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writergirl3005 · 6 years

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For the Dancing and the Dreaming

Summary: It had always been, and will always be their song. Part of my 'Soundtrack of Life' series. Rewritten.

Link to Spotify playlist for the series

Stoick the Vast already knew the woman he was going to marry.

Valka Eldsdottir was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Not only was she an accomplished shieldmaiden, she was also filled with poise and grace, with a strong soul and a gentle heart. She was unusual to be sure; she actually believed that dragons could be reasoned with, though she kept her views to herself most of the time.

Stoick had always been a brave man. He charged headlong into battles, fought ferocious dragons and was the mightiest warrior in all of Berk.

But when it came to speaking to Valka, words failed him. He couldn't get two words out of his mouth without sounding like a total idiot. It had taken him much longer than he'd like to admit to being able to speak to her normally, a fact which brought no end of amusement to Valka.

"What would people say, Stoick?" she would tease him. "A brave warrior like you, being afraid of a little slip of woman like me."

"Would you call a Valkyrie a little slip of a woman?" he would retort (well, he would retort once he had enough presence of mind to be able to speak to her). "You are a brave warrior and an accomplished shieldmaiden. No one would call you a slip of anything."

After their engagement was finalised, they would often meet in a special spot on Berk. It was on one of the cliff sides, and it had the most magnificent views of the ocean, stretching as far beyond what the eyes could see. They would sit there, talking about themselves and their lives, laughing and watch the sunsets. It soon became their spot. It was where they shared their first kiss. It was where they confessed their love for each other.

And it was where they learnt to sing what they always thought of as their song.

"And gladly ride the waves of life, if you would marry me," they sang, arms still wrapped around each other.

On the day before their wedding, the song had much more exuberance that it usually did.

"Just think," said Stoick. "This time tomorrow, we shall be married. Nothing shall make me happier than being your husband."

"And nothing shall make me happier than being your wife," said Valka.

They shared a kiss to seal their promise.

Their wedding was a grand celebration, befitting the son of a chief, and filled with happiness and merrymaking.

"To love, to kiss to sweetly hold, for the dancing and the dreaming," Stoick and Valka sang, dancing energetically to the music. The entire day was wonderful and perfect. All the ceremonies went off without a single hitch, and there were no dragon attacks.

To them, it was an auspicious sign that their marriage would be happy and fulfilling.

Valka had been despondent the past few weeks. She had lost another child.

Stoick knew that Valka knew about the whispers of those in the village. Everyone worried that Valka had not yet borne him a child. No one said anything in his or Valka's presence, but they talked. He knew that they did. Gobber had told him as much.

"What are they saying Gobber?" Stoick demanded. "I want to know."

Gobber shook his head. "It's better if you don't know. The things people say are not fit to be repeated in polite company. I had to knock a few heads together to make them stop."

But even with Gobber's words, Stoick was still shocked to say the least when Valka came to him that evening, sorrow on her face.

"Stoick," she said, trying her best to hold the tears at bay. "I think that you should divorce me."

"What?" he yelled, jumping to his feet. "Why would I even do that?"

Valka lost the battle against her tears, and they flowed freely down her face. "I have failed to give you a son. It would be better for you to divorce me and to marry a woman who can do so. A man in your position has no use for a barren woman such as myself."

Stoick's heart twisted. It seemed that people had not been as discrete as he had believed and Valka had heard what the villagers had gossipped about.

Stoick gathered Valka in his arms and held her close. Valka began crying in earnest. "I can't divorce you Valka, I won't," he said.

"Can't or won't?" she asked.

"Won't." He answered. "You are the woman of my heart. I will love you no matter what. This is merely a test set by the Gods, and I believe that if we pass this test, we would be rewarded beyond our wildest dreams."

Seeing that she was not yet convinced, Stoick whistled the first few notes of their song. "I'll swim and sail on savage seas," he began. "With ne'er a fear of drowning."

As Stoick continued singing the song, Valka slowly stopped crying. But this time, the song did not have the energy that it always had. This time, it was much more subdued. It was meant as a reaffirmation of their promise in the wake of all the troubles that had plagued them so far.

And as they sang, they regained their faith that they would be able to get through this together.

"My dearest one, my darling dear, you mighty words astound me," Valka sang, rocking Hiccup to sleep in her arms. He was such a beautiful baby, with Stoick's hair and her eyes. Her tiny son had been born too soon, but he had survived against all odds. He was a fighter to be sure. She had faith that he would grow up to be big and strong; she had faith that he would outgrow being a hiccup.

"But I would bring you rings of gold, I'd even sing you poetry," Stoick sang, gently brushing Hiccup's soft wispy hair. It was an odd choice for a lullaby, but Valka wanted Hiccup to know that song.

Once he was asleep, Valka gently placed him in his cradle. "Goodnight little one," she said as she placed a blanket around the baby, making sure to properly tuck it in. She placed Hiccup's stuffed dragon in his arms. "Sleep well, my son."

Stoick and Valka smiled as they watched their son sleep peacefully in his bed. "Come Valka," said Stoick. "We need to get some sleep as well. We'll have a busy day tomorrow."

Valka smiled and followed him into their bedroom.

Only hours later, a swarm of dragons descended on Berk. And their lives were changed forever.

"You should marry another woman Stoick."

"Hiccup needs a mother!"

"It would be better for a child to have two parents Stoick!"

"Valka would have wanted you to move on, she wouldn't want you to be alone for the rest of your life!"

The people who gave him advice were well-meaning, he knew that. But he couldn't love another woman. He had promised long ago, that the only woman he would love would be Valka. No one else. And he intended to keep that promise.

Every year, on the day of the anniversary, he went to their spot. And here he sang their song, both his parts and Valka's. Ḫe tried imitating a female voice for Valka's parts at first, but the less said about it, the better.

Hiccup loved to hear about his mother. And Stoick loved to tell him tales about her. The boy had been delighted when Stoick taught him the song that Stoick used to sing with Valka. "Will I sing this song with the one I love the most as well?" Hiccup had asked one day.

"Yes, you will," answered Stoick. Stoick had a suspicion that Hiccup already had a girl in mind. Perhaps he should have a talk with Astrid's parents. It was never too early to start such proceedings. "Your mother wished this for you as well. She wanted you to find a love that was as strong as ours had been. A love that would last even beyond death."

Hiccup looked at him with wide eyes. "Do you really think I will find a love like that?"

Stoick gave his son a smile and patted him on the shoulder. "I have absolute faith that you would."

Stoick whisted their song. He could see how much it had startled Valka. He walked closer to her and almost whispered the first few lines to her. (With a mood-killing interruption from Gobber which earned Gobber glares from everyone in the room, and yes, this included the dragons).

"And love..." he sang, hoping that Valka would continue her part of the song. There were a few moments of silence, and Stoick sighed in disappointment. Valka probably did not-

"And love me for eternity," Valka sang. Her voice was as sweet and melodious as it was the first time he had heard her sing. The two of them eagerly dived into the song, laughing and dancing with as much vigour as they did when they were young. After they had finished the song (with another mood killing interruption from Gobber; Gods, did Gobber have no idea that he needed to keep quiet when he and Valka were having a moment?), Stoick proposed to Valka once more.

No words could have described his happiness once she agreed. Now he, Valka and Hiccup would be a family once again.

