round and round in circles; dissecting every word, every kiss, every touch. Wondering if she had imagined it all—the gentleness of his hands, calloused and warm on her body. The gleam in his sapphire eyes when he looked at her…

Tha gaol agam ort.

Claire also wondered if that feeling would ever go away—that of being punched in the stomach, of a vise pressing on her sternum relentlessly and wouldn’t let her breathe properly since yesterday. The rage that snagged and clawed at her insides. A hand that was slowly but surely squeezing the life and blood from her heart. 

When she had gotten home last evening, supported by Joe up the stairs and through the apartment door, her mobile had rung. Without even pausing to see who was calling, she had thrown the phone at the wall. The screen had cracked and the phone lay there lifeless. Blessedly silent. No doubt she had been receiving calls and texts from many people – including him. But what was there to say?

Giving up on sleep, she struggled to her feet and wrapped a duvet around her shoulders. Padding slowly through the apartment, she saw the newspaper still spread on her small kitchen table. Like poking a bruise to see if it still hurt, Claire had practically memorized the image that accompanied the offending article. 

His red hair was perfectly rumpled, and he was wearing that damnable leather jacket. She was a petite blonde bombshell, stylish and indefinably French. They had been photographed walking down the street, sunglasses obscuring their eyes, holding hands. Lead singer of The Clan and the famous Parisian songstress were spotted canoodling in a popular Edinburgh restaurant, it said. The two had previously dated in 2012 and seem to have rekindled their romance. Whatever happened to Claire Beauchamp – was there trouble in paradise?

Disgusting.

Eyeing the newspaper askance (but why don’t you throw it out then?) she gave the table a wide berth and opened the fridge. There was not much inside however, except some expired milk, wrinkled apples, and a wedge of cheese. Her stomach gurgled in protest; she decided to test if it would keep down some toast.

And then the intercom buzzer rang.

Claire dropped the blanket, hands shaking. It had to be Joe. He had understood her need for space and privacy to grieve, and knew her mobile was not available. She glanced at the phone—still on the floor, useless. The buzzer rang again.

She pressed the button and through the static crackle heard his voice. “Claire, please, I—”

She took the finger off the button and backed into stove. It couldn’t be. He was cavorting in Edinburgh with Annalise-what’s-her-face. Her heart slammed away in the vicinity of her throat, fear and anxiety and fury swelling inside. Shit, what if he got in? He had an emergency key, as she had one to his London flat. Would he use it? 

Of course not, he respects you, doesn’t he? a voice in her head piped up. No, he doesn’t; he cheated on me verra publicly with a French trollop, so shut up, Claire retorted. 

This inner monologue was interrupted by the strident intercom once more. Claire wouldn’t let him in. She couldn’t. But like the time she heard the song for the girl with the whiskey eyes, again her heart of its own volition propelled her forward and she pressed the button– but said nothing.

“Claire, I ken ye can hear me. I ken ye can.” His voice tore her quietly to pieces. “I want 5 minutes and then—”

“Do you need to get in, dearie?” Old Mrs. Fitz from the second story was apparently on her way out. 

“Sassenach, I’m coming up. Thank ye, ma’am.” Shit, shit—she had let him in. Fuck! 

Her fist pounded the wall next to the intercom and she ran frantically toward the door. She could hear the thump of booted feet on the old stairwell, and she braced her hands against the door. Childish, but her feeling of righteous anger was stronger than logic at the moment. The bolt was locked, the chain in place.

“Claire.” 

Muffled by the wood between them, he stood beyond the door. There was no clinking of keys, no rattle of knob. She rested her forehead on the smooth, cool surface; her heart simultaneously skipped a beat at the knowledge he was here and unspeakable sorrow choked her words.

“Please.” His own voice sounded strangled and out of breath. “That picture isn’t what ye think, it was—”

“No,” she croaked, breaking through the tears. “I listened to you and every word out of your mouth was a lie. I should have known. You and me—” 

“Mo nighean donn, that lass and I—we used to date, yes, but years ago. I havena seen her since, and that picture, it was meant to spite me. The only truth is here, between us. Always… tha gaol agam ort.”

Silence. 

She reached around her neck. Her fingers fumbled for the clasp of the chain that bore his ring, and exasperated, she yanked at it. The chain broke and lay crumpled in her palm with the cabochon ruby nestled in the middle.

Finally grateful for the wide and drafty crack under the door, she knelt and slipped the ring and chain through it. She heard him gasp and then a soft chink as he picked it up. A beat and a deep breath.

“Claire, I would never hurt you. Please, believe me,” he implored. 

“I did,” Claire whispered. “Not anymore.”

She had crawled back to the bedroom and finally slept for hours and hours.

Claire wasn’t aware of when he had left, but when she peeked under the door, there was no one there. No note either, nothing. The lack of food eventually got to her. Debating her choices, phone-less, she decided she had to leave the apartment to shop for groceries. Just around the corner. Then maybe e-mail her teachers. Get a bit of studying done. Stop thinking, stop feeling. 

Gathering strength she didn’t know was there, she dressed warmly and ambled over to the corner shop. No one talked to her, or even looked at her. Claire clutched her bags and trekked back to the building. And someone was waiting on the steps this time.

Tall, but not tall enough to be him. She hated to admit it to herself; her heart pounded, but it was Joe who turned around.

“Lady Jane! Finally! I’ve been here for fifteen minutes. Are you alright?” He took the bags from her while she fumbled for her key. 

“I will be,” Claire said grimly, “I promise. Come in.”

Joe helped her put the groceries away, watching her warily all the time. Claire finally exhaled in exasperation.

“Joe, what is it?” She leaned against the counter and waited expectantly.

“He came to see me at the hospital yesterday,” Joe said simply; he also seemed to know instinctively not to say that name.

Claire crossed her arms defensively. “He came here, too. I refused to see him.”

“I did not. I wanted to hear what he had to say—explain himself. You are my friend, Lady Jane, and it hurts me to see you suffer.”

“I don’t want to hear more lies, Joe. Twice in less than a year… I think it’s more than enough.”

“He put his sister on the phone for me. Jenny?” Joe sat at the kitchen table and gestured for Claire to do the same.

“Yes. What does she have to do with this?” Claire asked resignedly, plopping down on the chair.

“She said to tell you, it’s not in her brother’s nature to lie,” Joe said carefully. He pulled a newspaper clipping from the pocket of his coat and set it in front of her. It was from a different publication, where The Clan’s PR denied the relationship between their lead singer and Annalise de Marillac. 

“Please. Celebrities do this all the time. Damage control.” She ran her hand through her hair, tired of excuses.

“She also pointed out something in the picture that doesn’t fit. Did you look at it, really look? Beyond the obvious, I mean. Fucking gossip rags will do anything for money.” Joe stood up and pulled the old newspaper towards them. Wrinkled, but otherwise clear. He smoothed it out. “Here. See?”

Joe tapped at the right hand, swinging beside him. The left, enveloped in Annalise’s grip; Claire deliberately covered up the girl’s face. But the right hand… her breath caught in her throat. 

“It can be a bit troublesome when playing guitar,” he had said.

He was a left-handed guitar player. His right hand was always bare to enable him to press down on the strings and twist to play all the chords freely. 

He—Jamie—was wearing the ring in the picture. 

#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander au #jamie and claire #someone to stay #as promised #we're aaaaalmost done here... #i somehow managed not to use HIS name until the end