TW: SUICIDE
Sergeant Jack Greengrass, MC, DSC straightened his dress uniform in the mirror. He couldn't get his full reflection in there at once, there being no room to stand back in his tiny bedsit. Two sets of five buttons, up a red coat. Dark blue collar with the leek badge of the Welsh guards on the collar.
He attached his medals, of which there were many; for long service; for his various tours of duty; and the two he had been awarded for valour.
*Aye, thanks lads. Bits of tin will keep me fed and stop the nightmares.* He thought.
He judged every crease crisp, every seam in place. He pulled the dark cap into place and tugged the sleeves of the jacket straight again.
The startling formality of his appearance was completely at odds with the poorly appointed, but neat, slum bedsit he had been forced to exist in.
He sat on the bed and it dipped worryingly. He retrieved the wooden case and placed it on his knees.
He had risked everything bringing this home from Afghanistan. Had he been caught he'd be in a military prison right now. He wondered if he'd have actually been any worse off.
He flipped the lid open and grasped the Beretta M9 that he had bought off some yank ranger that he'd met in Saudi. He had no idea why he bought it, even less so why he risked literally everything bringing it home. But now he was grateful for its imminent smooth efficiency.
He took his time inspecting, and dry firing it, eventually loading it with the only clip he had for the weapon. 15 rounds. But he'd only need the one.
The nightmares had led him to drink, which had led him to gambling, to drugs and to violence. All eventually leading to the divorce courts, family access lawyers and this shit hole bedsit in a shit hole town.
He looked around making sure everything was in place. His note on the dresser on the other side of the room to make sure it stayed clean.
He took a deep breath and with no more preamble he cocked the hammer and put the pistol to his head. And everything stopped.
He breathed.
His scrunched up eyes relaxed at the lack of anticipated pain.
He allowed them to open fully.
He was still in his shithole bedsit.
"Well, that was a bit of an anti-climax?"
The voice made him jump, the bed creaking dramatically.
"Who the fuck...? What the fuck...?" Jack scrambled to his feet and fled to the far wall of the bedsit, away from the figure that had suddenly appeared, that was leaning nonchalantly on his door.
"Sorry, have I interrupted you? Were you in the middle of something?"
The intruder was a five foot 20 year old girl with blonde pigtails and a plaid skirt that was as close to a belt as any other item of clothing, knee high white socks and a dress shirt tied in a knot under an unreasonably sized bust, almost too big for her small frame.
"When did you come in?...how did you come in?...who the fuck are you!?" he asked, increasingly exasperated with each question.
"I have been here since your monkey-brained ancestors thought it was a good idea to make a pile of stones and kneel before them," she answered the first question,
"I came in by accessing the interdimensional ether sphere that allows me access to anywhere in your meat space. Or if it's easier for you...magic!" She waved her hands to emphasise the 'magic'.
"And as you should have guessed by now, I am your own personal demon." She smiled brightly.
"Ah, right, makes sense. So I'm dead then, yeah? I didn't believe in it, but if heaven and hell existed then I thought it'd be you guys that came for me." opined Jack.
"Not quite how it works, slim. But no, you're not dead. We're existing in the second before you pulled the trigger. Master of time and space bitch." She gave a triumphant double fist pump.
"Well if you're a demon with the power over time and space why do you look like a 20 year old porn star?"
"That, Sergeant Jack William Cooper, is all you. You little pervert." She opened her arms and gave a twirl that flicked up her tiny skirt, letting Jack appreciate the underside of her pert round ass.
"I am appearing to you as your wildest desire, for reasons that will soon become apparent.
In my true form I am an 85 foot crimson monstrosity with a tonker big enough to squash you flat like a whack-a-mole." She added demurely. "But don't worry about that right now."
"Look, I'm having a rough day, wanna fill me in on just what the actual fuck is going on?" Jack begged.
"Ok, Sarge," she ripped off a parody salute, making her breasts bounce temptingly, "a man of action, I get it. Well as you should have put together by now, I have a deal for you.
You are sad, you're lonely, you dreamt of fucking one last hotty before you died, but you're too fucked up to try.
I will give you the best night of your life, and in return...your soul." She raised the hem of her skirt slowly and flashed him the bald mound of her pussy.
"Seems steep." Jack answered, eyes transfixed by the sight.
"A...Your idea of a soul is warped by goat herder logic and evangelical christians. It's a mere energy signature that will join with ours and become part of a greater whole. No consciousness, no pain, no tormenting hell-fire.
And B...I don't think you fully appreciate how good this pussy is."
To emphasise her point she opened her stance and trailed one finger up and along her pink snatch. He watched as it came away wet, trailing a sticky string of her arousal. She brought it to her mouth and sucked it clean.
Jack's cock became embarrassingly hard at her display. Not even the thought of being squished by monster dongs tempered his lust but...
"I really feel like this is not a great idea." He tried.