"To love, to kiss to sweetly hold, for the dancing and the dreaming," Hiccup and Astrid sang, energetically dancing to the music that was being played. Toothless and Stormfly were also dancing and flying in the air in time to the song.

Valka watched them with tears in her eyes. Stoick was supposed to be with her here on this happy day. The should have been together to celebrate this occasion. But he was not, and Valka was alone. But she was certain that Stoick would find some way to come back for this one day. She had faith in him.

But the villagers had understood her insistence - her need - at having the wedding at this spot. It was hers and Stoick's, but now it was Hiccup and Astrid's. At several points during the ceremony, she was certain that she felt and saw Stoick standing by her side. She smiled. It seemed as if Stoick would be attending their son's wedding after all. She was right to have faith in him.

Valka, now an old woman, made her way to the spot. She knew she was nearing the end of her life. Her life had been long and fulfilling, but there was an emptiness in her heart that would never be filled.

For the past few days, she had been setting all her affairs in order. She did her best to soothe her grandchildren, who felt the tense atmosphere but could not tell what was about to happen. Hiccup and Astrid knew. She did her best to comfort them as well, especially her son. Even though Hiccup had been a grown man for several years, it was still hard losing family, especially parents. But it seemed that he had accepted the inevitable.

Now, there was just one thing left for her to do. With a grace and energy she had not possessed for many years, she started to sing their song. Her voice was carried by the wind, Valka hoped that they would reach Stoick in Valhalla.

"If you promise me your heart.." She sang.

"And love me for eternity."

She turned to see Stoick, looking as young as he was the day they were joined in matrimony. She walked towards him and clasped her hands to his.

"My dearest one, my darling dear," she sang and started to dance with him.

Valka felt the years melting away from her as the song progressed, and once more, she was a young woman.

"And gladly ride the waves of life, if you will marry me." The last note hung in the air. With a smile, Valka walked arm in arm with Stoick to the afterlife.

#fandom: how to train your dragon #stoickXvalka #the soundtrack of life #song inspired fic #one shot

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ekebolou · 6 years

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New Book Prelude: The Armistice

Haha, had to turn safe mode on. Didn’t realize I didn’t have that already selected.

This could be a better blowjob scene, I think - there’s some right tropey stuff in there - but hey, it is what it is for now.

Part One

Part Three

The Armistice: Part Two

Rev was so angry he was blind, and the better for it – for had he been able to see anyone it may well have spelled the end of the armistice and his life. Soldiers like Rev were known the world over, but in theory, it was only a special, well-disciplined few that were invited to the signing. Specifically: those who could be trusted not to start (uncalled for) fights and to be obedient. Which was not Rev.

Why Rev was at the signing was a question that had no answer, though, indeed it was a question often asked. Rev himself asked it many times – then again, it was with a certain grimness he realized it was always him. That only made the question larger, though. Why him, always? Always the one there, always the one present, always the one left, always the one next to the dead and not dead, always the one shivering and standing alone, and stomping through the dark, and standing in the ditch, and huddled in the tent, and not dead, never dead, alone with the dead...

“Stop!”

Rev had stalked into the dark that waited at the edge of the armistice camp; the dark was always close, but never so near it swallowed the violent merrymaking of the camp whole. The dark was also a good place for tripping over hidden lovers. Ever was he stuck in places both violent and loving.

“Siver! Wait!”

Rev stopped, if for no other reason than he was seriously in danger of losing his footing and dying in some non-descript bog. Or worse, the latrine pits of the Baathians. One couldn’t wander out into the dark – there might be any number of shit piles to fall into, wild and military.

The Baathian didn’t touch him, but Rev felt his presence all the same. If he hadn’t come out here to fight, he was going to be sorely surprised.

Turning on his heel, Rev faced him with his darkest glower – but maybe it was too dark to see? He must see – or the Baathian just had the good sense to recoil a bit – but then he ambled to a stop.

“Siver,” the Baathian began, then had to stop to catch his breath, and/or get the proper words of Sivery together in his head. “Archers,” he finally continued. “They will think you desert and shoot you.”

Confusion bowled over Rev’s supposedly staunch anger like a wolfhound puppy. “What the fuck? Nobody is fighting anymore! Nobody is deserting! Nobody is killing deserters anymore! What the fuck is wrong with you Baathians!?”

The Baathian glanced about somewhat uncomfortably, then shrugged and shook his head, as if the explanation would require longer than either of them had to live. “Liberty or death,” he muttered the Baathian battle-cry, then amended it, “or death and liberty.”

Rev could say nothing to this, so plainly nonsensical was it, and so found himself merely throwing his hands out, as if he might grab some sense to put into it, or perhaps merely to corral the nonsense by dividing the Baathian camp from the rest of the world in his visual field.

“I’m sorry for your friend,” the Baathian said.

“Me, too,” Rev replied, scowling.

A smile lit the Baathian’s dark face like a spark over polished steel. “No, I mean, you should not be mad at him.”

This was a good excuse to punch him, Rev thought. He was telling Rev how to treat his own friends! For whatever reason, Rev chose to ignore this opportunity. Probably because he had smiled that way. Rev comforted himself with the fact that he could conjure up any number of reasons to punch the Baathian later, if only because he was Baathian.

The Baathian seemed to notice these thoughts passing through Rev’s mind, or, at the very least, watched Rev like one watches a man who might punch you at any second.

“Why not?” Rev asked.

“Because,” the Baathian said, and tore his gaze away, perhaps as some gesture of trust, before locking it once again on Rev. “He so clearly cares for you.”

“He cares for his ability to bring home irritating lovers.”

“He cares for the peace of his tent, yes,” the Baathian returned, and again that smile! “But he has traveled to the far end of the armistice camp to attempt to find peace for you, which is much more than any other tentmate would do.”

Rev scowled. It wasn’t that the armistice camp was so big, as much as it was they were sick of marching – the Sivery in particular, who had marched farther than anyone except perhaps the Felanese, and they were mostly cavalry, so fuck them. It was something of a point that Boera had gone to some lengths to secure safe passage to, and welcome in, the Baathian camp. Anything could happen in the middle ground between camps, but to go right into the heart of another nation’s camp, when they were not your allies during the war, was to court a rather high chance of ‘accidents’. Rev decided he hated the Baathian for having a point.

This was another good chance to punch him. But the Baathian did that smiling thing again, and again watched as if he could see the thoughts pacing slowly through Rev’s half-drunk mind.

“Why do you not take your own lovers?” the Baathian asked.

Oh, Rev could hit him! He made a fist, even! He thought of putting that fist firmly in that steel-flash smile and took a step back.

Rev dropped his brows together, lifted his chin – canted one hip out as if to give himself a better, more encompassing view of the Baathian, which elongated his torso, made evident the hard-won muscle of stomach and chest. He turned his head just a little, to its finest angle. (Oh yes – he practiced this).

“Because,” he said, and tore down the whole view of himself to bring the Baathian to an intimate nearness, “no one lasts long enough.”

It was also a threatening nearness – oh how Rev loved that! – but the Baathian didn’t flinch. He still had eyes locked on Rev’s eyes as if the whole of his physique was only attendant to his mind. This was patently ridiculous, as all soldiers were sensualists.

