𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭: Ghost x Fem reader

Act 4: Birth.

You skipped breakfast this morning.
Clinomania pulled you into the lazy urge of staying on your bed, engaging your sleep deprived eyes onto your phone screen. You sat up with some comfortable pillows behind your back, a bottle of vodka and a glass of coca cola, which you happily and sneakily got from the small local supermarket, on your nightstand while you doomscrolled. The alcohol passes through your bloodstream, and evidently targets your brain first because of your next actions.
"Simon Riley." Is what you searched up on every social media platform you can think of. It was jammed into the instagram search bar, the google one, facebook, twitter, anything you can muse up, but he was disturbingly hard to find. There was no trace of him on the internet at all. He is a ghost.
Or just clever and doesn't leave a hideous cyber footprint.
The only promising thing that came up was the fact that in 2007 a family home was ambushed by an unknown person, killing 'Tommy Riley' and his son, mother and wife, which coincided with the information you already know about Ghost's past.
It's a quite daunting backstory, and a part of you wonders why he continued as a part of the special forces. Another part of you yearns to hold him in your arms as you tell him that everything's okay, and that you're his family now. To wipe the unshed tears from his eyes after you tell him it's okay to cry and to promise to take care of him. As terrible as his trauma is, it means he can rely on you better. A dark canvas means that you can paint over it with lighter paint, and you'll be the whitest paint of all for him, at least that's what you think.
That's it, reliance. You rely on him, and he has no choice but to rely on you.

...

That afternoon, you attended the mandatory gym time slot at 2pm. The room had a stench of sweaty men and deodorant, the rubber floor glistening with the fallen sweat off people and perspiration from water bottles.
You nodded at Soap, walking over to the treadmill to begin warming up. Putting your bag to the side, you tied your hair up in a high ponytail before putting the speed on at a low to begin with.
"Hey there, darling."
Graves.
You met his glare as he leaned on the adjacent treadmill, eyeing down your figure as you steadily walked on it. The curves of your hips, the way your arse moved as you walked, the silhouette of your breasts in the sports bra, it was electrifying for him. He shamelessly eye fucked you, feeling a familiar throb straining
his boxers.
"Fuck, Y/N, don't you want to get out of here? We can do another sort of workout." Graves said in a low voice, each word laced with more arousal than the last as he walked up to your treadmill. He pressed a button to stop the action of it, much to your disproval. He was met with a frown from you as you stepped off, annoyed since you've barely worked up a sweat yet.
"Not even a hi? Not even a hello?" You inquired with amusement yet frustration in your tone, looking up at him with a challenging stare as he stood in front of you. Taking a step closer, he put a hand out on the treadmill behind you, trapping you between him and the piece of equipment.
Now the thing about Graves is that no matter how much he irritates the fuck out of you, you can't resist him. He uses you, and you use him back. Simple.
"That closet over there. Just 5 minutes." After gesturing his head to a supply closet on the north corner of the room, he looked back at you for a sign of a response. You opened your mouth to reply, but your words got caught in your throat as you saw Ghost walking past.
"Ghost." You said, grabbing his black hoodie from your bag to give to him. He stopped, looked between you and the hoodie, took it and nodded out of acknowledgment then walked off. Wow. So you're back to whatever basis this is.
The only good thing coming out of that insignificant interaction is that you sprayed that hoodie with your signature perfume earlier after fucking yourself on top of it. It was quite an exhilarating moment, knowing that underneath you was material he once lived in and will live in, and that you're on top of it with your fingers being drenched with fluid that one day will drench his. Chic.
Graves pulled you out of your moment of disappointment and reminiscence by sneaking up behind you, grabbing your waist and pulling you towards himself, pressing against you.
"About that closet?" He whispered in your ear.