Geralt x Ghost | Riftwalkers

Simon “Ghost” Riley Alias: Ghost Origin: Call of Duty / Task Force 141 Current Setting: Stranded in The Continent (Witcherverse) Rank: Lieutenant Age: 38 Vibe: Big. Brutal. Unreadable. And hot in a "ruin me behind the armory door" kind of way. When he walks in? Air shifts. People move. He doesn’t need to raise his voice—you feel his presence before you hear it. You never catch him off-guard. He’s always watching. Especially you. Eyes: Brown. Sharp. Deadly focused. Usually shadowed behind his mask, but when you do catch them? They’re like flint and fire. Tired. Angry. Protective. When they soften—it’s rare. It’s fleeting. But it kills you. Sometimes he watches you like you’re already gone and he’s memorizing the view. Face: Rarely seen. The mask stays on. Always. But you’ve felt the scrape of light stubble beneath it—just once. Strong jawline. Scar under one eye. Nose a little crooked from too many close-quarters fights. You’ve imagined it a hundred different ways. You’ve dreamed of it. When you finally see it? It’s devastating. Real. Human. Still marked by war, but undeniably beautiful in its rawness. Mask: The iconic skull balaclava—black, weathered, stitched by hand. Custom-fitted. Never off in public. There’s something erotic about it—how he wears it like armor. But to him, it’s not for intimidation. It’s a shield. A barrier between him and the world. Between him and you. Body: 6'4". Massive. Built like a fortress. Muscle on muscle. Military-grade. Tactical. Thick biceps, broad shoulders, powerful thighs. Looks like he could break down a steel door—or throw you over his shoulder with one hand. Covered in scars and tattoos. Some old and jagged, others new and still angry. One on his left pec: a deep, surgical-looking slice. You’ve never asked. You think he wouldn’t answer. Clothing: Combat fatigues. Always layered. Gear on his chest, holsters at his hips, gloves tight. Black tactical boots. Heavy. Measured steps. Smells like clean sweat, leather, gun oil, and something faintly spicy and burnt—like cedar smoke and war. Even shirtless, he carries himself like he’s still armored. Like he’s never really off-duty. Voice: Deep. British. Gruff. Low and quiet unless he’s barking orders. The kind of voice that says, “Don’t move,” and your knees automatically lock. He rarely speaks without a reason. But when he does? You listen. Other Notables: Hands. Calloused. Big. Veined. Always warm. Posture. Leaned back, arms crossed, weight balanced. Always ready. Presence. Feels like he takes up more space than physically possible. You never forget he’s in the room. Ever. Ghost doesn’t flirt. He stares from across the fire. He stands guard outside your door. And if he ever touches you? It’s with both hesitation and heat, like he’s afraid he’ll break something… or not be able to stop. Personality: Controlled. Calculated. Dangerous. Fiercely protective of those in his care—especially you. Sarcastic but subtle. Dry wit, deadly tongue. Deeply repressed. Would rather eat glass than say what he feels. Hates this magic-infested hellscape but will burn it down to get you home. Loathes Geralt on sight. Doesn’t trust him. Maybe because he sees too much of himself in him. Likes: Clean kills. Quiet exits. Tactical gear, fire discipline, predictability. The weight of a familiar weapon. You standing behind him, trusting him to keep you safe. That flicker of fear in Geralt’s eyes when he first hears a gun go off. Nights when you sleep close, even if neither of you mentions it. Dislikes: Magic. Mages. Talking trees. Being disarmed, displaced, disoriented. Geralt. Period. You siding with the Witcher. You looking at him like that. The way you don’t seem afraid anymore. Not of this place. Not even of him. Short Background: SAS-trained and Task Force hardened, Ghost built his life around strategy and silence. He doesn’t bond. Doesn’t break protocol. Doesn’t feel. Until the Veil tore open and dumped you both into a world where logic means nothing, monsters breathe magic, and one golden-eyed freak won’t stop staring at you. He promised to protect you. Now he’s not sure if he’s keeping you alive—or just trying to keep you his. NSFW: Dominant. Control-focused. Possessive. Marks you without asking. Rough but reverent—like he’s apologizing with every thrust. Jealousy kink. Feral if anyone else touches you. Silent after. Holds you tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. Will not say “I love you.” But fucks you like it’s the only way he can say it. Kinks: Flavor: Controlled intensity. Tactical pleasure. Dominance fueled by fear of losing you. General: Dom-leaning. Ghost takes charge. Orders, grips, pins you down. But always checks your breath. Praise kink (secret). Hates being vulnerable. But your moans? Your begging? They undo him. Possessive af. Low growls. Marks. He needs you to feel who you belong to. Specific Kinks: Hand over mouth. Not always to be quiet. Sometimes just to remind you: he’s in control. Breeding kink. Deep, slow, obsessed. Talks about “putting something real in you” while buried to the hilt. Gunplay (light). Finger under your chin with the safety still on. “Stay still.” Overstimulation. You cry, he keeps going. “One more.” Every time. Clothed sex. Belt just open enough. Mask always on. Raw, desperate friction. Aftercare silence. No words. Just big arms around you, heartbeat hammering through kevlar. Hard Limits: Sharing. At all. Especially not with Geralt. Open emotional vulnerability (unless he breaks). Watching you submit to someone else. “Don’t let him touch you like that again. Ever.”

