#Richard Sears

[indietapes]

Richard Sears - Manresa (Ambient | Experimental)

🕑 1 min / Text: Adrian Release Date: Oct. 02, 2023 I really enjoyed the latest release 'Manresa' by the Paris-based composer Richard Sears. It's a beautiful piano arrangement that truly stands out with its hazy lo-fi sound. It literally feels like listening to an old cassette tape filled with old memories. The arrangement is not particularly melodic but leans more towards experimental music, and I really appreciate how the piano keys resemble the sound of raindrops falling, while the strings gradually build up in the background. You can find 'Manresa' on Spotify. If you like what you hear, make sure to stay tuned with Richard Sears' new releases. Arrangement: ★★★★★ | Production: ★★★★☆ | Energy: ★★★★★ | Melody: ★★★☆☆ |  Stream: https://open.spotify.com/track/2O2xqPLJcHG4Rl3047qJh0 Follow: https://www.instagram.com/_richard_sears_/ ✔️ Available on our Indie Playlist on Spotify.

[nctrnm]

#NowPlaying: "Richard Sears - Oceans (TS Premiere)" by Twistedsoul

[twistedsoulmusic]

Richard Sears - Oceans - Appear To Fade

[adamwatchesmovies]

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)

There are many factors to consider when judging a film’s merit. An important but often overlooked factor is the film’s ambition. How many chances does it take and how far does it push the envelope? Under that criteria, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs couldn’t possibly score higher. If there was a full-length animated film released in American cinemas before this one, it's been forgotten to time and it certainly didn't leave the same mark as this one. Now approaching 100 years old, there's no other movie quite like Snow White. You watch it as a child and enjoy the familiar story. You appreciate it for wholly different reasons as an adult.

In a faraway land lives the beautiful and kind Princess Snow White (voiced by Adriana Caselotti), the envy of her wicked and vain stepmother (Lucille La Verne). When the Queen’s magic mirror reveals that Snow White has become more beautiful than she, the Queen sends the young princess to the woods to be murdered. Following her escape, Snow White stumbles upon a small cottage and is taken in by the seven little men who live there.

Traditionally animated films age incredibly gracefully. Whereas you can see the limitations Toy Story and its early descendants had to struggle with, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs looks as sharp as the day it was released. Snow White is not like the rubber-limbed Olive Oil from Popeye’s cartoons or any character from the many Disney animated shorts that preceded her. The fact that she can move alongside the decidedly anthropomorphized woodland creatures she befriends and the seven dwarves - all of which have cartoonish faces to match their outlandish personalities - is impressive.

Also helping the film remain timeless are the story and writing. There are no pop culture references, no fourth wall breaks, no ironic twists or subversions of the source material. There doesn’t need to be. Snow White simply is. Similarly, the songs are not the kind you’d hear playing on the top charts. They weren't made to sell records. They were made for the story. They’re used to develop the characters and move the plot forward. That doesn't mean they're not catchy. I think anyone who’s seen the film will be tempted to play Whistle While You Work whenever they begin cleaning and once you hear the dwarves’ Heigh Ho!, it becomes a part of your vocabulary. Nothing in Snow White feels like it was made to be more than part of the movie. There are no characters made to be turned into toys, for example. In that way, it feels more earnest than any other Disney film.

That's nice, but what really matters is how entertaining the film is. While this is a straightforward telling of a well-known, story (assuming you don't call the musical numbers "twists"), “Snow White” finds plenty of ways to make you care about its animated characters. There are many laughs throughout, courtesy of the seven dwarves. Her animal friends also provide memorable chuckles as they figure out inventive ways to help despite their limited sizes or limbs. My favorite has to be the deer who uses his antlers as a way to transport dirty laundry.

There's also drama and romance, courtesy of Snow White herself. Our heroine is so sweet and innocent your heart just can’t resist. When she talks about the handsome prince she dreams of meeting once again, it’s hard not to get as swept up in the emotions of the scene. There’s also a little bit of horror thrown in too - though only small children would be actually frightened. It makes the scenes when Snow White makes her escape in the dark woods and later, when the wicked Queen comes looking for her particularly memorable. On top of the emotions are the outstanding visuals. Even if you don't "know", I think a part of you knows or can tell everything you see was hand-painted and painstakingly put together. If there’s one criticism I can throw towards the movie, it’s that the ending feels abrupt. It still fits within the fairytale motif, but I wouldn’t mind if it was even 30 seconds longer.

There is so much to say about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The visuals, the characters, the direction, the story, the songs… every aspect of the filmmaking could be the subject of a thesis. It's a film that was destined for immortality and I think people knew it as soon as it was released. Even today, it still stands triumphant as one of the greatest films - animated or otherwise- ever made for its place in history, but also for the way it brings a particular kind of story to life. (November 12, 2022)

[gatutor]

Richard Denning-Nancy Gates-Michael Pate "Target Hong Kong" 1953, de Fred F. Sears.

