#rataplan

[geritsel]

Morris (Maurice de Bevere) - Various Lucky Luke cover illustrations for the Dutch comic magazine ‘Pep’, 1965-1967.

[widevibratobitch]

soooooo true 🙏

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

*after the ending of act iii*

preziosilla: yeah, melitone, i saved your ass back there with that little rataplan

melitone: that was you?

preziosilla: yeah!

melitone:

preziosilla:

melitone: *frowns, narrows his brows, gives preziosilla the middle finger, and leaves without a word*

[widevibratobitch]

i need her to peg me so bad

godddddd i wish preziosilla would fuck me nasty

[blondiexbiites]

Name:  Pietro

Age: 30's

Do you like to cuddle?:  Sure

Can we make-out?: I feel like that is a given

A night in or dinner out?: Night in.

Whip cream or chocolate syrup?: Whipped cream. Though you might like something more crimson

Chocolates and roses?: Pink roses, no chocolate

What makes you a good Valentine?:  The way I make your toes curl.

Would you cook for me?: Like heating up a mug of blood?

Would you let me cook for you?: You do all the time.

Where would you take me on a date?: To bed. Or the hills of Eastern Europe. At night of course

Who’s paying?: Who said anything about paying?

What did you get me for Valentine’s Day?: I can put a pink bow on if you like. Actually silver necklace with a pink moonstone.

A few minutes past one o’clock in the morning, a hard rain fell without warning. No thunder preceded the deluge and no wind. The abruptness and the ferocity of the downpour had the urgent quality of a perilous storm in a nightmare. Lying in her coffin with Boo Boo curled comfortably on the flat planes of her stomach, Madison had been restless before the sudden cloudburst. She grew increasingly fidgety, nibbling at her bottom lip with the points of her fangs as she listened to the rush of rain. The voices of the tempest were legion, like a crowd whispering and shouting their discontent.

Torrents pounded and pried at the cedar siding, at the shingles, as if seeking entrance. September in southern California had always before been a dry month in a long season of predictable drought. Rain rarely fell after March, seldom before December. In wet months, the rataplan of raindrops on the roof had sometimes served as a reliable remedy for insomnia. This night, however, the liquid rhythms failed to lull her into her usual meditative slumber, and not just because they were out of season.

For Madison, sleeplessness had too often in recent years been the price of becoming a vampire. Scorned by the sandman, she stared at the dark ceiling of her coffin, brooding about Valentine's Day and wondering if she should just spend it alone with her cat or find a warm body to nestle with and feed on. Plush lips pooched out in a pout as she mulled over her options until finally, she carefully reached into her pocket and whipped out her phone, scrolling through the numerous spam, ads, and pop-ups until she finally stumbled across a familiar email address…and attachment. Blue eyes squinted as she read through the application and a slow, delighted smile spread across her face. Pietro sure knew how to make a girl happy.

"And you just earned yourself a happy ending, babe," she cooed as she imagined all sorts of delights she would introduce her beau to on Valentine's Day. That pink bow was beginning to sound more and more appealing.

Tomorrow was going to be fuuuuun.

@thefastestaround

[widevibratobitch]

ive been listening to normal music way too much lately. wtf is a material girl bitch put on some rataplan or so help me god

[enigmew]

rataplan does things in a hole and visits the edge of the world compilation good for her!

[mybuddyjimmy]

Rataplan

Rataplan [RAD-ə-plan]Part of speech: nounOrigin: French, 19th century1. A drumming or beating sound.Examples of rataplan in a sentence“At halftime, we could hear the rataplan of the marching band before they entered the field.”“The thunderstorm unleashed a rataplan of heavy rain that lasted hours.”

[full-of-mercy]

Close. Please.

Punisher-the-man is a weapon, raised and trained and honed, pared away and sharpened in such a way that he can hardly be considered human.

Please.

His name in Vash's mouth, cradled on his tongue, twisted around with a plea for more, with a warning, is all too human. Whipcrack it stirs Nicholas into motion, risen further on his knees, legs locked taut, forearm corded.

