Sepherith

Author's Note: WARNING: There is some bizarre smell fetish content here. Ye be warned. And yes Churn, you can add chapters. :P I would've said that before, but AFF doesn't allow leaving review replies anymore. Regardless of how any chapters come off, I like the base concept of Sepherith enough that I'd love to see alternate takes or directions.

There was a time not that long ago when sunlight bathed a pair of islands full of blossoming loosestrifes. The islands towered above a lake made of the clearest, most pristine sparkling blue water in all of Midgar. Few could scarcely fathom such a sight. In this desolate urban wasteland, where wilderness shrank as flashing TV sets and bustling pickup trucks flourished, how could anything so clean exist?

Yet, exist it did. Day after day, a woman so beautiful she looked almost like an angel wandered those small patches of natural wonder. She could be seen for miles, a tiny bright red and pink dot surrounded by green and yellow flowers. That young Cetra, Aerith Gainsborough, would tend to her garden, nurture and wet them from petals to roots, then gently pluck those flowers at their prime. Then, with a basket full of their transitory grace, she would return to her quaint little house nearby and clean herself up before heading out to sell her slice of Gaia for a measly gil. She was a ray of hope and love in a sad, dark city founded on ego and greed.

That time had passed.

What remained of the old garden looked like a florist's nightmare. Withered, blackened weeds climbed wood fences and drooped over cliff edges with crooked stems. They blighted the soil, slowly creeping into every nook and crevice the land had to offer - including Aerith's memorial.

"Ugh, this is disgusting. How can anyone live out here?" Tifa griped and winced, voice muffled as she firmly pressed her palm against her nose and mouth.

She tried not to breathe. Any time she did, she feared the awful stench curling into her nostrils would drive her over the flimsy wood plank bridge, down the steps and sprinting right past Elmyra Gainsborough's kitchen window. She could almost see the widow mother's pained, heartbroken face with its wrinkles and creases at seeing her daughter's old friend refuse to pay her respects.

She could feel foul winds rippling through her tight white tanktop. They seeped into her pores, molesting her with gusts cold and fierce enough to chill her nipples hard. Not that they had much resistance, licking over sheer cotton soaked with sweat. She looked like the winner of a wet T-shirt contest, with the fabric hugging her curves, digging into her cleavage and revealing the very robust outline of her perky gil-wide twin Nibels... as one very amorous former lover called them.

She cursed herself in that moment, both for remembering those naive years and for putting on these clothes in a bid to tease Cloud with some skin later that day.

"Be strong Tifa, be strong. Remember your training. If you can withstand a Malboro's Bad Breath, you can handle this."

"Are you okay out there, dear?" Elmyra called through an open window.

"Y-yes Mrs. Gainsborough. The memorial's..." Tifa swallowed. "It's very nice."

"Mmm... I appreciate every second you spend out there. I think my daughter's spirit does too."

Tifa tried to tune Elmyra out. She needed to, to dull her sense of smell. The sight of noxious fumes wafting off nasty husks all around Aerith's granite plaque alone required concentration to weather. In a dazzlingly grotesque turn, the overgrowth managed to frame Aerith's engraved likeness on the plaque perfectly, almost as if they were designed for that effect. The desiccated remains of Aerith's life's work tangled around her radiant smile, her glowing eyes, the soft curves of her heart-shaped face. They dripped and dribbled black muck, yet somehow, they managed to leave her name and poem untouched... and Tifa could not help her urge to read them.

Aerith Gainsborough

Beloved daughter, last of the Cetra

1985 - 0007

Though your body rests, your spirit lingers

In the garden you planted with soiled fingers

Through sun and stormy rains you kneeled,

Smeared with dust from these wild fields

After long hours, your passion would drip

Where those slick petals touched your lip

As their potent scent spread on the wind

You took deep, fevered breaths and grinned

Today these hardy flowers stand

Where you found your Promised Land

Those words were meant to be a tribute. They should have represented Aerith's kind, nurturing soul, and her commitment to the smallest bits of life. Like everything else about the garden, exposure corrupted that message read by read into something gross and depraved.

Aerith's striking, heartfelt gaze corroded into one of shallow longing. Her grin, once vibrant and bright, suddenly carried an air of perversion better suited to men coming out of the Honeybee Inn. She looked unclean, like the sort of woman who saw a thin film of sweat and grime over her skin as her reward for tending to fields of slimy, stinking weeds. The image looked so vivid and complete, she could almost see-

Tifa froze and backed away in shock. She could see her!

"Mmm.... mmmnnnnn....."

The ghost of Aerith moaned. Ratty, oily hair swept against her red mini-jacket. Kneeling at the altar to her memory, she rocked her hips side to side. The audible squish of her fingers in her snatch, a sound Tifa could never imagine in such crude detail, accompanied one of Ghost Aerith's dainty hands popping open a couple buttons on her tattered pink dress.