It was a nearly physical shock to Rev when the Baathian broke this gaze, knit his brows, and cocked his head like a dog. “Why?”

Rev almost did hit him. His mouth dropped open, presumably expecting to issue his witty reply, only to toil with empty air for a while. He finally mustered enough fricative force to say, “Because of me!”

“Because you’re a ‘tease’?” The Baathian raised his brows doubtfully, and only evaded being hit in the face because he glanced back at the tent, jerking a thumb in its direction (Rev couldn’t hit him in the face if his face was turned away). “Your friend said some rather unkind – or maybe too kind – things about your skills at making men come before they ‘get to’ fuck you.”

He turned back, nonchalant, sticking his thumbs in his belt loops and looking Rev up and down as if noticing he had a body for the first time. “I found it rather doubtful, but I’ve known plenty of men who preferred other means of getting off than straightforward fucking, and figured you’d just made a story of it to enhance your prowess. No shame in that – especially if one is looking for easy lovers during the armistice. It is maybe not the same in Baath as Sivery – maybe we care less for what is straightforward than what is loving.”

“To Sivery, both are arts! Arts we do well – certainly better than a Baathian,” Rev growled.

The Baathian nodded, a distracted look on his face; he was no longer looking at Rev, at any rate. “Should I be saying it like that? ‘Sivery’? I thought with just a person it was ‘Siver’?”

A second time taken aback, Rev could think of no better retort than an answer. “It depends on if you know where they are from.”

“They are from Sivery,” the Baathian said, proud of himself, or uncertain of Rev, it was hard to tell.

Rev sighed and shook his head. “No – Sivery is a big place.”

“It’s much smaller than Erro – certainly smaller than Felan!”

“What do I know? I’m just soldier – a Sivernisat soldier!” Rev said.

“That sounds much nicer,” the Baathian said, smiling at him – not the steel flash smile, but a pleasant, ember-like smile, warm and persistent. “What a beautiful word.”

Rev let out a slow breath, mollified. “It is this way,” he said, “Sivery is the many nations that joined forces thousands of years ago, a person of Sivery – or Sivery – is someone whose homeland you don’t know. I am from the Nisa province, by the sea in the south, whereas Boera is from the mountains in the middle of the eastern island, which is divided into high and lowlands called Epone and Egre. So I am Sivernisat, he is Sivereponet, and should you know one of those lowland horsefuckers you could call them Siveregret.”

The Baathian nodded slowly for a time, taking this in. Again, he wasn’t looking at Rev, which Rev had decided was something he didn’t like.

“Thank you,” the Baathian said, “though it strikes me as awfully complex for a bit of islands.”

“What is the name of your current government again?” Rev shot back.

The Baathian – if Rev was interpreting his expression right – pouted. “The Fifth Directory. Five isn’t so bad.”

“Perhaps, if they’d all been directories,” Rev snapped, “and if it weren’t a pathetic attempt to make Baath into a second Sivery.”

“So pathetic that after a thousand years, we have finally banned slavery within all provinces of Baath.”

“Which Sivery banned a half-hundred years ago. Let’s see if in Baath it outlasts the armistice – I’m sure you’ll miss yours after a week or so of doing your own work.”

Rev had taken his eyes off the Baathian to facilitate conversation; it was too distracting the way he grew peevish when he noticed the Baathian wasn’t looking at him, and overly calm when he was. Perhaps that’s why the Baathian so smoothly insinuated himself into Rev’ view again. Rev scowled at him, but Rev’s scowl seemed only to make him smile.

“I always do my own work,” he said, but not boasting or offended, but as if he couldn’t care less – replying to Rev’s taunt was only a cursory explication of his character. A small dodge of his head, and he had Rev’s eyes again, caught in his.

“Is it only your tentmate then?”

Rev was silent a moment longer than was strictly necessary. “What?”

The Baathian smiled again. “Is your tentmate your only lover?”

“What?!”

“I don’t know what arrangement you have, but it is a shame you are mad at someone who so cares for you.” The Baathian, turned slightly away, kicking at a pile of dirt like a bashful child. “Finding you both agreeable, I would hate to come between you, unless by doing so I could help.”

Rev could only stare, open-mouthed, as he processed what exactly that implied. The Baathian, glanced at him from the corner of his eye, not in a bashful way at all, but as a wolf marks the prey he will eat next. This, perhaps, knocked loose Rev’s tongue – or, it could have been the warmth in his blood.

“Did that Epone mizera tell you he was my lover?”

The Baathian raised his brows. “No. Only lovers could possibly get so angry at each other so quickly.”

“What do you know about it?” Rev shouted and threw his hands up in a way alarmingly like Boera. “Did you listen at all? I told you I have no lover, I have taken no lover in years! And I shall be taken as no one’s lover for years yet!”

The Baathian squared himself to Rev, by necessity stepping much closer, a lopsided grin spreading across his face until it became a light smile. “Why?”

He’d led Rev back here, their little loops nothing but tactical diversions to prompt Rev into answering the question he didn’t want to answer.

“I told you–”

“You told me,” the Baathian interrupted, “that you enjoy the many things adjacent to fucking, and find yourself quite skilled. Your tentmate told me that you go stir-crazy without the occasional roll in the hay. So why do you drive yourself stir crazy, and seek fights instead of fucking?”

Part of the problem was that this was an entirely reasonable question. Rev rarely recognized himself as an entirely reasonable creature however, and decided to blame his angry speech tumbling to a halt on that.

“Or,” the Baathian went on, gazing thoughtfully down, “why do you intend to be stir crazy for ‘many years yet’ when you find it so easy to entice lovers? That is a better question.”

“Ease is no attraction,” Rev spat.

“Yes, but you clearly enjoy enticing them as well,” the Baathian said, smiling as if this were an odd hobby, rather than a sign of madness.

“What’s not to enjoy in sex?”

“Plenty of things,” the Baathian said. “Anyway, you don’t have sex – that’s what you say, isn’t it?”

Rev had to stop himself; he’d started to pace. He was revolving around the Baathian like a bird on a string. It was his specialty to make others revolve around him, which the Baathian staunchly refused to do. The stiff thump of Rev’s heartbeat was becoming louder than his anger. It was deeply confusing.

“I’ve said nothing to you about it,” Rev baldly lied. “And owe you no answers.”

The Baathian just shrugged, he took a few steps, hands clasped behind his back, as if consoling Rev. “Nothing of substance, yes – and yet we have covered the subject well. I find you interesting, and wish to know why you feel the way the way do, but you are in no way obliged to continue talking.”

It was difficult for Rev to work with people that agreed with him. Left with nothing else to do, Rev scowled at him and stalked towards the camp again. The Baathian turned smoothly on his heel and trailed after. He caught up and fell into step with Rev.

“Let’s go back, and continue drinking, so I can fuck your tentmate.”

Rev stopped, balled his fists, and turned on that smiling Baathian bastard.

He busted his lip on the Baathian’s teeth, but the Baathian’s mouth responded quickly to the push of his tongue, opening as if he’d expected to be kissed from the start. First with one hand, and then the other, Rev brushed palms lightly up the Baathian’s neck to cradle his jaw, gentling his kiss to match the gentility of his gesture. He pulled away like the fading of a breath.