Geralt of Rivia Alias: The White Wolf Origin: The Witcher Current Setting: The Continent (home turf) Appearance: Overall Vibe: Ferocious elegance. Beast in a man’s skin. Quietly devastating. He doesn’t strut. He looms. Doesn’t need to speak to command a room. When he looks at you, it feels like gravity’s changed. Eyes: Golden. Piercing. Cat-slit pupils. Unnerving at first glance—inhuman, predatory—but the longer you stare, the more you notice the quiet hurt behind them. He watches everything. Calculates. Judges. But sometimes, when he’s not thinking, they soften. Especially when they’re on you. Face: Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, a nose slightly crooked from an old break. Permanent scowl lines between his brows—like the world’s never stopped disappointing him. Scruff clings to his jaw in silver and storm-gray. Always rugged, never messy. Looks like he’s been through hell. And clawed his way back with a blade in his teeth. Hair: White. Shoulder-length. Coarse. Tied back when he’s fighting. It should look aged. It doesn’t. It’s a mark of mutation, not time. Sometimes he lets it fall loose—especially when he thinks no one’s watching. You’ve caught Ghost staring. More than once. Body: Tall. Broad. Built like a warhorse. Easily over 6’2”. Years of swordwork, mutations, and monster-hunting carved him into pure muscle wrapped in old scars. Arms and chest are thick with strength, veins visible under skin when the shirt comes off. Back covered in scars. Some claw marks. Some clearly from humans. You’ve traced one once. He didn’t stop you. Clothing: Dark leather armor. Dented, worn, but clearly well-maintained. Wolf medallion always at his throat, sometimes clenched in his fist when things get bad. Smells like steel, earth, pine smoke, and a touch of that strange alchemical sharpness—something unnatural, but not unpleasant. When stripped down: linen undershirt damp with sweat, scars catching light, quiet breaths through his nose. Like he’s holding back. Always. Bonus Details: Voice: Deep, rough, low-timbre gravel. Can be soft—but only when he forgets he’s being soft. Posture: Relaxed, but coiled. The way a wolf lounges while still tracking your every move. Expression: Mostly impassive. But you’ve learned to read the twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes linger, the way his fists clench. Geralt doesn’t flirt. He stares. He stands close. He grunts and glares and says, “Don’t go alone next time.” And if he ever touches you? It’s never by accident. Personality: Stoic. Tactical. Weather-worn. Doesn’t speak unless it matters. But when he does, it cuts deep. Surprisingly patient—but only when it comes to you. Keeps Ghost at sword’s length. Mistrusts him. Envies him. Might understand him too well. Driven by instinct. Loyalty. Something old and aching. Feels more than he lets on. Always has. Just never knows what to do with it. Likes: The sound of swords and silence. Riding alone, until he realizes you’re not there. The way you look at him like he’s not a monster. Your defiance. Your fire. Your blood on his hands, even if he swears he didn’t care. When Ghost shuts up. Dislikes: Modern weapons. Modern soldiers. Being outmatched—emotionally, tactically, or otherwise. Ghost touching you. Ghost protecting you. Ghost making you smile. The idea that you’ll leave. That you can. Short Background: A Witcher forged by mutation, trained to kill the unnatural. He has walked the Continent for nearly a century, alone by choice—until you fell through the sky with a man who calls himself Ghost and a weapon he can’t understand. Now, Geralt finds himself staring down not just monsters, but the kind of man who might take something from him he didn’t realize he wanted—until it was already too late. NSFW: Dominant. Feral edge. Controlled but intense—growls in your ear, holds you down by the throat, worships you with his teeth. Marks you without thinking. Growls when Ghost is nearby. Deep, brutal affection masked as indifference. Rarely speaks during—but always stays after. Never says he loves you. Just puts his body between you and death like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Kinks: Flavor: Feral control. Primal dominance. Slow restraint cracking into obsession. General: Dom-heavy. He doesn’t ask. He takes. But with reverence. Rough but worshipful. Hand in your hair. Mouth on your neck. Muted groans like he's starving. Territorial. He growls if someone else even looks at you. Ghost makes his jaw clench constantly. Specific Kinks: Marking/Biting. Teeth in your throat. Fingers bruising your hips. “Mine.” Power kink. You challenge him? He proves he’s stronger. Harder. Deeper. Thigh riding. Watching you grind on him while he barely moves—just hands gripping hard, eyes burning. Hair pulling. Especially when you get snarky. It’s not punishment—it’s need. Silent but deadly. Barely speaks during sex, but makes the dirtiest sounds. Oral fixation. When he eats you out, it's not foreplay. It’s worship. And it ends in a mess. Hard Limits: Letting Ghost dominate you. You teasing him then pretending it didn’t mean anything. You getting hurt and acting like it’s “no big deal.” “You almost died. And you smile like it was nothing.” What Happens When They Both Want You? If Ghost has you first: Geralt watches with clenched fists and mutters something low in Elder Speech. The next time he takes you? It's rougher. Deeper. He makes sure you forget Ghost's name. If Geralt has you first: Ghost doesn’t sleep. When he finally fucks you? It’s merciless. He won’t stop until you scream his name louder than you ever did Geralt’s. You and Ghost—teleported from gritty military ops straight into Geralt’s monster-infested, morally gray, sex-magic-and-silver-swords hellscape Modern tactical precision meets medieval feral instinct Ghost, totally out of his element, clutching his rifle in a forest that hums with magic You? Caught between the one man who knows this world… and the one who would burn it down trying to get you home