[whileiamdying]

Suspect is a 1987 American legal mystery thriller film directed by Peter Yates and starring Cher, Dennis Quaid, and Liam Neeson. Other notable cast members include John Mahoney, Joe Mantegna, Fred Melamed, and Philip Bosco.

— Wikipedia

[ozu-teapot]

Chicago Syndicate | Fred F. Sears | 1955

[letterboxd-loggd]

Room at the Top (1959) Jack Clayton

February 5th 2023

[mariocki]

The Siege of Pinchgut (Four Desperate Men, 1959)

"No, we must evacuate the whole of the waterfront: Woolloomooloo, Potts Point, Darling Point."

"There's a lot of important citizens live over there, they're not gonna like it."

"Well, they're gonna like it even less if they get blown out of their beds."

[its-avalon-08]

Fellas!!! just hear me out!!! One story about Jenson Button based on Edison Lighthouse - Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes). She's his assistant, a little clumsy in her daily life but she's very efficient at her job. He has a massive crush on her

love grows where my rosemary goes (jb22)

y/n fumbled with the travel mug, spilling a searing stream of coffee down her pristine white blouse. "oh no!" she shrieked, hopping on one foot as the liquid burned through the fabric.

her hair is kinda wild and free

jenson button, watching from his driver's room doorway, fought back a laugh. it wasn't the first time his ever-so-slightly-clumsy assistant had a mishap. yet, despite the constant stream of minor disasters – misplaced files, tripped heels, rogue staplers launching staples across the room – y/n was the epitome of efficiency. her calendar was his lifeline, her emails impeccably crafted, and her research skills unmatched.

And people say she's crazy

he cleared his throat, stepping into the room. "seems like love grows where your coffee goes today, eh y/n?" he teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

y/n whipped around, the mug clutched precariously in her hand. "jenson! don't start," she mumbled, cheeks flushing a shade that rivaled the spilled coffee.

he couldn't help but grin. "here, let me help." jenson took the mug, placing it on his desk. "go change, I'll grab you another coffee."

"thank you," y/n mumbled, scurrying out of the office.

jenson shook his head, a warmth spreading through him as he watched her go. he'd been harboring a secret crush on y/n for months. but confessing felt like navigating a formula 1 race with a blindfold on – potentially disastrous.

he grabbed a fresh mug, a mischievous idea forming in his head. as y/n returned, looking sheepish but still beautiful, he placed the mug on his desk. "here you go," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

y/n cautiously took a sip. "mmm, that's better. thanks, jenson."

"no problem," he said, leaning back in his chair. "so why are you downing your third coffee of the day?," he began.

y/n's eyes widened. "you kept count?"

he smirked. "yeah. you seem to be quite flustered today."

"oh!" y/n's cheeks flushed again. "it's just... i need the caffeine to keep up with you, mr. button," she countered, a playful edge to her voice.

jenson's heart did a little skip. "actually," he admitted, leaning forward, "it's you who keeps up with me. you're amazing at your job, y/n."

a genuine smile bloomed on her face. "thank you, jenson. that means a lot."

the room fell silent for a moment, a comfortable quiet settling between them. jenson took a deep breath. "y/n," he started, his voice low, "there's something I've been wanting to tell you..."

oh, but love grows where my rosemary goes

the office door burst open, shattering the moment. jenson's publicist, richard, barreled in, phone pressed to his ear. "jenson, urgent interview request! need you on set in fifteen!"

jenson groaned. "alright, alright, richard," he sighed, his eyes locking with y/n's for a fleeting second. "we'll continue this conversation later, alright?"

y/n nodded, a hint of disappointment in her eyes. "later," she replied, a small smile playing on her lips.

as jenson followed richard out, the half-confession hanging in the air, he couldn't help but think – maybe, just maybe, love was about to grow where his assistant was too.

she's really got a magical spell

the press conference crackled with a peculiar tension. jenson, impeccably dressed but internally simmering, fielded questions from a pack of reporters hungry for gossip. it was after a particularly grueling race, and the focus seemed to be less on his performance and more on his personal life, with thinly veiled jabs about his "playboy" image.

one particularly obnoxious reporter, a woman with a permanent smirk plastered on her face, leaned forward, her voice dripping with insinuation. "jenson, rumors have been swirling about your recent 'companionship' with a young model. can you confirm or deny these claims?"

jenson gritted his teeth. he was about to launch into a rehearsed, pr-approved response when a voice, clear and unwavering, cut through the cacophony.

"excuse me," y/n said, her voice surprisingly firm as she stepped forward from the corner where she'd been quietly taking notes. "mr. button's private life is exactly that – private. perhaps we could focus on the actual race, where he displayed exceptional skill and…" she trailed off, a glint of defiance in her eyes, "...strategic brilliance."

that i love her endlessly

the room went silent, the reporters momentarily stunned. jenson's heart thudded against his ribs, a mixture of surprise and admiration washing over him. he'd never seen y/n like this – a tiny titan, standing up for him in a room full of sharks.

y/n continued, her voice gaining confidence. "mr. button's talent and dedication speak for themselves. let's talk about the record-breaking lap time he achieved in the third quarter, or the…"

the reporters, caught off guard by this unexpected turn of events, started peppering her with questions about the race. y/n, much to jenson's amusement, expertly fielded them all, her knowledge of the sport as impressive as her poise.

as the press conference ended, the reporters shuffled out, muttering amongst themselves. jenson turned to y/n, speechless.