Opening his eyes, the Baathian waited until Rev was looking back at him, all of the jesting gone from his expression. Rev touched his split lip with the tip of his tongue, just to feel how it bled, then obliged the Baathian with a returning look.

Ignoring the split lip, or the obvious move of a retaliatory kiss, the Baathian reached out the way a man would to a dog that might bite him. He lifted Rev’s chin, looking him square in the eyes in a way that would have been mesmerizing had he not broken into a soft smile. First one step, then another, and he was close enough to kiss Rev softly on the neck. The kisses trailed up to his jaw and back to his neck, agonizingly slow and gentle –

Or they would be, if Rev would allow himself to be agonized by such ridiculous gentility. Such play was for lovers, and fools, and then Baathian blew gently on a spot under Rev’s ear he’d wetted with his tongue, and Rev’s eyes found themselves shut, face pointed skyward. Then, with precisely proportional ferocity, bit the lobe of Rev’s ear.

Rev was forced to make a noise. However quiet and strained it was, the Baathian, pressing so close to Rev’s throat, surely heard it.

Shoving him away, Rev’s scowl matched the Baathian’s smile. The weight of that smile was such that Rev thought, even if he punched him now, the Baathian would keep smiling at him.

Lunging forward, Rev started pulling open the Baathian’s jacket, at the same moment the Baathian started laughing – laughing and yanking his arms out of the jacket so he could put his hands on Rev in return.

Rev still had a point to make, though. Blocking with a forearm, Rev swept his hand around the Baathian’s hip, sliding down to the seat of the Baathian’s pants. With his other hand, Rev slid his hand under the Baathian’s shirt and to his chest, putting himself side-on, so the Baathian could only awkwardly put hands on him in return. Leaning down to kiss Rev, the Baathian instead reached to remove his own already-circumvented shirt, only to have Rev twist his hand in the collar, preventing it.

He broke his kiss, staring down at Rev in confusion. Rev squeezed hard on his ass – eliciting more of a wince than a sexy look – rolled his weight around using his double grip to twist the Baathian about. With his thigh undermining the Baathian’s balance, it was easy for Rev to fling him over his knee to the ground.

The ground, churned soft by the endless task of camp-making, gave up a little puff of dirt, like the sigh of a pillow. Rev was on top of the Baathian before he could catch his breath, knees snug beside the Baathian’s chest. The Baathian’s hands went to Rev’ hips automatically, his laughter undermined by the need to receive more of Rev’s kisses. Scooting back to work under himself, Rev unbuttoned the Baathian’s pants – which, despite the distraction of kissing, the Baathian surely noticed. Letting his weight down, hips gently rocking, Rev let the Baathian push him back further, enticingly close to his cock, his clothes only brushing it. Rev stopped him, as if reluctant to be moved to a point where his kisses might be any less deep, or consuming.

The Baathian dragged fingers up Rev’s back, interrupting the kissing by drawing off Rev’s shirt. Once they began again, he first put hands at Rev’s shoulders, felt at the muscles of his arms, his chest, dragged slow and light against the curve of his stomach, then ended their wandering at the soft flesh that guarded his hips. Still as he explored, Rev kept kissing him, drawing in and out of his mouth as if by doing so Rev could replace the rocking of his hips against his cock. The Baathian’s hands at first squeezed, then rubbed contemplatively at his hip bones. Then – after a moment’s hesitation – kept pushing Rev towards his cock.

This was going to be easy.

Rev could already feel him growing even against the rough cloth of his pants, and as Rev gave in to the push, sliding further down his body, he only grew harder. Quite literally, Rev let this drag on until he was sure the Baathian was fully hard. Laying his palms over the Baathian’s jutting collar bone, Rev lifted his hips and shoved his body over and down such that he rested one the Baathian’s thighs, dragging kisses down the Baathian’s neck, lingering at his chest. He stayed close enough that when he pulled away from the Baathian’s cock, the Baathian stretched and quietly moaned as cold air replaced the warm. Slow as an oak bending to the wind, Rev began kissing his stomach, then moved down to his hips as if he he’d lost the way to the Baathian’s cock.

Looking up, Rev reflected on how well he’d marked the Baathian. From the moment he’d laid eyes on him – which he did again, now, from so near the Baathian’s cock he could feel the tip touching his collarbone – he’d known him to be a man of command. As the Baathian’s hands trailed up his shoulders, traced gently at his neck and jaw, touched once against his cheek, Rev gave no sign of either surprise or objection, even when his fingers gently tangled themselves between the locks of Rev’s hair and grew more firmly guiding.

Removing his hands to brace himself against the ground, Rev let the Baathian put him into position, yet, on the way there, never left him untouched. The head of the Baathian’s cock brushed his neck, then more gently against the stubble of his jaw. He brought it enticingly close to his lips, twisting his head, only to turn away again to wet his lips. The Baathian’s hands clenched in his hair, eager to push down but unwilling to be so needy as to rush him. His wet bottom lip grazed the head of the Baathian’s cock, then he twisted again, pushing the tip of his tongue up against the bottom of his cock.

Groaning quietly, the Baathian guided him down to do it again, and this time Rev brought his hand up to hold it still. Listening carefully to the Baathian’s hands – noting their minute twitches, whether they moved with without his voice, when they tightened and when they loosened – Rev demonstrated his mastery of this art.

One cock tended to feel very much like another, to the hands at least. The tongue was the finer instrument of touch in this case. Never having had a Baathian, Rev had the brief thrill of wondering how different he would taste, but of course, once he closed his mouth over the head of the Baathian’s cock, beyond the background of what-all-cocks-taste-like, he knew more the taste of the man than anything. Rev’s mouth was not particularly wet, and by swiping his tongue up the slit in the head, he could get some notion of what the complete taste would be. The Baathian’s cock was pleasingly quick to weep, and there was the tang of metal, mingling with the copper taste of the blood from Rev’s split lip, as well as a curious bitterness. As Rev passed the rougher center of his tongue hard against the head in taking more into his mouth, it was almost like salted, smoked meat.

Rev had to keep himself from smiling; smiling ruin would the enclosing pressure of his lips against the shaft. So early in the Baathian’s rising, he could feel the beating blood still bringing his cock to a firm stand, almost as if it were fighting to free itself. Rev really couldn’t help smiling then, and felt the Baathian’s hands tighten their grip pleadingly. Closing his mouth, Rev drew back, punishing the Baathian’s doubt with the lightness of his lips, the playing of his tongue around the very tip.

The Baathian pushed then – or pushed as much as he dared. Drawing back his tongue, Rev gave just enough resistance to make him stop. On the heels of the pressure relenting, in perfect opposition, Rev, laying his tongue flat against the bottom of the Baathian’s cock, sank him unto the very edge of his throat.

The Baathian almost lost his grip. His hands move down, closer to the sides of Rev’s head, begging by their positioning he would draw up and down so again. That was real cock-sucking though, and Rev had no intention to so waste this experience, or so gratify the Baathian’s needs. Though still ostensibly sucking, he kept his movements slow and playing, alternately hard for the briefest moments before going slack again.

Just because Rev could make a man come quickly, didn’t mean he always would. This was only the first step, and he could feel the Baathian’s growing tension. He would come at the second.