He matches Vash's aborted ruts, bracing pale thighs over his shoulders and muffling his ears with aplomb. While the grip in his hair has tousled it so thoroughly that he no longer has clear sight on the blond's face, his stare burns dark and ember-bright in the shadows of their room. Some of their neighbors have already gotten the picture, knocks on the wall percussive and peevish.

It spurs urgency.

As much as the sounds Vash makes spur urgency.

More. More. A demand. A desire. A want, where they have scarcely allowed themselves Want beyond basic Need, but he needs this too. Needs this like the air he is not currently breathing.

Wet. Wet as anything, Wolfwood's finger-thrusts speed. He spares a third, index-middle-ring, timing push-pull with each tilt of the Stampede's pelvis, timing inarticulate bobs, suction, flicker-lashes of tongue along corrugated rippled tendril bundles, attentive to what makes Vash squirm.

Inhale, exhale, breath held. Swifter. Practically vibrating, trigger-fingers crooked and scissoring against crushing tightness, satin-slick texture, and the demand of the vine drawing him in closer until his nerve-endings tingle.

Without his input, Nicholas groans, growls, color flushed from cheeks to chest, just as desperate as he pushes his free hand underneath Vash's shirt, spreads his fingers over scarred skin as if he might hold the rataplan heartbeat in his palm.

He intends to ride it through.

Intends to keep going, even if he cannot contain it all, doused, soaked, painted in it, trembling and awed at the edges of restraint.

Wolfwood keeps going—intensifies, even—and Vash couldn't be more thankful. He moans again, louder still, and presses his fingers into inky hair to pull him closer and closer...

"Wolf...wood—"

There is a worry, a slight concern in the back of his mind about the undertaker's air flow, but he seems too occupied to care at the moment. The forefront of his mind is likewise too lost in pleasure to care, and he can't control the weak thrusting motion of his hips as he ruts into the man's mouth.

He wants more.

But that will come later.

Vash can't stop looking at the way Wolfwood desperately pushes against the floor, yearning for friction, yearning for release. He'd love to slump to the floor with him, get his mouth on him, maybe even let him fuck his face if he's into it.

Really, he just wants to see him. It's eating him alive seeing his cock untouched; what he wouldn't give to just tug at the knot and undo it...

"Mmnn....—!"

Between the fingers and Wolfwood's mouth moving on him, all the elements of the perfect storm are there. He can feel the shuddering of a climax begin in his thighs and make its way up to his abdomen. Vash's little pulsating thrusts become rougher; the grip on Wolfwood's hair tightens.

"N-Nick... I'm—I'm close," Vash barely manages to stammer out a warning through his panting and whining and moaning. He's not sure which action is stimulating him the most right now, but feeling everything at once is satisfyingly overwhelming—so much so that he can't control the tears rolling down his face.

"P-please—!"

[whats-on-my-minds]

10x interessante kringloopwinkels in Noord-Holland

Noord-Holland telt maar liefst 262 kringloopwinkels. Nu we minder te besteden hebben bezoeken we met zijn alle vaker een kringloopwinkel. Bovendien zijn we bewuster bezig met het hergebruiken van spullen. Dit zijn de 10 kringloopwinkels die de moeite waa

Populairder dan ooit! Noord-Holland telt maar liefst 262 kringloopwinkels. Nu we minder te besteden hebben bezoeken we met zijn alle vaker een kringloopwinkel. Bovendien zijn we bewuster bezig met het hergebruiken van spullen. Dit zijn de 10 kringloopwinkels die de moeite waard zijn om te bezoeken. Kijk voor de aderessen en openingstijden in de kaart hieronder! Noppes PurmerendDorcas Heilo…

[pixites]

[absinthe-for-caligari]

Newspaper Reviews from Around the World

"There will be no shortage of men of good sense who will no more tentatively sip these audacious aesthetic promises. For this you can blame or praise according to your own inclination towards Dadaism and its disciplines. It is no bad thing to have a hobbyhorse. And it is excellent that the young Dadaists should be to the fore of this baggage train. There are enough of the old guard bringing up the rear. Let us just recall the official imbeciles who heartily mocked the precursors of the Symbolists and the Impressionists. Let us admire excess: it is the sign of health. It is the sign of youth."

