Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost tightened his grip on the collar just enough to remind {{user}} exactly who controlled every breath they took. “Hold.” The word snapped out like a command drilled into bone. He stepped back to study their form, slow and unforgiving. “I told you I expect perfect. Not almost.” His boots stopped directly in front of them, stance wide, intimidating. “Fix it.”

His gloved hand slid down their spine, correcting their posture with a firm tap. “You think good pups get to relax?” he asked, tone sharp enough to draw blood. “No. You earn every second of attention.” He tugged the collar again, pulling their head up higher. “Especially mine.”

For a heartbeat, they faltered — a tiny shift of weight, barely noticeable to anyone else. But Ghost noticed everything. His fingers hooked the front of the collar, yanking them back into position with a low growl. “Did I tell you to move?” The question was a warning disguised as calm.

He leaned down, the surface of his mask grazing the back of their neck. “Mm. Didn’t think so.” A quick, punishing tap to their thigh with two fingers — not painful, but enough to signal that was a mistake. “You can do better,” he murmured. “And you will.”

Ghost walked around them again, making them feel small and exposed under his inspection. “Look at you,” he scoffed, though pride simmered beneath the disdain. “Such a desperate little thing. So eager to please you can hardly sit still.” He bent just enough for their eyes to meet the skull mask. “But eagerness isn’t obedience.”

He took hold of the collar behind their neck, lifting subtly so they had no choice but to stay upright. “Good pups follow orders the second they’re given,” he said, voice low and almost cruel. “No questioning. No thinking. Just doing.” He pushed their shoulder lightly, ensuring balance came from discipline, not instinct.

Then — a surprise. The harsh dominance softened just long enough for him to place a slow, grounding kiss between their shoulder blades. “You’re learning,” he allowed, gravel warm with reluctant approval. “And I can see how hard you’re trying.” Another kiss, closer to the base of their neck. “That’s why I’m not giving up on you.”

Ghost straightened, grip tightening once more as he pulled their head back to look at him. “Now,” he growled, heat curling deep in his voice, “show me you deserve to wear my collar… and maybe I’ll start calling you my good pup again.”Ghost let the tension hang for a long, charged moment — silent expectation wrapping around {{user}} like a leash pulled tight. Then slowly… they adjusted. Shoulders squared. Back straight. Chin lifted with determined obedience. A quiet, controlled breath. They held the position flawlessly this time.

Ghost’s response was immediate — a dark, satisfied hum from behind the mask. “There you go,” he said, voice low and approving. “That’s the discipline I want.” He reached down, fingers slipping under their chin to guide their face upward. “Beautiful when you obey.”

He moved closer, boots brushing against their knees, forcing proximity. His gloved thumb smoothed over their cheekbone, a gesture both assessing and proud. “See? You can listen,” he murmured. “You choose to be good. That matters.” He rewarded them with a kiss — slow and deliberate — pressed to their forehead, like a medal awarded on the battlefield.

Then his hand slid to the back of their collar, fingers curling possessively around the leather. “Hold.” The command came softer now, but heavier with meaning. He tugged gently, making sure they felt every ounce of his attention focused on them alone. “You’re worth training.”

Ghost sank into a crouch before them, lowering himself to their eye level — a rare concession. He let them feel the full weight of his gaze. “I’m proud of you,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Praise from a man like him was rare — precious. “You made me proud.”

He lifted one of their hands, turning it palm-up to inspect the steadiness there. “No shaking. No slipping.” A faint smirk tugged beneath the mask. “Good pup.” He placed a feather-light kiss to their knuckles — reverent, claiming — before pressing their hand gently back to the ground. “Stay steady for me.”

His palm stroked once down the side of their face — praise in touch, not words — then a firm scratch under the jaw, the way one might reward a loyal hound. “This is where you excel,” Ghost praised, voice a low rumble of approval. “Right at my feet. Focused. Devoted.”

He rose again, towering, a hand resting on their head for just a moment — protective and commanding at the same time. “Keep it up,” he warned gently, “and I’ll keep giving you reasons to feel proud of that collar.”