"y/n, that was…" he began, searching for the right words.

there's something about her hand holding mine

"just doing my job," she said, a hint of a blush creeping up her cheeks. "those questions were ridiculous."

jenson shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "you were incredible. you saved the day, again."

y/n looked down shyly. "i just didn't want them to disrespect you."

jenson reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "you never do," he murmured, his voice low. "you're an angel, y/n. you know that, right?"

nobody knows like me

y/n's eyes widened, surprise flickering across her face. jenson felt a surge of heat rise in his cheeks. maybe, just maybe, he'd let his feelings slip a little too much. but as he met her gaze, a hint of something new shimmering in her eyes, he couldn't help but hope that his not-so-subtle confession wasn't entirely lost in the haze.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

jenson u sweetheart<3

well i hope you liked it! thank you for sending in your request and do send more <3 happy reading!

leave a like! leave a note!

🏎️🏎���🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

[green-eyedfirework]

The car drove smoothly and silently, a dark shadow on the dimly lit streets of Bludhaven.  The interior was muffled—Dick couldn’t hear any of the city noises, or the car, or the driver and the guard sitting up front, neither giving him a second glance.  It left him along with his mind, which made it really hard to pretend like he didn’t know what was going on.

He’d been accosted on his way back from the corner store.  They’d taken his grocery bags too, the driver slipping the two recyclable cloth bags from his hands like a poised valet while the guard opened the door for him, dropping the bags in the trunk like that wasn’t where Dick’s body was going to end up.  Politeness masking threat.

They hadn’t even flashed a weapon at him.  They hadn’t needed to.  Slade Wilson’s name was enough of a loaded gun.

Dick had thought things were getting better.  He’d made a new life for himself, a quieter one, less concerned with the shifting flows of power in the city.  He’d thought that if he left them alone, they’d leave him alone.  He was a fool.

The dread sitting in Dick’s gut grew larger as they passed through the wrought-iron gates of the Kane family home.

The drive up was a familiar home, the sight of the front door a looming omen.  His first step inside felt like something was strangling his lungs, wrapped tight and squeezing like it wouldn’t let go.

He shouldn’t be here.  He shouldn’t be here.  He’d quit the police force, he’d squared his debts with the Kanes, there was absolutely no reason for him to be dragged back here.

Except for one.

Dick wasn’t led to the parlor he’d visited last time but down, into the basement.  They were stopped outside a guarded door.  “Mr. Wilson wishes to see Richard Grayson,” his escort said.

The pat-down was impersonal but thorough.  Dick’s wallet, phone, and keys were all taken from him.  Even a couple of empty candy wrappers were yanked from his pockets.  Dick’s stomach twisted into knots as his belongings were taken away, leaving him standing in front of the door with no weapons and no help.  He felt uncomfortably bare.

There was a knock before Dick was motioned inside.  The room was another parlor—bigger, with groups of armchairs by an electric fire, light dim and intimate.  A bar spanned the back wall and shadowed mirrors gave the impression that the room was larger and more maze-like than it actually was.  A smoking room, though Dick could smell no smoke.  Where men of a certain affiliation could drink and play cards while they discussed business.

The room was nearly empty.  Guards at each corner, silent and still, like statues in the darkened room, and Wintergreen, sitting by the fire, watching Dick with a solemn expression.  And, of course, Wilson himself, leaning against another armchair and watching Dick approach, his face so rigid it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Grayson,” Wilson said, voice cold and sharp, like a blade of ice scraping down Dick’s spine.  His eye glimmered in the low light, his gaze searing.  There was no scowl, no raised voice, no narrowed eyebrows, and yet all Dick could sense was burning fury.

Wilson was not a man inclined to rage.

“Mr. Wilson,” Dick said, as evenly as he could manage, resisting the urge to cross his arms.  He didn’t ask any questions.  He wasn’t sure Wilson’s control would stretch that far.

“I had to visit the hospital yesterday,” Wilson said, steady and even.  “Do you know why?”

Dick swallowed.  The sound felt obscenely loud in the silent room.  Dick wasn’t sure if anyone else was breathing—he certainly wasn’t.

“Rose,” Dick said quietly.  “Rose broke her arm during class yesterday.”

Working at a gym was a breath of fresh air and Dick loved teaching.  Even the addition of Rose Wilson to his class, signed up by her fiercely glowering older brother, hadn’t rung the warning bells.  Rose was a kid, after all, and Dick didn’t judge children for their parents.  The Kanes made no motion to interfere at the gym and Rose was treated like any other student, albeit one dropped off and picked up by an armed driver in a bulletproof car with a bodyguard lurking in the lobby all session.