L'Eclair (Paris).

[full-of-mercy]

Getting out of the tub is a problem for future-them, what with the lack of traction on enameled metal and the nature of soap and sundry.

Eased in behind Vash, buffer between the leaner body and the cooler back of the tub, Nicholas makes do with limited space and the soft sputter-hiss of shower water raining down over their heads. So far, so good. The heat holds steady, accumulating a shallow pool, rivulets carrying soot and sweat and sundry down and into the basin.

Skin to skin contact lights up tingly, if a little slippery. They are careful about it, so gentle about minor aches and pains and scrapes, and not for the first time. Sometimes the world would take a breather for a day. Sometimes it would afford them the blessing of a few minutes to collect themselves, tend their wounds, fill their bellies. Bated breath between beats of brutality, blistering, breakneck through the desert and devastated cities and ambushes and fighting and fleeing.

It's second nature to be restless.

It takes conscious thought to settle still, barring a twitch-flex at the squeeze to the top of his knee pressing his inner thigh to Vash's outer.

Vash looks up to find Wolfwood looking down, gold-glint eyes at a smoky half-lid underneath the dripping flop of his hair. Looking. Just looking, somewhere between soft and hungry, warm and wondering. He already wondered if he really should be here, after everything - here on this plane, here in the realm of the living, walking and talking and breathing and touching and eating and sleeping.

And loving.

That. Always. Always that. Fervently, fiercely, desperately, with bared teeth and trembling hands, with bloody knuckles and tenderness, with cutting words and kind ones. He never claimed to be pious or anything of the sort except when he was running a con. So here, now, he is greedy, avaricious of it, inclined to drink it in as much as he can.

Alive. He's alive. They both are.

In fullness or in absence, love aches all the same. The look in sky-blue resonates.

Vash said it himself when reining the rataplan flutter-panic of disorientation like an expert Toma jockey, catching him at the top of a spiral, wrenching him free of it and back into his own flesh. He's right where he should be. Nicholas is inclined to agree; he never wanted to leave. So, then, when he notes that tremulous look in Vash's eyes, he narrows his own, looping his arms down, curling, flexing, pulling them completely flush.

A deep inhale expands his chest to Vash's back as his palms flatten out above and below the navel.

"That's better," he murmurs, dipping his chin down, running his lips along the top of Vash's shoulder. And then he squints, smirks, tilting in to nuzzle cheek to neck and cheek to cheek with a ticklish-scratchy rasp-rasp of stubble, feline, lupine, incorrigible.

“It’ll be fine.” He isn’t being overly dismissive for once. Knowing Wolfwood, he would have taken matters into his own hands if the situation were truly dire. The bullet dug out a shallow runnel in his thigh, singed at the edges from the searing velocity of the shell’s passage. Perhaps just barely deep enough to scar, it is hard for even Vash to tell. The red coat gifted him by Ship Three may have been bulletproof, reinforced with a unique hybrid of worm chitin and synthetic polymer fibers, but that did not mean the rest of him was. 

Vash places the blame squarely at his own feet. Rushing headlong into the desert, into the bowels of a trap staring him right in the face. Chasing a wish, if not for the fact that it found him first. Because of course Wolfwood would be the one to find him, knee-deep in a heap of trouble and up to his ears in a storm of gunfire. Even if Nicholas attempts to hold blame to his own chest with his eyes.

At least the bottle of Bride remains unbroken.

The curtain of water distorts to hug the top of Wolfwood’s head. Plastering dark, dark hair flat to his forehead and to the sides of his face. Vash half-turns to watch, humming a laugh into the roof of his mouth at skidding skin on plastic that more resembles other noises.

“Okay.”

