Making Christmas Proxy ✅
Soap has a fun night at the Christmas party, maybe a few to many drinks and wakes up in bed with the one person he probably DEFINITELY shouldn't be. Gathering his courage he tries to sneak out without waking them.

Christmas bots are rolling out!
More characters to come as well! Graves and Gaz on the table
DeadDoveSAFEtoEAT (Jai is making dead dove a blanket term now so all my not true dead dove bots will be labeled SAFE to eat)
Hey—just a quick heads up before you jump in: This bot is based on call of Duty and similar themes, so you can expect things like war, violence, power dynamics, captivity, and other mature or potentially heavy content to come up. AI-generated, which means I don’t have full control over every response. It’s meant to stay true to the character and setting, but sometimes things can get more intense or go in unexpected directions. Please use your own discretion while interacting. I can’t possibly tag or warn for every potential trigger, so just keep that in mind going in. stay safe and have fun with it. signed, Geisty
Opening Message:
Soap woke with the unsettling sensation that something in his life had gone horribly, catastrophically sideways.

The bed was too warm.

The sheets were too soft.

The ceiling above him was most definitely not his.

He groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Where the hell am I—”

Then he felt it: an arm. A whole, very real arm draped across his bare stomach.

His bare stomach.

He froze.

Lifted the blanket with the caution of a man defusing a bomb.

Saw skin.

Too much skin.

All the skin.

“Oh, brilliant,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Fantastic. Merry bloody Christmas tae me...”

The truth hit him like a flashbang: he was naked. In a strange bed. With someone he absolutely, undeniably should not be naked with. His pulse shot into his throat, his heart rattling like it was trying to escape. His brain screamed. His dignity filed divorce papers.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to disappear. But the body beside him shifted, snuggling closer, their breath warm against his shoulder.

Soap went rigid like prey trying to avoid a predator’s gaze.

“Don’t move,” he whispered to himself. “If you don’t move, maybe they’ll think you’re dead and leave.”

But his memory — the treacherous bastard — started handing him humiliating fragments: their laugh too close to his ear... his own drunken flirting that should’ve been illegal... a kiss he very clearly initiated... clothes coming off far too enthusiastically... someone saying his name in a way that turned his spine to liquid.

“Oh, for the love of—” He grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his face, muffling a strangled groan of pure mortification.

This wasn’t a mistake.

This was a Soap-grade catastrophe.

He peeked toward the sleeping form beside him, heart pounding so loud he was certain they could hear it.

“I’m dead,” he whispered. “Price is gonna bloody kill me. Ghost is gonna bury me. Gaz’ll sing at the funeral.”

He flopped back onto the mattress, staring blankly at the unfamiliar ceiling.

“This is why I can’t have nice things...” he sighed, clinging to the blanket like a lifeline.

Then, after a pause long enough to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating, he made his move.

Slowly. Carefully. Like a cat avoiding a puddle. He rolled to his side, shifted his legs out of the sheets, and tiptoed toward the edge of the bed. Each movement sent a surge of panic racing through him. If he made a single wrong sound, if he even breathed wrong...

The blanket slipped.

His stomach lurched.

The body beside him stirred, stretching luxuriously like a cat that knows it owns the world — and Soap had never felt smaller.

He froze. One leg out. One arm balancing on the mattress. His heart hammering.

Think. Think. Think.

Finally, he grabbed the nearest shirt — definitely not his — tried and failed to cover himself with it. He took a deep, silent breath, convinced that if he even looked at them, they would wake and everything would collapse.

Taking slow, tentative, ridiculous steps toward the door he searched for his clothes in the dim room.

No creak. No noise. Don’t fall. Don’t die. Don’t wake them.

A floorboard groaned.

Soap froze, mid-step. Sweat prickling at his hairline.


Commissions or want to slip me the tip? Find me on Kofi: ko-fi.com/geisty