Elite: Aerith Gainsborough - Petals on the Penthouse (545 photos) (Patreon)

The city sprawled beneath her like a glittering circuit board, neon veins pulsing in the twilight. Aerith leaned against the penthouse railing, the wind teasing her braid, the red leather jacket slipping off one shoulder to reveal the soft pink lace beneath. Sector 7’s slums were a lifetime away; tonight, she was just a girl with flowers in her hair and sin in her smile.

She hadn’t come to Midgar for the mission. Not really.

The intel on the Shinra data vault was solid (Cloud’s plan, Tifa’s fists, Barret’s guns). But Aerith? She’d slipped away at dusk, scaling the plate’s underbelly in her ribbon-tied boots, the pink dress fluttering like a flag of surrender. The others thought she was praying at the church. Let them.

The penthouse belonged to Reeve Tuesti (corporate suit, secret softie, the one who’d left a single white lily on her windowsill every week since Wall Market). He’d invited her once, half-joking: Come see the stars you can’t see from below. She’d laughed. Tonight, she took him up on it.

The elevator opened to silence and champagne. Reeve stood by the glass wall, tie loosened, eyes widening as she stepped out (jacket half-zipped, dress riding high on her thighs, the flower necklace resting in the hollow between her breasts). 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, but his voice cracked like a teenager’s.

“Neither are you,” she replied, plucking a petal from the bouquet on the table and tucking it behind his ear. “But rules are for people who don’t know how to break them pretty.”

She pushed him into the plush chair, straddling his lap before he could protest. The city lights painted her skin in electric pinks and blues; the leather jacket slid down her arms, pooling at her elbows. Reeve’s hands found her waist, thumbs brushing the lace edge of her dress, then lower, tracing the bow at her hip. 

“Aerith…” 

“Shh.” She kissed him slow, tasting champagne and desperation. The dress came off in pieces (first the jacket, then the straps, then the whole thing bunched at her waist). Her breasts spilled free, nipples hard against the cool air, and Reeve groaned like a man drowning. 

She rode him right there, knees sinking into the cushions, braid swinging with every roll of her hips. The flower necklace bounced between them, petals scattering across his shirt. When she came, it was with her forehead pressed to his, a soft cry swallowed by the city’s hum. 

Later, sprawled across the marble floor (jacket as a pillow, dress as a blanket), Aerith traced the Shinra logo on his cufflink. 

“Your friends are going to kill me,” he murmured. 

“They’ll have to catch me first.” She smiled, wicked and sweet. “And I’m very good at disappearing.”

Some flowers, she decided, were meant to bloom in the dark.

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