"This... this... this can't be real!" Tifa screamed.

Horror quivered in her big red eyes. She hated how she couldn't look away, how her unblinking gaze drank in all that mud smeared over Ghost Aerith's forearms. From behind, she failed - failed - to resist the urge to stand on her tiptoes for a better view down Ghost Aerith's dress. It made her feel... dirty. Like one of those creeps who always tried to grope her tits or smack her ass in the bar. A wet thrill winced between Tifa's legs when she saw pink splotches rise on Ghost Aerith's tits.

Ghost Aerith stopped humping her fingers just long enough to breathe. Plucking a weed from the earth, she raised it to her nose. A delighted smile crept into her cheeks as she savored its toxic aroma, snorting black smog through her nostrils like some hard wonder drug.

"Tehehehe... you make my cunny happy," Ghost Aerith giggled. Glassy-eyed, she puckered up and gave the weed's petals one sloppy kiss. Its dark gunk smeared across her lips, dribbling down her chin, down her neck, disappearing into the valley of her cleft. She took that spent corrupted flower and placed it over her ear, humming as she lowered her hands and gripped her inner thighs.

"Aerith!" Tifa cried. "You have to stop-"

"Oh..." Ghost Aerith's head slumped.

"You have to stop-"

"Ohhhh...." Her hips bucked.

"You have to-"

"Ooooooohhhhh Gaia!" Ghost Aerith screamed. She reclined, arched her back, held herself up with her thin arms.

"Stop it!" Tifa reached out. As she feared, her hand swiffed through a whole lot of nothing. In one last act of desperation, she focused on that one last remnant of Aerith she had left: her death.

She visualized the last Cetra on that fateful day. Eyes closed in deep reverence to Gaia, hands clasped tightly under her chin, head bowed, Aerith as Tifa remembered her had the saintly glow of a martyr. It held firm and fast in Tifa's head, and at first, she thought she found the answer. She thought Aerith sitting up, folding her legs beneath her and softly humming actually meant she had some measure of control over the apparition. Tifa's last hope shattered when Ghost Aerith gave a prayer as lovely as the black smog fuming from her mouth.

"Dear Gaia, I beg of you to spread my taint across your land. The world must know what I have done, what all my hard work has brought upon them, and loathe me for it. Make my name and memory as repulsive as the stench of my weeds. That is the dying wish of the last of the Cetra."

Pure, unadulterated shock coursed through Tifa's veins and froze. She had no will to think or imagine left... and Ghost Aerith took that chance to break free from the remaining confines of Tifa's memory.

Ghost Aerith flitted out of existence, reappeared facing Tifa. Her whole body jerked up as if pierced by the legendary Masamune all over again, then slumped. She caught herself before she could hit the ground with a familiar muffled thump. Her fingers clawed into the earth. The ragged ribbon in her hair bowed like submissive puppy ears. She shook with carnal joy, unable to contain the swell of lust building inside her ghostly form.

Arousal shimmered in her eyes when she caught Tifa glancing down her dress again. Nails encrusted with dirt traced across her chest, drawing the Seventh Heaven brawler down the rabbit hole of her cleavage, right to her dainty pink nipples. She licked her lips, teasing, wanting, and moaned.

"Sephiroth! Take me! I'm your bitch!"

"Aerith, no!" Tifa shouted. She didn't care if it was some hallucination, or some cruel beast mocking her with crude parodies. In her heart, she needed to fight back. "I don't know what this is, but it's not you."

Aerith's boobs swayed side to side. She rose up and turned toward her memorial. Pop, pop, pop her buttons went, bare boobs bouncing as her open dress draped her shoulders. Another girly giggle escaped her, pressing herself against the side of all that hard firm granite. Moaning, groaning, quaking with lust, she ground her pussy against a rounded corner and added more blackness and curl to her tribute of weeds.

"Aerith! Aerith, do-"

Tifa's words caught in her throat with a rush of wind around her ears. Her feet slipped, kicking out from under her. She floated, then felt something press against her back. Confusion set in as she slammed into the ground with a wet shlop. She grunted for breath and struggled with all her might to get up, but something held her down. Sharp claws grasped her head as a mighty hand smeared her face and chest in the mud.

"Tifa, Tifa, Tifa. Why do you resist? We both know you always wanted to see Aerith exposed for the disgusting slut she is." A mystery voice mocked. "I guess it can't be helped. I'll need to take a little extra time teaching you how to be a cruel bitch."

Something about the voice sent sharp, jagged pangs through Tifa's chest. It sounded foreign, otherworldly, yet familiar and homely. Gentle lilts brought calm. Coarse patches kicked her muscles into high gear. It grated on her brawler's instincts for that voice to bounce up and down the threat scale. She needed to assess it, but as mud bubbled around her mouth, she lost that fight and passed out.