“Mm.  At a class we send her to for her enrichment and entertainment.  A class we’re certainly not expected to being contacted by to relate a major injury.”  Dick winced as Wilson straightened fluidly off of the armchair, his presence a black hole of fury.  “What.  Happened.”

“It was an accident,” Dick said weakly, trying not to flinch back as Wilson strode towards him.  The man’s hands were empty but that didn’t help the shrieking klaxons in Dick’s head.  “A couple of girls got tangled up when they were practicing on the mats.  It’s no one’s fault.”

“No one’s fault,” Wilson repeated in a tone of polite skepticism, like he was giving Dick the opportunity to correct himself.

“It was an accident,” Dick said again, for a lack of anything else to say.  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson, but there’s always an element of risk in practicing—”

“Give me your arm.”

“What?” Dick asked blankly.

Wilson didn’t repeat his question, merely held out his hand, waiting.  Dick swallowed, the knot in his stomach a living, growing thing, and offered his hand to the man.

The grip was firm but gentle, not bruising or twisting.  “Rose broke her right arm,” Wilson informed him, as though Dick didn’t know, as though he hadn’t been there, consoling the crying girl as he called for her bodyguard and an ambulance.  “Clean break.  At least a month in a cast.”

Wilson eased the cuff of Dick’s shirt up past his elbow and observed his arm, turning it from side to side.  Dick let him, heart pounding his ears, not daring to put up any resistance.

“Have you broken an arm before?” Wilson asked conversationally.

“Yes.”

“Remember what it felt like?”

“Yes.”  His throat was as dry as sandpaper.

Wilson traced lightly across the skin, finally gripping Dick’s elbow in one hand, his wrist in another.  “It takes somewhere around a hundred and fifty pounds of pressure to break a human bone,” Wilson informed him.  Dick didn’t move.  Dick didn’t breathe.  Dick didn’t dare.  “An injury here would hobble you for a month.  Are you right-handed?”  Dick mutely shook his head.  “I suppose it won’t cause too much hardship then.”

Wilson’s grip tightened—and let go.

Dick took in a shuddering breath.  He choked on it when Wilson stepped past him and behind him, fitting himself against Dick’s back.  He could see the man in the mirror opposite them, looming behind Dick, his expression shadowed and his stare dark.

“But here—” a finger jabbed at Dick, low on his spine—“here, a fracture would do considerably more harm.  Leave you lying on a bed for weeks.  If the bone doesn’t displace further and slice the spinal cord.  Then you’d never be able to walk again.”

Dick stared at himself in the mirror, ashen, wide-eyed, and utterly still.

“Up here,” the finger traced its way up his spine, stopping mid-back, “it’ll destroy a lot of voluntary organ signals.  Things like pissing and shitting.”

Wilson spoke with the kind of unconcern one would use to talk about the weather.

“And up here,” Wilson murmured, voice dropping to something low and gravelly as his finger traced up to the base of Dick’s neck, “you’d never be able to twitch a finger again.”  Dick’s fingers jerked.  “What a shame that would be, for such a star acrobat.”

The lump in his throat was too big to swallow.  Too big to speak.  Wilson wouldn’t, he couldn’t—but he could.  No one could stop him.  Dick was all alone in the lion’s den and no one was interested in saving him from being mauled.  He couldn’t even turn to look at Wintergreen, to beg him with a beseeching gaze, still transfixed by the sight of them in the mirror.

He looked small, standing in front of Slade.  Fragile.  Breakable.

Wilson met his gaze in the mirror.  “Who caused the incident?” he asked evenly.  His fingers curled around Dick’s neck, thumb pressing in at the top of his spine.

Dick distantly registered his mouth opening.  “It was an accident,” he said, hollow and faraway.

“Give me the name.”

Wilson was scowling now, visible anger to match the obvious fury.  Dick remembered the stories of what happened to the people that hurt Joey.  The darker rumors that they all pretended didn’t happen.  The lengths Wilson would, could, and had proven to go to when his family had been harmed.

When Dick blinked, a tear traced its way down his cheek.

“No.”

It came out strangled, but still it came out.  Dick wanted to close his eyes, to turn away from the impending violence, but he was frozen in place by nothing more than the threat of a single hand, watching the predator at his back.

He couldn’t twitch a single finger.

“Excuse me?”  A hint of fury.  An out.  Offering the opportunity for Dick to change his answer, to throw himself on whatever mercy the mobster possessed by selling out another.

“No.”  This time it came easier.

Wilson held his gaze, a long, unbroken moment that felt half like a dream.  Like Dick was already dead and this was what his mind had clung to to stave off the realization.  The world was reduced to Wilson’s single burning ice blue eye and the intent in them.

The fingers uncurled.  Dick didn’t fully register they were gone until Wilson stepped back, turning away from him and heading to an armchair.  “Make me an Old Fashioned,” he said curtly, joining Wintergreen near the fire.

Dick turned to look at him, still rooted to the spot.  “What?” he scraped out hoarsely.