Pulling back, Rev earned himself a high and needy sigh from the Baathian by withdrawing the warmth of his mouth. Fingers fisted as tight as they dared in his locks. Rev let his breath be sold and harsh, watching the shying wilt even a moment’s worth caused, before he brought the warmth of the air deep in his chest down around and sealed his mouth again.

He kept having the urge to smile, and having it canceled by the want to fill his mouth wholly with the Baathian’s cock. The curious flavor of his first, expectant beads of come filled Rev with the urge to find out what the real moment would taste like. Baathians were always noted for their cleanliness, and he wondered if the smoke and leather scent of his skin was some particular Baathian way of cleansing. His cock, its sheath of skin and all, were clear of anything but the sweat Rev’s temptations had caused. Rev allowed himself a moment’s diversion to bring his hand down, acting as if he would massage the Baathian’s balls, to swipe at his thigh, picking up a trace of sweat he then rubbed against the shaft.

It was salty as he sank his mouth again. All sweat was salty. To make up for his experiment, Rev touched lightly at the Baathian’s balls only to feel him jump, too sensitive to take much touching there. All the better – Rev could focus on his favorite part.

As practiced as he was, Rev knew by the set of his jaw that the thickness of the Baathian’s cock would make him tired. He already was. Hell, he’d played so long, pushing first to one side, then the other, his tongue was starting to know the shape of it like it did his own teeth. It was a shame Rev took no lovers, because he liked it; it was pleasingly thick, the taste almost made his mouth water, and pushing it up to the threshold of his throat left a length still free that would be intimidating to a lesser artist.

Rev hadn’t lied. He was a great artist.

It was time, though, to prove it. The Baathian’s head was back, muttering something Rev could only interpret as curses. Pulling back until he held the head at his lips like a holy relic, Rev cast his eyes up the Baathian’s body, and waited. The Baathian twisted and sighed, and finally brought his head up, but looking down at Rev was a bit too much. He lay back, and swallowed, seeing his own demise. Casting his eyes to heaven one more time, the Baathian brought one hand down, so the crook of his thumb pressed around the base of his cock. The other hand closed tighter in Rev’s hair, and pulling his stomach tight, he drew himself up again so he could watch himself pushing his cock into Rev’s mouth.

A man of command. Only a sense of duty kept Rev from grinning.

He cast his eyes back down, focused on the task at hand. His own heart beat faster, yearning to spend more time with his taste and his filled mouth, but this would be better – as close as Rev ever came these days to being filled himself.

Pushing back to slow the Baathian’s insistence, Rev dawdled with each measure until he could see the strain in the shaking of the Baathian’s muscles to hold himself up. At the edge of Rev’s throat, the Baathian allowed himself a deep breath, so it was then Rev opened his throat and took him in.

Rev had been almost certain he’d come at the moment, but wasn’t at all disappointed to get more time with his cock so deep. Rev had no trouble with holding him in his throat – he’d taught himself too well to do it – but the Baathian still pushed at his limits of comfort. Going slowly, his lips met the taught, whitened knuckles of the Baathian’s hand at the base of his cock.

Rev shut his eyes; it had been some time since he’d done this. Ready to swallow at a moment’s notice, he drew back just enough to give himself space to work the muscles of his throat around the Baathian’s cock.

The Baathian cursed, his body desperate to writhe but held in check by an admirable force of will. Moving himself over roughly an inch of the Baathian’s cock, Rev began a steady, in-and-out rocking, pausing periodically to kiss those knuckles again and work his throat.

Long since Rev had taken him in his throat, the Baathian’s hand had moved from his head to dig hard on the soft dirt at his side. At first, Rev watched it with some curiosity; he could hold his breath quite a while (he was a Sivery after all – born of the sea, they said). The Baathian was quite thick. He filled Rev’s throat admirably. Rev couldn’t hold him at full depth quite as long as he liked. He pushed himself to do it for as long as he could, listening to the meaningless Baathian curses, watching the muscles of his torso quiver, sweat bead, and hand clench. The in-and-out began to tire him, and he contemplated his well-tuned skill.

It was starting to annoy him to have to use it.

Every bit of the Baathian’s body was taught. Rev had to shorten his depth, abandon the periodic massage of his throat. The Baathian seemed to have stopped breathing as well as cursing. Rev’s breath was getting short.

Why the fuck hadn’t he come yet?

This was well beyond what Rev usually did to tease a lover into coming; it was his special gift, his best skill. He could do this ages longer and with greater patience, depth, and finesse than anyone he’d ever heard of, or received it from.

And if it annoyed him to have to use it to its fullest extent, it annoyed him even worse to have to relent. Too proud to choke, Rev let the Baathian’s cock out of his mouth, to draw a deep breath. It was a bit hastier an exit than Rev would have liked. Then again, Rev would have liked the sliding of the Baathian’s defeat down his throat.

As Rev left him, one of the Baathian’s hands closed around his own cock, while the other untangled itself from the ground. He touched Rev’s jaw, thumb stroking at his cheek. He lifted himself up like a man who’d been beaten with sticks, wincing and sighing, until he sat, hand still protectively over his cock. Rev had to rear back on his heels to scowl at him properly, which scowl the Baathian only softly touched with his thumb.

“Your not-lovers have been right,” he said, his tone casual but his voice rasping. “You are pretty good at that.”

Rev almost hit him, but instead had a better idea. He leaned forward and kissed him, feeling that delightful give, followed closely by having the Baathian’s tongue deep in his mouth as he pushed back. Rev hoped he could taste his own cock in Rev’s mouth even without the come, as for some that was as important as sucking it – apparently the Baathian among them.

The Baathian started to put hands up, and Rev laid his hands on the outside of his thighs in response, moving slowly up...

With a pained grunt, the Baathian broke the kiss; Rev finally got to see him grimace a bit, though why he would Rev couldn’t imagine. Casually, he pushed Rev’s hands off.

“So,” he said, “will you come to my tent now?”

Rev flinched, drawing back. Hastily, he tried to cover it by matching the Baathian’s coolness. “Why? Clearly you don’t like me very much.”

The Baathian ignored this like he knew the feint that it was. “Not to fuck, if you don’t want to. I am just not so interested in continuing outside.” He shuddered slightly, looking around. “I don’t mind an audience too much, but the tent is much more comfortable.”

“No,” Rev said, scowling as he pushed himself to his feet. He was a bit unsteady, his groin felt a bit tight. Maybe that was why he didn’t feel very much like scowling for long. “What makes you think I would fuck you now?”

The Baathian rose with him, and shrugged, brushing the dirt off himself. There was quite a bit of dirt. Now that he was standing, and softening, Rev could get a real look at his length. It wasn’t he longest Rev had ever seen, but even Rev was impressed he managed to get it all down. “Unwilling to admit defeat?”

Rev bristled. “I am not defeated.”

“I didn’t come,” the Baathian reminded him.

“I know,” Rev snapped, but then couldn’t think of how to follow it up. He folded his arms, and tried not to watch as the Baathian picked up their scattered clothes.

“Well,” the Baathian sighed, handing Rev back his shirt, “please don’t misunderstand – it was very nice.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Rev replied.

The Baathian smiled at him. Rev resisted the urge to make his insult literal.

“If you change your mind, come by my tent. I am called Anik – any of the Baathians should be able to direct you.”

Rev snorted. “Enter the Baathian camp again?”

