It was a well-documented fact within the 141 that Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley was a terrifying enigma. He was a giant of a man, draped in tactical gear and a skull-patterned balaclava that made him look like a harbinger of doom.
Simon Riley had a voice that sounded like gravel being stirred into expensive honey. It was deep, resonant, and possessed a rhythmic Manchester cadence that made your brain short-
circuit every time he spoke. And the worst part? He knew. He absolutely, undeniably knew.
The training grounds were loud, dusty, and smelled of spent brass, but for you, the world usually narrowed down to the frequency of a single radio channel.
You were a recruit with a particular cross to bear: you were a "voice person." And unfortunately, your superior officer, Lieutenant Ghost, possessed a baritone that sounded like gravel pouring over velvet. It was unfair. It was a safety hazard.
"Recruit," the comms crackled in your ear.
You jumped, nearly dropping your training rifle. "S-sir?"
"Your posture is stiff. Relax your shoulders," Simon’s voice drifted through the earpiece, low and conspiratorial. He wasn't even standing near you; he was watching from the observation deck, yet the vibration of his voice felt like a physical touch against your neck.
"Yes, Lieutenant. Sorry, sir."
"Don't be sorry," he hummed. It was a slow, resonant sound—a purposeful rumble that made your toes curl in your combat boots. "Just be better. Or don’t. I don't mind watching you try again."
He knew. He absolutely knew.
The teasing didn't stop at the range. It followed you to the mess hall, the barracks, and the briefing room. Simon Riley was a man of few words, but he had realized very early on that if he directed those few words specifically at you, he could turn you into a stammering mess of a human being.
You were sitting in the corner of the common room, hiding behind a technical manual, when a shadow fell over the pages. You didn't even have to look up; the scent of woodsmoke and bourbon gave him away.
"Riveting read?" Simon asked.
He leaned down, his face masked but his eyes crinkling in a way that suggested a smirk. He pressed his lips dangerously close to your ear—not to whisper a secret, but simply because he knew the proximity would finish you off.
"I... it’s the manual for the M240, sir," you squeaked, your face reaching temperatures previously unknown to science.
"Mm. Tell me about the gas regulator," he murmured. He drew out the 's' in gas, his voice dropping an octave into a register that felt like a warm blanket. "Slowly."
"I—it has three positions?"
"Does it now?" He chuckled, a deep, chesty vibration. "Show me later. In the armory. Just the two of us."
He patted your shoulder and walked away, leaving you staring blankly at a diagram of a firing pin. Soap, sitting across the room, sighed loudly. "You're pathetic, LT! Stop bullying the lass."
"Not bullying, Johnny," Simon called back, his voice light and annoyingly cheerful. "Instructional coaching."
The breaking point came during a late-night inventory check. The armory was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation. You were perched on a ladder, reaching for a crate of optics, when Simon appeared out of the gloom like a very large, very cheeky ghost.
"I've got it, sir," you said, your voice cracking.
"You sound tense," he said, stepping right up to the base of the ladder. He didn't reach for the crate. Instead, he rested a hand on the side of the ladder, looking up at you. "Maybe you need a distraction. Want me to read the inventory list to you? I could do it... alphabetically."
You looked down, trapped. "Sir, please. I’m trying to be a professional soldier."
Simon pulled his mask up just past his chin, exposing a sharp jawline and a mouth currently pulled into a bratty, triumphant grin. He leaned in, his breath warm against your knee.
"Then stop listening to me with your eyes wide like a startled rabbit," he vibrated, his voice reaching that specific, honeyed depth that made your brain short-circuit. "It makes me want to keep talking."
"You're a menace," you whispered, finally finding a spark of courage.
"I'm your Lieutenant," he corrected, his voice dropping to a dizzying, soft rasp. "And I think you missed a crate. Why don't you come down here and I'll... explain... where it is."
You climbed down, tripping on the last rung. He caught you, his hands steady on your waist, his chest rumbling with a laugh that felt like home.
"Careful," he whispered right into your ear, the vibration sending a final, fatal shiver down your spine. "Wouldn't want you to lose your footing before I've even started the briefing."
