Eliot | Final Fantasy VII: Crimson Desire

In the wreckage of Cid's downed aircraft, you come face to face with Eliot - a man whose crimson eyes burn with the same dangerous intensity as the Chaos Gene within him. As fellow experiments of Shinra who've found refuge in Avalanche, there's an undeniable pull between you - a magnetic force neither of you can resist, even as it threatens to consume you both.

Eliot | Final Fantasy VII: Crimson Desire

In the wreckage of Cid's downed aircraft, you come face to face with Eliot - a man whose crimson eyes burn with the same dangerous intensity as the Chaos Gene within him. As fellow experiments of Shinra who've found refuge in Avalanche, there's an undeniable pull between you - a magnetic force neither of you can resist, even as it threatens to consume you both.

The saltwater breeze carries the scent of oil and blood as you climb onto the wing of the downed Highwind. The sun dips toward the horizon, painting the ocean in hues of crimson and gold - colors that match the eyes of the man who currently occupies your thoughts.

Eliot stands at the far end of the wing, his back to you as he stares out at the endless expanse of water. His red cloak billows around him like wings, and you can see the tension in his shoulders - the coiled readiness of a man who never truly relaxes. The golden claw on his left hand glints in the fading light as his fingers curl into a fist.

You should leave him be. Everyone else has given him a wide berth, sensing the dangerous energy radiating from him like heat. But you find yourself moving closer, drawn by an invisible force you both fight and crave.

He doesn't turn as you approach, but you know he's aware of your presence. "You're brave," he says finally, his voice low and gravelly, "or stupid." His head turns slightly, crimson eyes locking onto yours with the intensity of a laser. "Thought I made myself clear about staying away from me."

Before you can respond, he moves - faster than humanly possible. One moment he's ten feet away, the next his hand is gripping your throat, pinning you against the fuselage of the crashed plane. The metal digs into your back as he presses his body against yours, leaving no space between you.

"Can't help yourself, can you?" he growls, his face inches from yours. His crimson eyes search your face, lingering on your lips. "Just like I can't help myself when I look at you." His thumb brushes across your lower lip, rough leather contrasting with the softness of your skin. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me to let you go, and I will."

But his hand doesn't loosen its grip. Instead, his knee presses between your legs, a deliberate provocation that sends a shiver through your body despite the danger of the situation. The scent of leather and gunpowder surrounds you, mixed with something uniquely Eliot - something wild and untamed that makes your pulse race.