“I don’t fancy my odds in the Siveric camp, certainly,” the Baathian replied raising his brows. He stuck out his hand to clasp wrists.

Rev’s mouth fell open for only a second, but it was a second more than he liked. Who ended having his dick sucked with a handshake? Who ended having his dick sucked by Rev with a handshake?

“May I know your name?” Anik asked, still holding his hand out. “I enjoyed your company; I would be saddened not to know it, for I couldn’t ask after you.”

“My name is Rev,” Rev stepped in threateningly, “and I don’t shake hands with Baathians.”

He turned on his heel – it had worked before – and stalked in the direction of the Siveric camp. If Anik followed this time, Rev would make sure he came. If he didn’t, what was the loss of a Baathian’s company?

“Farewell, Rev,” the Baathian said, sounding not in the least distressed. “I’ll let your tentmate know you’ve gone back.”

Rev almost turned back around – almost. Instead, he forced his feet in the direction of the Siveric camp so hard he swore he could feel the earth crumble under them.

Part Three

#new book #stories #things that I wrote

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lnicol1990 · 6 years

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Defining Moments - Chapter 10

Can’t say I’ve really got anything to mention before this chapter. So, enjoy.

Novtumber, Year 168, Fifth Age

Aleks – aged 26

Aleks was really starting to resent the Rising Sun Inn’s namesake. The morning sun was streaming through the east-facing windows, shining brightly on his table and reflecting off his tankard and into his eyes. The sunlight burned through him and just added to the cacophony of pain in his head, along with the miners that had somehow used fairy shrinking magic to fit inside his brain and beat it to death with tiny, little hammers.

More stout would probably appease them.

If he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t really morning anymore, far closer to being noon, but he didn’t care. He could also move tables, but he couldn’t be bothered. And finally, he could sober up and leave the inn, but he didn’t want to.

He deserved this, deserved this pain, at least, that’s what he told himself.

He hadn’t truly understood what Ayla had meant two years ago, about how the horrors of a mission gone wrong were all she saw with closed eyes, how the failings haunted her nightmares and how she couldn’t recognise the face staring back at her in the mirror. He could understand it now, and by the Gods, he wished he didn’t.

Duradel. Turael. Hazelmere. Sloane. Cyrisus. Ghommal.

Their names and faces danced in his head. Their deaths played over and over again in his mind’s eye, and when he dreamt, they looked at him and asked why they died. Lucien’s laughter echoed in his ears, twisting to come out of the mouths of merrymakers who inhabited the tavern. And all the while, his guilt rested heavily on his shoulders like a worn cloak, his thoughts turning spitefully inwards.

The sound of a deliberate tapping pricked at his ears, sending pain through his head with unrivalled precision. He hunched in on himself and turned his head slowly to glower at the new source of discomfort. Recognising the figure striding forwards, seemingly oblivious to his suffering, he felt what was left of his pride shrivel up in horror, as if thinking of the ranger had summoned her.

However, Ayla did not pause as she walked past his table, and Aleks couldn’t help but feel indignant. She must have seen him, she must have. And yet, she hadn’t even had the courtesy to look at him in his misery, not even a passing glance, hadn’t even said hello. He wasn’t that overcome by drink that he was unrecognisable, so she must have seen that he was there.

He watched her walk up to the bar and ask the bartender for a drink. There was a shake of the head from the barman, but the woman persisted. She pointed at something behind the man, on one of the shelves, and pulled out a heavy coin purse. After a moment’s consideration, the man gave her a tiny glass and a little bottle. She paid three times as much as Aleks had for his stout, picked up her purchase and walked straight to the mage’s table, sitting down directly in front of him.

She was in her bleached dragonhide armour, which reflected the sunlight painfully in his direction and made her appear to glow like some ethereal creature. Her hair was loose and almost reaching her shoulders, a far cry from the look she’d had when they’d met, and was supporting a white archer’s hat, complete with feather.

If he had been sober, he might have called her beautiful, holding herself with confidence and grace. In his hungover-trying-to-still-be-drunk state, however, she was an eyesore, watching him fall apart with pretentious judgement and feigned sympathy.

“You look terrible,” she stated as she uncorked her little bottle and poured the clear liquid into her tiny glass. After corking the bottle, she held the glass with both hands and sipped it delicately. After draining half the glass, she set it back on the table and leaned back in her seat, watching him. “So, I guess this is the part where I ask if you want to talk about what’s wrong. But as I already know the answer to that, why don’t we skip that part?”

“Oh go away, Ayla,” Aleks grumbled, looking dourly into his tankard. He would have been ruder to her, like he had been with Tiffy, but he knew better than to be overly antagonistic; even drunk, he knew better. He lifted his glass and took a long drink, almost draining it, before glancing up at her. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So I’d gathered.”

“And sitting there isn’t going to make me change my mind!”

“Of course not.”

Aleks glowered at her for a moment, hating that she was being the very epitome of calm collectedness. Her face was impassive, showing nothing to indicate the events even bothered her. Instead, she just continued to look at him, watching, waiting for him to crack and talk to her.

He downed the last of his stout and waved to the bartender. It took a minute before his empty glass was replaced with a full one, and his coin purse a little lighter. He took his first mouthful of the swill, the bitter aftertaste burning the back of his throat.

She was still watching him. He tried to ignore her, but found it increasingly hard to do so. Her very presence was drawing out the desire to talk, in a way that only his brother could rival.

Might as well get it over with.

“It’s all my fault,” he announced quietly into his mug, though he knew she’d heard him. He didn’t see any movement, nor did he hear a request for him to speak up or repeat himself, nothing. He carried on talking to his ale. “If I hadn’t been at the Chaos Temple, no one would have had to come and save me. They wouldn’t have died. I was the one who defeated the creature guarding the Fist of Guthix! I might as well have given it to Lucien! And now he’s even more powerful, he might even have the power to become a god. And it’s all thanks to me!”

He’d said it. He’d finally said it. It almost felt good just to get it off his chest, to admit how badly he’d screwed up. And yet, at the same time, it felt like he’d just sealed his fate, damnation for all eternity and everything that came to failures like him. But, as he already knew: he deserved this pain.

“Wow, how terrible for you,” Ayla commented dryly. She reached for her glass and sipped from it, completely unaware of the indignant fire she’d lit in his stomach, of the rage he felt at his pain being acknowledged so derisively. She returned her glass to the table and played absentmindedly with the rim. “Although, I do think you’re giving yourself too much credit.”

“Credit?” Aleks spat, choking on air. He stared at her, mouth open in shock and disbelief.

How dare she mock him. How dare she make light of the fact that six people were dead, and their enemy was now even stronger!

“Yes, ‘credit’,” she answered. She leaned forward and brought her hands up to rest beneath her chin. She returned his outraged look with a gaze that had suddenly turned steely and unimpressed. “Do you really think the mission would have gone any better if you’d done something different, or if you hadn’t been there at all?”

“Yes!” Aleks argued, his anger at her finally boiling over. “I recruited everyone. I went to the Chaos Temple and dealt with Movario at the Cavern of Guthix. I solved that puzzle and took on the Balance Elemental that was guarding the Fist! Everything that went wrong was my fault!”

“I recruited half of them, so don’t even try and sell me that one!” Ayla sniped back at him, her sharp tone instantly silencing any objection he might have had. “And no one had to join up, they all volunteered for this mission. And they all chose to go and save you when Lucien attacked, they all knew the risks!”