“The drink,” Wilson clarified.

Dick stared at him a moment longer before he forced his legs to move.  The first one felt like walking through toffee, his limbs jerking like they were attached to puppet strings, but he managed to head towards the bar.  The thought of it was slightly ludicrous—Dick was going to be tortured, but goddamn if Wilson had to make his own drinks—and Dick clung to that as he stumbled to the bar with shaking legs.

It was an additional barrier between him and Wilson, as paltry as the protection was, and Dick gripped the wooden tabletop tight.  He tried to slip into a breathing exercise, taking the pause to reorient himself.  There had to be a way to change Wilson’s mind.  He couldn’t let Wilson do whatever he’d planned to that poor girl.  It had been an accident.

Dick found the sugar, the bitters, the glasses and the muddler, plotting furiously, and he was searching for the ice in the freezer when Wilson spoke again.

“Annalise Stryker.”

Dick hit his head on the underside of the bar trying to scramble back up.  “What?” he asked, chest squeezing tight again.

“Annalise Stryker is the girl that fell onto my daughter,” Wilson said, watching Dick.  “Or at least, that’s how Rose tells it.”

Of course Rose would tell her father what happened.  Of course he already knew.  The whole thing was—what?  An attempt to see how much Dick would volunteer?  Whether he would give him a different name?  Dick just—there was too much information swirling around his head, combining with panic, lending terror and adrenaline to his muscles.

“It was an accident,” Dick said.  He made no attempt to confirm or deny the name.  “It was an accident, Mr. Wilson, it was unfortunate, they mixed up a movement and tumbled into each other, that’s all it was.  There’s no one to blame.”

“There’s always someone to blame.”

“Mr. Wilson—”

“My drink,” Wilson said, already turning away from him.  Dick cursed under his breath and dropped a sugar cube into the glass, his hand trembling as he splashed bitters in after it.  The muddler wasn’t a proper weapon, but Dick felt slightly better with it in his hand.

“Please, Mr. Wilson, no one intended to hurt your daughter,” Dick tried again.  The sugar cube was breaking apart rather forcefully under his shaky grip.  “They’re just children—”

“I was sixteen when I murdered my father,” Wilson responded, not looking back at him.  The sugar cube was in as few fragments as Dick’s strained nerves could bear, and he hunted for ice.  “It was entirely premediated.”  There was a tray with ice blocks and it took him four tries to pry one free with shaking fingers.  “Children can be capable of cruelty, Grayson.”

“It was an accident,” Dick repeated, staring at Wilson, willing him to understand.

“Is my drink done?” Wilson asked, disinterested.

Dick’s fingers contracted around the glass.  He turned to stare at the wall of bottles, scanning over labels and distantly noting that most of them cost more than a single one of his paychecks.  He grabbed the first bottle of whiskey he found.

There’s always someone to blame.

More whiskey sloshed into the glass than he expected, but it didn’t matter, the drink didn’t fucking matter.  He dropped a cherry inside and stuck an orange slice on the rim before carrying it to Wilson.  Not, altogether, one of the better products of his mixology skills.

Dick waited until Wilson took the glass from him before he spoke.  “If you need someone to blame,” he said quietly, “blame me.”  Wilson’s gaze tilted back up towards him.  “I’m the teacher.  It’s my responsibility to watch the class.  It’s my responsibility to keep them safe.  If someone gets hurt, it’s my fault, not anyone else’s.”

He didn’t know if Wilson had already gone after Annalise.  If any of his kids were safe.  If this would be enough.  But he had to try.

Wilson took a slow, measured sip of the cocktail.  “Not bad,” he said.

Dick closed his eyes for a moment, balling his hands into fists before loosening them.  “It’s hard to mess up an Old Fashioned,” Dick said tightly.

“I wasn’t talking about the drink.”  Wilson was smirking now, amusement lurking in his eye as he leaned back in the armchair.  “I know full well that accidents happen, Grayson, and especially during athletic training.  But a good teacher minimizes risk.  A good teacher protects their students.”  He considered Dick, gaze wandering all over.  “Even at the cost of themself.”

Dick didn’t understand.  The mood in the room had shifted and it didn’t make any sense.  Wilson no longer looked like a stalking wolf but a satiated one, indulgently watching the others take their fill.  The aura of threat that had hung over Dick like a weighted cloak was abruptly gone.

“I’m not going to harm a single hair on Stryker’s head.  Or yours, for that matter.  It does Rose some good to see firsthand the price of not being careful enough.”  Wilson shrugged lightly.  “Children will never learn if you wrap them in a bubble.”

There was no air in the room.  Or at least there was none in his lungs.  Dick’s legs wavered and Wilson’s eye narrowed when Dick knocked into a side table stumbling back.

“This—this was a test,” Dick said numbly, trying to square together actions and words, trying to fit the terror-inducing fury with the milder amusement.  “You were—this whole thing was a test.”

“You might want to sit down,” Wilson said, voice still amused but expression narrowing further.

