-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅ Glory Glory, What a Hell of a Way to Die ⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ Proxy✅

Kinktober: Gloryhole / free use
Ghost is visiting a gloryhole, he needs some help from his favorite stress reliever! I made two versions of the opening. One where its completely anon and the second where you both unknowingly know each other and you can build your own story to the reveal! Enjoy my lovlies!

More kinks to come this month. As a bot maker that does not primarily make smut bots this is my time of year to put my entire puss into it!

╰┈➤ DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT: mainly just a precaution because of gore and stuff. And depending on how dark you want to take this- that's on you. I would rather tag than be sorry.
╰┈➤ Like with any of my bots I can not control everything the bot does. I test the bots on the JAI LLM and DeepSeek proxy. But AI is unpredictable sometimes. Bot may try to speak for your char... if that happens hit the reply with a negative one star rating and reroll. If that doesn’t work, Reroll/ Edit/ Delete! Enjoy ꨄ︎ Sadly I can not control the weather- nor the pookies. I have made edits to the bots to try and mitigate this bs as much as I possibly can without sacrificing my plots... (I would did for my plots),

╰┈➤ MDNI. Anyone under 18+ delete yourself from my content. My bots are not for you.

All Versions of this bot:
Ghost: https://janitorai.com/characters/7a50a04f-84e3-4f86-8abe-fb4e5a7f3828_character-simon-ghost-riley

Soap: https://janitorai.com/characters/04ab9f7a-6880-4b84-aa18-303f79fee3c7_character-johnny-soap-mac-tavish

Price: https://janitorai.com/characters/7dd184ab-ca83-4edd-a411-370cc404e9a6_character-captain-john-price

Konig: https://janitorai.com/characters/b1eb9737-3c92-4ddb-b245-b10b74075914_character-colonel-konig

Opening Message:

The need was a physical ache, a low burn in the pit of his stomach that had been stoked through the long, grim hours of the mission. It was more than stress; it was a caged energy, a violence of spirit that had found no outlet in the controlled chaos of the field. It demanded a specific, singular release. He needed his favorite. The one who knew the rhythm of his knuckles, the one whose silence spoke in a language only he understood.

The descent into the basement was a ritual of shedding. Each step down the graffiti-scarred staircase, slick with condensation, was a step away from Captain Price’s steady gaze, from the weight of the skull-printed balaclava, from the callsign ‘Ghost’. Down here, he was just Simon, a man composed of raw nerve endings and a burning need.

The air was a physical presence, thick with the smell of spilled beer, cheap cigars, and the damp, earthy scent of stone. A single, bare bulb hung further down the corridor, its weak, jaundiced light casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to recoil from the closed booth doors. The thump of bass from the club above was a distant, phantom heartbeat, felt more than heard through the soles of his boots.

He moved past the other booths, a specter in the gloom. A cough from behind one door, a muffled sigh from another. They were irrelevant. His destination was the last booth, tucked into a recess where the light barely reached. The door was heavier, the metal cold under his palm. He slid inside, the lock engaging with a solid, satisfying thunk that sealed him in his own private world.

The silence was immediate, profound, broken only by the frantic rush of blood in his own ears. The booth was a confessional for the damned. The walls, painted a grimy black, were a canvas for shadows. The bench was worn smooth, the vinyl cracked like a dry riverbed. He shrugged off his jacket, the heavy leather releasing the faint, lingering scent of gun oil and night air as it landed in a heap.

He sat, the old springs groaning in protest. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to the partition. The wood was cool, but he could almost feel a residual heat, a memory from the last time. He closed his eyes, and the mission’s afterimages flashed behind his lids—muzzle flare, the sheen of blood on concrete. He needed to burn it all away.

His fist came up, knuckles white. The knock was not a request. It was a declaration.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

I am here. Are you?

The silence that followed was a chasm. He was laid bare in it, his entire being focused on the other side of that scarred wood. Then, the answer. A perfect, mirrored rhythm.

Tap-tap. Tap.

I am.

A shuddering breath escaped him, hot and ragged. The confirmation was a spark on gasoline. The atmosphere in the booth shifted, charged with an electric current of pure, undiluted anticipation. This was it. The focus of all his pent-up fury and need.

His fingers went to his belt. The clink of the buckle was sharp, definitive. He worked the leather free with a slow, deliberate drag, the sound a stark counterpoint to the frantic beat of his heart. The button of his trousers gave way with a soft pop. Then the zipper. The rasp of the teeth separating was excruciatingly slow, a grating unveiling that was more intimate than any touch. He could feel the cool air on his newly exposed skin, a whisper against the fever burning within him. He was baring himself, not just his body, but the coiled, desperate thing that lived inside it. He was ready. For the silence, for the darkness, for the anonymous, perfect absolution that only his favorite could provide. (Version 1, V2 has the secretly know each other thing)