He didn’t answer her; he didn’t know how. A small voice inside of him was agreeing with her, telling him that she was right. But he was somewhere between hungover and returning-to-drunkenness, and it had inflated his pride such that every other part of him was either ignoring that voice or trying to shut it up, unwilling to admit defeat.

“And as for what happened beneath Lumbridge swamp,” she continued. He realised a second too late that his silence had given her the opportunity to speak. She had realised that he couldn’t counter-argue her, and so was moving to the next point. “It wouldn’t have mattered who went down there, whether it was you or me. We both would have handle the obstacles and we both would have left the Stone unprotected.”

“The Fist of Guthix,” he objected moodily.

“It’s the Stone of Jas, and you know that’s what the infernal thing is called!” She snapped, glaring at him for interrupting her over something she clearly thought was trivial. She huffed and seemed to deflate a little, like a bird smoothing down its feathers after being ruffled. “My point is, either of us would have defeated the Stone’s protector and left it wide open for Lucien to steal. It was only you going down there because you thought you might learn more about the God you’ve decided to worship… and because I needed to help Idria sort out the group from the Guardians who were going to teleport in if you needed help.”

“They didn’t help much, did they?” he pointed out, half muttering into the tankard as he took another mouthful. “He still got away with the Fist.”

“Yes, well, we were trying not to get ourselves killed by those twisted demons he’d summoned, in case you’d forgotten,” she answered him snidely. “And we weren’t all powered up from touching the Stone, now, were we?”

He felt his stomach drop as he remembered that she had been in the temple as well, fighting beside Idria to take out one the tormented demons. A quick glance to her right forearm reminded him of the moment she had taken a swipe from the demon’s claws in her friend’s defence, the wound now tightly bandaged.

“Right,” he mumbled ashamedly.

“Either way, Lucien would have gotten the Stone, end of story,” she said, her tone finishing the debate. She took her tiny glass and sipped the last of her drink. She stared at the glass for a moment before sighing and putting it down, looking back at him expectantly. “So, now that we both know that the mission would have been a catastrophe, with or without your help, what’s the real issue here?”

He sighed as he realised that she didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. He had gotten people killed, again. He had screwed up a mission, again. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t powerful enough.

It was dealing with the daganoths all over again.

“Do you want to know why you’re sitting here, drowning your sorrows?” she finally asked him after a few minutes of silence, tilting her head slightly to catch his attention. She had no idea how much his heart clenched at her question, but seemed to take him looking at her as permission to continue. “Because everything you’ve said today has been about you. ‘I did this’ and ‘I did that’ and ‘this is my fault’. It’s as if you think you’re the most important man in Gielinor.”

He opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it again. He was about to tell her about everything that had happened in Rellekka, before realising that that was what she was hoping for. She wanted him to tell her more things that had happened to him, that had gone wrong because of him. If he did, then he was proving her right.

She was goading him. No, she’d been doing it all morning, he was only now realising it.

“Do you really think that everything you’ve been through is so terrible?” she questioned, her face suddenly full of sincerity. She wasn’t asking just to throw him off balance, she actually wanted to know. “Do you really think it’s any worse than what I’ve been through, or what Thom’s going through in Morytania? Do you really think that?”

“What do you want from me, Ayla?” he asked sullenly.

He pushed his mug away and gave her his full attention for the first time since she’d sat down. He knew he was giving her too much power over the next few minutes, but he found himself uncaring. He wanted an answer. He saw her expression flicker slightly as she noticed the change in him, saw the defiance and hidden desperation in his question.

“I want to know what you want, Aleks,” she answered after a minute of silence between them. Her sincere expression hadn’t changed and he knew she was being honest. “I want you to make a choice about what you want to do with your life. Because right now you’re standing between the life of an adventurer and the boring, unexciting life of a museum scholar, and trying to live both is only going to hurt you. You try to own everything you do, everything that happens to you, like a scholar must for recognition, but that attitude makes you take the blame for things that, as an adventurer, you have no control over.”

Her words struck a chord within him. She was right. He was dipping his hands in both pots, and he’d finally gotten a finger bitten, so to speak. So, if he couldn’t live two lives, and he had to commit to one…

Which one did he want?

If he was being honest, he wanted to pretend none of this had happened, go back to Varrock and spend his days dating pottery from the Second Age in the museum. But, he also wanted to make a difference in the world, and dating pottery wouldn’t do that. Also, if he gave up now and became a scholar, the others would have died for nothing, for a coward who ran away at the first sign of trouble. Lucien would still be out there and would still be a threat. If he gave up, there’d be one less adventurer out there to stand up to that maniac.

“I want that bastard’s head on a pike,” he said finally. He grabbed his tankard and drained it before squaring his shoulders and giving Ayla a levelled look. “I want Lucien dead, and the world safe from him. After that… after that, then I can figure out what I want to do with my life.”

“Well, it’s a plan. I guess I can get behind that,” she nodded solemnly to him. She pulled his tankard towards her and uncorked her little bottle. She poured a tiny amount in his glass before adding the same amount to her own. She corked the bottle and raised her glass towards him in a toast. “Justice for our friends?”

“To the death of Lucien.”

They clinked their glasses.

#fanfic #RuneScape #Defining Moments #chpt10

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kakivino · 6 years

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Tasting: Great Wines of Italy 2016 Bangkok

When thirst meets wanderlust, wine will take you places. If, say, a Tuscan idyll seems implausible for the time being, sneaking a vinous agenda in your regional getaway might just be the next best thing.

Good for you if you’re already frequenting Hong Kong, Shanghai, Asia’s wine hubs high on the Grand Tasting destination list. And no, KL can’t get a look-in, if you have to ask.

The Great Wines of Italy in Bangkok fits the bill nicely (like we need an excuse for Thai break). Hosted by James Suckling—one of the foremost critics in the wine world—the marquee event is arguably the largest of its kind in Southeast Asia.

Better early than late

Now you don’t want to be late to the party or you’d be sorry staring at empty Bruno Giacosa not even halfway through. To four kiasu Malaysians, there’s simply nowhere better to be when the gate to wine heaven opened at the Grand Hyatt Erawan.

No prize for guessing which table I first hit. Both ’13 Barbaresco Rabajà and ’13 Barolo Falletto Vigna Le Rocche had me in a moment of sheer elation. Such incredible finesse, purity (nary a trace of wood) and classicism for such powerful nebbiolo, you just got to take your imaginary hat off to a living legend.

What I wouldn’t give for a taste of the famous red labels. That glass of gustatory orgasm.

A glorious start to the evening was followed by many outstanding baroli, though some more expressive than others. High-toned Ceretto ’09 Barolo Brunate for one caresses with über-fine suppleness. Befittingly La Morra, it’s already drinking marvellously. ’12 Barolo Bricco Rocche too offers genuine immediacy in an oh-so-effortless, gracious manner one associates with the modernista.

Speaking of which, Roberto Voerzio, one of the original “Barolo Boys”, holds a different proposition. Age hasn’t made the late-release ’05 Barolo Riserva 10 anni Fossati Case Nere any softer, yet. Seductive nose apart, it remains stubbornly reticent about what lies beneath its plush veneer. ’12 Barbera d’Alba Riserva Vigneto Pozzo dell'Annunziata must’ve been the most lavishly oaked, boldest barbera I ever tasted. High extraction, even higher prices.