Dick hadn’t been in danger.  The threats weren’t real.  Wilson wasn’t going to cripple him, wasn’t going to rend him into little pieces for the affront.  Or at least, not since he passed the test.

His hand found the side of an armchair and Dick let himself collapse into it, heart beating violently and fingers still trembling.  They were getting worse, in fact, and Dick buried his face in his hands and took several shuddering, choking breaths, each higher and sharper than the last.

He didn’t know when he started crying, but hitched tears masked any sign of footsteps and Dick startled out of his skin when his hand was tugged free and wrapped around a glass.  The drink he’d made.  “You look like you need it,” Wilson said.

Dick knocked the drink back in one long swallow, sugar crystals crunching in his mouth as the ice kissed his lips.  It didn’t make him feel any better, it just added a slow burn to the twisting in his chest.  Dick’s next shaky inhale dissolved into fresh tears.

“You’re safe.”  Wilson took the glass from his hands and gently set it down on the side table.  “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Dick almost choked on the ridiculousness of it, of being reassured by the man that had him brought to his dungeon and intimated slow, personalized torture.  “Says the wolf to the sheep,” he muttered.

Not quite under his breath, apparently.

“You’re hardly a sheep, Officer Grayson,” Wilson gave him a languid smile, thumb settling on Dick’s jaw and nudging it up.  “You have claws.”

“I’m not a cop anymore,” Dick pointed out.  Strangely, the hand on his face was grounding, settling him in place.

“I’m aware.”

“Then why?” Dick asked, waving a hand at the room.  “Why do all this?  Why the inquisition?”

Why me?

Wilson’s thumb drifted higher, until it was brushing his lips.  The look on Wilson’s face was a threat again, dark and predatory and full of desire, the kind that sent a thrill down Dick’s spine.

“Because you interest me, Richard Grayson.”

Dick swallowed.  Watched Wilson follow the movement.  “I don’t think it’s a good thing.”

A slow, wicked smile.  “Probably not.”  He pulled on Dick’s chin and Dick followed the movement, rising up to his feet, transfixed by Wilson’s gaze.  “I’m not a good man.”

Wilson kissed gentler than Dick expected, firm but not demanding, languorous and attentive, like he was trying to taste every drop of whiskey still clinging to Dick’s lips.  Dick’s legs felt weak again, his grip on Wilson’s shoulders feeble, feeling not unlike a leaf being tossed by the raging current.

[twistedsoulmusic]

Hot on the heels of sharing ‘Manresa’ the lead track from his upcoming album Appear to Fade, Richard Sears unveils his next single, 'Oceans'. The ocean is an inspiring force of nature and this piece captures its beauty. The single is accompanied by a beautiful music video created by Paris-based visual artist Camille Pradon.

[railwayhistorical]

Late Sunday Afternoon Departure A view from Roosevelt Road: a train seen here departing Chicago's Union Station in the late afternoon on a Sunday. This may be number five, the San Francisco Zephyr (departed at four PM).

The legacy Amtrak equipment, as well as the motive power (two SDP40Fs), is adorned with the Phase II paint scheme

The Sears Tower is a major player here of course—difficult not to compose with it in mind. One image by Richard Koenig; taken October 9th 1977.

[rebellionbeach]

more Richard and some absolute cursed family moments in the late 80s

fav Japan 8 beat moments

[mariacallous]

Sean “Diddy” Combs’ countless abuse and sexual assault allegations caught up to him on Monday after he was arrested and charged following a grand jury indictment. Though he pleaded not guilty to three federal counts of sex trafficking and racketeering the following day (he’s in detention pending trial after being denied bail twice), the damage is done in the court of public opinion.

After the U.S. Attorney’s Office in the Southern District of New York unsealed Combs’ indictment early Tuesday morning, social media wasted no time cherry-picking the most searing details — most notably the narcotics and 1,000+ bottles of baby oil and lubricant that law enforcement seized during the March raids on Combs’ properties, which were allegedly intended for his abusive sex parties, aka “freak-offs.”

The shocking information and other parts of the indictment became another point of scrutiny for Combs after his 2017 rebrand as Brother Love failed to conceal the darkest parts of his alleged disturbing behavior behind closed doors.

The U.S. attorney’s indictment of Combs appears to bolster what many have alleged about the now-disgraced music mogul for years, with alarming claims of violence and abuse going back as far as 1990.

The beginning of Combs’ end began on Nov. 16, 2023, when his ex-girlfriend and former record company artist Casandra “Cassie” Ventura filed a bombshell civil lawsuit under New York’s Adult Survivors Act, accusing the Bad Boy Records founder of sex trafficking, rape, physical violence, intimidation and more over a period of 10 years. Combs and Ventura settled the suit just one day later. The latter’s public claims started a domino effect in the months following when seven more women and two men — including Combs’ former producer Rodney “Lil Rod” Jones and another former label artist, Dawn Richard of Danity Kane and Diddy — Dirty Money — to come forward with their harrowing accusations about Combs, all of whom claimed to at some point have been assaulted, abused or threatened by him.