Dropping to a squat, Vash secures the plug into place over the drain. When he is certain that the seal is tight enough around the pool of water that gradually forms, he leans back on his feet, teetering backwards until he’s low enough to drop down the rest of the way and carefully extend his legs. They remain bent at the knee where his toes touch the end of the rising walls of the tub. His right arm grips the edge of the tub for balance and Vash is mindful of crushing other vulnerable, squishy body parts and not just fresh cuts as he settles in. 

When they are situated like this, he cannot see Wolfwood’s face without turning. Vash can feel him though, where his hips brush up against the inside of Nicholas’s thighs.

Physically sharing the tub is a far cry from having Wolfwood sit beside it. Vash slides his hand down from the edge of the curved porcelain. Past old stains that won’t ever quite scrub out, down, to curve over and rest against the top of Wolfwood’s knee with a brief squeeze.  

Wolfwood has already granted him so much in the span of a day and the feeling of wanting more still strikes as foreign. As foreign and strange as loving without pain. 

He can’t help it. 

Vash turns his head to look. The dark quills-as-stubble are still there, and that silent fear from beneath the amber warning lights returns when his eyes are caught on Wolfwood’s gaze.

[atevegter]

2447 Heerhugowaard

Al die zinnen zingen in mijn hoofd. Er moet weer wat geschreven. We beginnen de dag met een bezoekje aan de jarige Jan. Hij heeft een nieuwe badkamer en taart en wij hebben een kadootje. Hij mag ook een tekening uitkiezen van Piep, die hiervoor speciaal haar map heeft meegenomen. Het bezoek is gespreid dus we zien verder niemand, maar het is leuk om Jan weer even te spreken. Dan gaan we naar…

[dustedmagazine]

Devin Gray – Dirigo Rataplan II (Rataplan)

A cognate phrase, Dirigo Rataplan loosely translates from the Latin and French respectively to “I direct a drumming sound.” The latter word is also the name of Devin Gray’s new record label, this disc being the inaugural release on the same. Gray’s kept fast company over the course of his active career and this project is a direct reflection of that consistency from the roster on down. Trumpeter Dave Ballou, tenorist Ellery Eskelin and bassist Michael Formanek are each acknowledged masters on their instruments and strong musical personalities who exhibit their shared confidence through the deference and engagement they show toward Gray’s deceptively demanding designs.

The album is actually a sequel to the ensemble’s 2012 recorded debut on the Brooklyn-based Skirl label, delving into both Gray’s developments in the intervening half-decade as well as the resilient rapport that also informed the earlier effort. Ten pieces by the drummer tally together to less than hour of the music, but each one is rigged with an ample and admirable array of ideas. “Congruently” immediately illustrates the leader’s abilities at parsing meter with an alternating, loosely Latinate rhythm that is as variable and supple as breathing. The horns dance atop the shifting patterns of drums and bass, riding the harnessed energy like seasoned surfers shooting a curl.

“Rollin’ Thru Town” sets up an inverse dynamic with Gray pulling inward in a gravitational tug of staccato sticking as the tenor and trumpet phrase in overlapping increments. Formanek peppers the field with a cascade of slanted plucks before landing on a sauntering series of accents. Once again, time is malleable and multidirectional in a manner of constant movement. “Trends of Trending” pivots on another diagonal groove with Eskelin and Ballou harmonizing in and around a unified line and over into fleeting abstraction bulwarked by garrulous bass that steers the piece to an ardent, vamp-anchored end.

Gray’s composition titles are evocative and elliptical at once. “Texicate” trades mainly on a fluttering a chamber-like colloquy between the horns as bass and drums interject from the edges. “Quantum Cryptology” echoes its appellation through a series of micro-gestures between component groupings. Ballou states a motif backed by Formanek before falling away to leave the bassist and Eskelin to an intimate dialogue. Grey enters on delicate cymbals to create a trio and signals Ballou’s return, this time solo for a focused improvisation that tests his tonal mettle. The concluding “Micro Dosage” is similarly succinct, a playfully incremental, drain-circling piece that stops on a dime.

Derek Taylor