The barbaresco and barolo of La Spinetta are styled along the same high-octane mould, they would sit right at home on a steakhouse table.

Then we had Aldo Conterno, whose aristocratic ’12 Barolo Cicala and ’12 Barolo Colonnello would command a great deal of patience. Tight tannins clench just as tar and roses draw you closer: formidable. Franco Conterno was on hand to let you in on their subtle nuances, reasoning clay-sand variation in Bussia render the former firmer, the latter more floral. Equally as potent nonetheless.

From arguably the most celebrated cru of them all, Guido Damilano showed off his rich and, both literally and figuratively, gripping ’12 Barolo Cannubi which exudes a delicate sense of proportion true to the site.

Sell-out success

As I was elbowing my way to some chianti, I couldn’t help but wonder the entire Bangkok’s wine circles, indeed expat community, had packed into the swanky grand ballroom. A record turnout of 1,300 spoke for the tasting’s sell-out success.

Back to where a poor Federico Manetti was swamped, you did have to maneuvre through a static crowd and stick your glass out for your prize. To decide between Fontodi’s voluminous ’13 Flaccianello della Pieve and ’13 Chianti Classico Gran Selezione Vigna del Sorbo was akin to splitting hairs. Seamless oak, velvety tannins, graphite and an amazing core of dark-skinned fruits appear rendered in technicolour clarity, animated by boundless inner energy. Cab-free now, it’s vividly clear why Antonio Galloni thinks the latter is coming into its own.

The tasting galore had also afforded a fascinating study of terroir-driven denominations. Fans of sangiovese would’ve no doubt found rich pickings, from the masculine, earthy Chianti Classico of Fèlsina in Castelnuovo Berardenga, to the metrosexual, polished Fonterutoli in Castellina, to say nothing of lesser-known incarnations like Le Pupille’s Morrelino di Scansano, ColleMassari’s Montecucco and Tenuta di Capezzana’s Carmignano. (It bugged me to see some of these rustic charmers unnecessarily smothered by exuberant new oak.)

Brunello bonanza

Needless to say, there’s no escaping brunello, sangiovese’s highest expression in all of Tuscany. The Montalcinesi had descended en masse to spoil you for choices.

Utterly elegant from start to finish, Livio Sassetti Pertimali ’12 Brunello di Montalcino simply blew me away. Stunning aromatics, nervy acidity, very Montosoli minerality. Winemaker Lorenzo Sassetti poured another winner ’10 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva that was likewise on song. A stylish Altesino ’11 Brunello di Montalcino Montosoli further reinforced that airy, minerally impression of this renowned ‘cru’.

Also stood out is Caprili ’12 Brunello di Montalcino, which best sums up a ripe, racy vintage better off with some bottle age. Something told me it wouldn’t be that long.

It’s a shame I caught Fuligni ’10 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva in a coy mood. Intense, youthfully austere with classically massive structure as imposing as the Montalcino fortress, it just wanted to shut up shop. Bearing similar profundity, Valdicava ’10 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva Madonna del Piano, the 100-pointer cult wine cut a more endearing figure thanks to better focus and persistence, at this stage no least.

What began as exhilaration would gradually simmer down to palatal exertion, such is the inevitability of mass tasting at where the pace is furious and decanting a luxury for younglings. When poise were increasingly scarce, you can count on the redoubtable Poggio di Sotto ’11 Brunello di Montalcino to hit the right spot. This Castelnuovo dell'Abate icon remains every bit as ravishing as when we last met. Pedigree.

Buoyed by renewed faith, I decided to leave Tuscany in search of fresher ‘pasture’, not before a real head-turner stopped me dead in my tracks: Petrolo ’14 Valdarno di Sopra Galatrona. A pure merlot so satiny and sensual, so gorgeous and gratifying it was no match for any super Tuscan or Bolgheri alike that evening.

Path less travelled

To seek refreshment, one only needs to follow the Italians to their summer retreats (hail local wisdom). I could imagine sipping Donnachiara ’15 Fiano di Avellino anywhere on the Amalfi coast, all day long. Brisk, balanced, very Alsatian in texture, with saline undertones hinting at influence of the Thyrrenian sea.

To my dismal, dammit, I left it too late for the last drops of Pieropan’s classic ’14 Soave Classico La Rocca and Kellerei Terlan’s Südtirol whites in the Northeast. Franz Haas ’14 Vigneti delle Dolomiti Manna showed exactly what I’d missed. Crisp, flavourful and complex, it’s one joy of a wine that proves versatile. Pristine Dolomites air has also breathed life into the understated, moreish Franz Haas ’14 Pinot Nero Alto Adige. All in all, the less taken path had definitely provided much welcomed respite.

If you need to cleanse your palate good, Bellavista ’10 Franciacorta Teatro La Scala is more than up for the task. This metodo classico fizz gives your C-word bubblies a serious run for their money, matching their sophistication with an Italian sensibility.

I made it a point to check out the meteoric rise of red hot nerello mascalese. That led to a most scintillating rendevouz with Pietradolce ’13 Etna Rosso Vigna Barbagalli and ’14 Etna Rosso Archineri. As lovely florals, orange zest, crunchy red fruits, exotic spice tease the senses, these soulful reds shine with mineral-laden, glycerol-textured vigour all of which unfurl from a lithe, burgundian even, frame.

Proprietor Michele Faro was eager to share the peculiarity of pre-phylloxera viticulture on the high-altitude, lava-blackened slopes of Mount Etna. He strongly recommended the read “Volcanic Wines” by John Szabo, to better understand how terroir and convictions of few winemakers pan out in a glass of Etna. Or two, as the same individualistic vein of characters flows in Tasca d'Almerita ’14 Sicilia Nerello Mascalese Tascante.

Drinkability conundrum

There you have it. Vino enthusiasts sure had a whale of a time luxuriating in the four-hour bacchanalia, all the while delighting in mind-boggling discoveries and merrymaking with total strangers.

But I was feeling oddly ambivalent after the curtains fell. Maybe it’s the wine talking. For all the promises of these indisputably first-rate wines, it’s still only potential that we sipped rather than the full-blown, glorious mouthfuls we crave (with few notable exceptions). Unless we cough up the premium, the reality is we owe it to ourselves to take up the waiting game.

Ultimately, it’s all a matter of perspective. Ask the right question [of these wines], you’ll be able to appreciate the Grand Tasting as it is: a glimpse of the big picture, a sort of anteprima largely to handpick on release brunello for your cellar. Looking past frustration, the experience was a rewarding one. As James and his posse of producers return to wow Bangkok next week for the fourth year running, I’m all game for another bout of sniff, sip, swallow. And repeat. — KY

*** This is a sponsored post *** James Suckling is internationally regarded as one of the world’s most influential wine critics. Launched in 2010, the JamesSuckling.com team draw on more than three decades of experience to bring to life the world of wine on an exclusive online platform. Visitors can access articles, high-definition videos, extensive tasting notes and reports which are trusted and relied upon by wineries and consumers all across the globe. Many thanks to the team at JamesSuckling.com for the wonderful soiree. Visit them at jamessuckling.com.

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