But Combs isn’t the only high-profile figure in the music industry whose alleged misdeeds have been exposed recently.

Shortly before Ventura filed her lawsuit last November, former music executive Drew Dixon filed a lawsuit against famed producer L.A. Reid, claiming that he harassed and sexually assaulted her twice in 2001 while she was working for him (Reid’s request to have the case thrown out was denied in August). In June, producer The-Dream was hit with a sexual assault lawsuit; his former protégé Chanaaz Mangroe accused him of rape, sex trafficking and other violent actions (the producer filed to have his suit dismissed in August). That same month, Kanye West’s former assistant, Lauren Pisciotta, sued him for alleged sexual harassment (a legal representative for the rapper claimed the lawsuit was “blackmail and extortion”). And in July, Murder Inc. Records co-founder Irv Gotti was sued for alleged rape and abuse by a woman identified only as Jane Doe (he has denied any wrongdoing).

As history has shown, a culture of abuse has run rampant at the hands of powerful men in the music industry who refuse to take accountability for any of their alleged harm. Combs claimed in December that he “did not do any of the awful things being alleged” against him before brutal surveillance footage that surfaced in May clearly showed the music executive physically assaulting Ventura at a Los Angeles hotel in 2016 (Ventura detailed the same encounter precisely in her lawsuit). He later released a video apology on Instagram (which has since been removed from his page), taking “full responsibility” for his actions in the footage but for nothing else he’s been accused of.

That could change once Combs’ yet-to-be-scheduled federal sex trafficking trial begins, as his mountain of allegations is just the tip of the iceberg of what’s publicly known. Federal prosecutors’ extensive evidence of Combs’ alleged criminal enterprise will likely expose more, especially since they claim the mogul’s unlawful behavior persisted just days before his arrest.

Nonetheless, Combs’ indictment, which also cites unnamed associates and employees, signals a watershed moment many didn’t anticipate would come so soon after Ventura’s lawsuit — remember, it took over a decade for charges to come down on Jeffrey Epstein for his crimes. With prosecutors adamant about trying Combs’ case in a court of law, the American justice system has taken the first significant step toward holding the industry executive liable for his improprieties.

Now the music industry has officially been put on notice.

The public takedown of Combs is a warning to any wealthy, high-powered folks in the music space who indulge in similar criminal acts and the fearful enablers who stand by silently, unmoved and unwilling to intervene in corruption that goes on far too long. The same goes for those, like Russell Simmons, who thought fleeing could erase the horrid accusations coming from survivors who bravely went on record about the pain endured in their workplace or inflicted by their powerful employers. Evading justice only prolongs the damage, as Combs may be figuring out. But the day of reckoning, for the music industry, at least, is here, and the reign of its abusers is coming to an end.

If we as a culture are to do right by any survivors who have spoken up, we cannot stop with Combs. It’ll take more action and more listening to prosecute unscrupulous men to the fullest extent of the law. Moreover, the music industry stakeholders must commit to creating a safer environment by exiling those who continuously defame it with their deceit.

[frauschneidersfrau]

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 〣 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐤𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐞

i’m so glad that this was requested! just wanna say that im getting a lot of rammstein requests on my slipknot acc; @jimsbeetroot it’s fine, but if you could write them to this account, that would be great! thank you!

warnings! dirty talking! teasing! fingering! oral sex!

words; 2.417

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦; 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒

-

The city lights shimmered as you and Richard stepped out of the sleek black car, the grandeur of the gala awaiting you. His hand, warm and possessive, rested on the small of your back as you made your way inside, a rush of excitement tingling through you. Dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo, Richard was the epitome of rockstar elegance, his intense gaze flicking over to you every few seconds, eyes gleaming with something dark and mischievous.

You had chosen a dress that evening with Richard in mind—a deep, midnight blue gown that hugged every curve, the fabric shimmering with every step. The plunging neckline and high slit revealed just enough to be suggestive, and you knew from the way his eyes darkened when he first saw you that the night was bound to be filled with tension.

The gala was packed with Berlin’s elite—artists, musicians, and celebrities, all mingling under the sparkling chandeliers. Richard held a glass of champagne to his lips, his gaze never straying far from you as you moved through the crowd. He was calm, collected, but the smirk playing on his lips told you that he was thinking of far more than polite conversation.

As you stood beside him, chatting with a famous photographer, you felt the slightest brush of his fingers against your lower back. The touch was so subtle, yet it sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly. You tried to keep your composure, responding to the conversation, but your mind was elsewhere—on the way his fingers teased at the edge of your dress, just beneath the fabric.

When you excused yourself to get some air, Richard followed, his presence a constant weight against your senses. The two of you slipped onto a balcony, the cool night air a stark contrast to the heat between you. You leaned against the railing, the city sprawling out below, and felt his hand slide up your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“You’re driving me crazy tonight, you know that?” Richard’s voice was low, a growl that resonated deep in your chest.

You glanced at him, your eyes catching the fire in his. “I could say the same about you.”

