Final Fantasy VII, Zack/Cloud, phantoms
(Sooo this is more like, plasma!Zack/Cloud or something, idk...? The prompt sort of got away from me and it got a bit weird... Creepy fic is creepy. Sorries. orz)
Cloud supposed he was just seeing things. Flickers and fleeting shadows appearing out of the corners of his eyes, taunting his vision with figures that he can never seem to find no matter how quickly he chases after them, or how thoroughly he looks. Often times he can simply blink them away after a few moments worth of focus, but other times these ghosts just seem to linger on, drifting around with no real form, in and out from behind walls and furniture and people. He never tells anyone though, he keeps it to himself whenever he notices another phantom peeking it's non-shaped head out from behind someone's living, breathing body. And they have been known to be quite playful at times, whipping around and about obstacles like it's a game in Cloud's periphery.
They say this kind of thing can happen to people who've experienced some kind of trauma - they can start to imagine things, make things up to bury the pain or distract themselves from overwhelming memories. But Cloud has already dealt with the pain, and he steadfastly lives through the memories each day, he has no reason to go 'inventing' things. Perhaps the spectres themselves just chose him - it wouldn't be the first time.
He's noticed that the 'visions' always seem to become more apparent when he's alone. Usually when it's a bit darker in his room than normal, and he's still and withdrawn into his lonely mind. More so again when he's touching himself, doing that with his hand, drawing all the blood in his body towards that particular lower region and making him feel decidedly light-headed. That's when his phantoms bring themselves out from their hiding places at the very edges of his peripheral vision, instead now seeming to dance before his pupils like flashing lights, imprinting themselves on his eyelids so he still sees them even when his eyes are screwed shut.
With his hand wrapped around his straining erection, Cloud surmises that this is when his visitors get even more active - when they think he's distracted by his own fist, and won't give them a second thought once he comes back to himself. That's what they've reasoned, he's quite sure. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't alter his current actions in any way, for he is indeed far too distracted, too caught up in his own pleasure, yet not quite enough that he misses the feather-like touches ghosting over his sweat-sheened skin, nor the strangely lively voice that echoes in his head, egging him on. Just like that, Spike. Yeah, good and hard... Make yourself come just like that...
And so he does come, sensing the phantom forms hovering just above the skin as his release warms his fingers, and then they begin to crawl over his eyes as well, turning his already hazy sight to blackened depths. Wanting the light back he reaches out with a weary arm to brush them away.
It must be that vivid imagination of his, playing tricks on him again.