A Man Out Of Time

He’s a handful; arrogant, raunchy, shrewd but also funny, talented, clever and good Lord is he handsome. He is beautiful, my soldier. I see him there, dashing in his crisp uniform, one hand tossing back brews and the other flailing about while he splays his life in vivid detail for all the world to see; well, maybe not all the world, but to him this night, his men are the world, as he is to them. They are to be off to battle the next day, most of them to never be heard from again. Looking back I can tell you that they had no idea, all but the one of them; my soldier, their Captain. He is a man out of time, a man from the future living in the past. He knows their futures, knows how to get the most of them in his speech to live the night as if it were their last, knowing full well it will be just that. I see the look in their eyes as they drink in his wisdom, see the pain in his eyes as their fleeting youth ghosts by him. Life is precious, he tells them. He is their brave leader, the man who will lead them into battle, the man they will fight for, live for and ultimately die for.

Alone, the two of us at last, he is a different, passive man; a shell that on the outside resembles the fearless leader but holds inside a scared, lost and lonely soul. He comes to me for solace, intimacy and a chance to get away from his own demons. He needs me because I do not need him, not like they do. I want him yes, I desire all that he is, flesh and blood, warmth and fire; what I need is this, this thing that we have. I need to feel his skin, tense and hard under my fingers and his lips, soft and pliant against my own. I hold him in my arms, give him what he craves from and ultimately needs from me, things which he would pay great money for, though I stopped charging him weeks ago. I give him quick release at first, dropping to my knees, saluting and honoring him in my own way. He grasps hard at my hair when he comes, the silence broken only by the sloppy, greedy sounds of my my mouth around him, milking him dry, wanting more. I moan in protest when he gently lifts me up off of my knees and guides me towards the bed, panting like the wanton whore that I am as I watch him disrobe, watching as each layer is peeled off, laying himself bare before me.

He is beautiful like this, vulnerable and open, devoid of the usual arrogance, almost shy. I think to ask him about his men, about how he came to be in such a predicament, how he came to a time that is not meant to be his yet so clearly suits him. I am hushed of such thoughts, as if he can read my mind, with a sweet kiss, sweeter than I want it to be, almost too much to bear. I roll us over, straddling him and shamelessly grinding my hips against him as he chuckles softly at my need for dominance. He commands all day, giving his men orders that they never question when all I want is for him to lose that sense of control, hold on to me for dear life, not knowing what might come next. I want to hear those dirty words he uses when regailing his crew with lewd jokes or thoughts of conquests past, even if the gender is changed. I want them whispered in my ear, tickling my wildest fantasies. I want to hear his stories, his tales of fucking women, thinking that it is me he truly wants, the hardened flesh between my legs the thing he fantasizes about, the thing he craves.

He lets me fuck him, lets me slide my cock inside of him, agonizingly slow at first, a sharp contrast of the earlier, quick release I granted him. We are face to face, nose to nose, hand to hand; every part of our bodies touching. His eyes are closed at first and his panting starts soft and low, music to my ears. Soon that music becomes louder and more intense and he opens his eyes, staring me down, their endless depth threatening to drown me; the emotion I see taking over my soul just as the warmth of orgasm threatens to take over my body. I lean down and bite his shoulder, stifling the scream that threatens to come out, afraid that any noise that I make will render me unable to hear his delicious series of moans and whimpers. I reach down and take his cock in my hand, thrilled to find it hard once more, and as I come hard, I stroke him, no rhyme or reason to my method, blindly striving to give him more pleasure. He is not so silent this time and as he comes a strangled name leaves his lips.

He is shaking as I slowly pull out of him, and I am sure I see a tear on his cheek. I falter for a moment, not sure what to do or say. I leave the bed and gather his clothes, laying them out neatly the way a uniform deserves to be. I sense him staring at me and when I look up he is grinning ear to ear like a chesire cat, the shy soul gone, replaced once again by the proud and arrogant man.

“Something funny?” I ask him.

“You just…You really remind me of someone.” He tells me.

“Ianto?” I ask him.

“Yeah, he was always cleaning up after me. Couldn’t stand for my clothes to be strewn about and…” The smile was replaced by a confused and dumbfounded look. “Wait…h-how did you know that name? I…I…”

I sit on the bed next to him. “You said his name.” I tell him. “You often do. When things get intense, when you lose yourself…Ianto. Always Ianto.”

He looks away from me, arrogance shot down leaving a hint of a broken soul in its wake. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I…I don’t even know your name. Ianto was, well… I miss him. Can we leave it at that?” He looks up at me again, and places his hand over mine. “What is your name?”

“You can call me Ianto, sir.” I tell him and I watch as his face lights up, sure that I truly wish that were my name.