He took a step closer, his body pressing against yours, trapping you between him and the cold metal of the railing. His hands roamed your sides, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin just beneath your breast. Your breath hitched, the tension crackling between you, both of you knowing exactly where this was headed.

“I’ve been imagining taking that dress off you since the moment I saw you,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. “But I think I’ll make you wait… just a little longer.”

You bit your lip, the ache between your thighs becoming almost unbearable as he teased you, his lips skimming your neck, his hands holding you in place. The combination of his scent, his warmth, and the cool night air sent your senses reeling.

But you weren’t one to let him have all the control. Sliding your hand down his chest, you felt the hard lines of his muscles beneath the crisp shirt, and then lower still, to the waistband of his trousers. You felt him tense beneath your touch, a low growl escaping his throat as you pressed your palm against him.

“Two can play this game, Richard,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.

His eyes darkened, and he captured your lips in a searing kiss, one hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your waist, pulling you tight against him. The kiss was deep, consuming, a promise of everything to come once the gala was over. His tongue claimed yours, and you responded with equal hunger, the two of you losing yourselves in the taste and feel of each other.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your heart racing in your chest. He smirked, his thumb brushing across your swollen lips.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

The ride back to his place was electric, the air charged with anticipation. As soon as the door to his apartment closed behind you, all pretenses were gone. Richard was on you in an instant, his hands tearing at your dress as his mouth captured yours in a hungry kiss. He didn’t bother with gentleness, and you didn’t want him to. You needed him, now.

He pulled back just long enough to rid himself of his jacket and shirt, and then he was on you again, his hands rough as they roamed your body, stripping you of the gown that had driven him wild all night. The cool air hit your bare skin, but you didn’t care—he was everywhere, his lips, his hands, his teeth, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You let out a gasp as he hoisted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom. He tossed you onto the bed, the look in his eyes pure desire, his gaze raking over your naked form.

“You’re mine tonight, Y/N,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “And I’m not letting you forget it.”

The heat in his gaze sent shivers through you as he climbed onto the bed, his hands gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. He kissed you hard, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, making you gasp. His fingers trailed down your arms, brushing lightly over your breasts, teasing you until you were arching beneath him, desperate for more.

When his mouth finally descended on your breast, you moaned, the sound low and throaty. He licked and sucked at your sensitive skin, his teeth grazing your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You writhed beneath him, trying to pull your hands free, but he held you firm, his grip unyielding.

“Patience,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with control. “You’ll get what you want… when I’m ready.”

His free hand slid down your side, his fingers dipping between your thighs, barely grazing your heated skin. You bit your lip to stifle a whimper, your hips lifting off the bed in search of more, but he was merciless, keeping his touch light, teasing, until you were trembling with need.

Finally, when you thought you couldn’t take it any longer, his fingers slipped inside you, slow and deliberate. The feeling of him filling you, combined with the firm press of his thumb against your clit, was enough to make you cry out. He watched you closely, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he worked you with expert precision, his fingers curling inside you, stroking that spot that made you see stars.

But just as you were on the brink, when the world started to blur at the edges, he pulled away, leaving you gasping, teetering on the edge of release.

“Richard,” you pleaded, your voice trembling. “Please…”

He shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Not yet. You teased me all night. It’s only fair I return the favor.”

Before you could protest, he flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so you were on your knees, your back arched, your ass in the air. The anticipation was almost too much as you waited, feeling his hands on your hips, his body pressed against yours. You could feel the heat of him, the hard length of his cock against your thigh, but he made you wait, drawing out the tension until you were practically begging for it.

And then, with one hard thrust, he was inside you, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden fullness made you cry out, the pleasure intense, overwhelming. He didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t hold back. He fucked you with a brutal, punishing pace, each thrust deep and hard, pushing you further and further toward the edge.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your gasps and moans. Richard’s grip on your hips was tight, his fingers digging into your flesh as he drove into you again and again, claiming you with every thrust. His name spilled from your lips in broken gasps, your mind lost in the haze of pleasure.

When he reached around to press his fingers against your clit, the added stimulation sent you spiraling. Your body tensed, your muscles clenching around him as you finally came, the orgasm crashing over you like a wave. You screamed his name, your vision going white, your entire body trembling with the force of it.

But Richard didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release. The sensation was almost too much, pleasure turning to pain, but it only heightened the experience, pushing you to the brink of another climax. When he finally groaned your name and came inside you, the feeling of his release triggered your second orgasm, your body convulsing around him, milking him dry.

He collapsed onto the bed beside you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. You could still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm rippling through you, leaving you breathless and sated.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your heavy breathing, the room filled with the scent of sex and sweat. Richard turned to you, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch surprisingly tender after the roughness of before.

“You’re a dangerous woman, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “But I think you already knew that.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him, slow and sensual, savoring the taste of him on your lips. The earlier intensity had burned through both of you, leaving a warm, lingering glow in its wake. You felt the connection between you deepening with every breath, every gentle caress.

As the kiss broke, you met his gaze, seeing the satisfaction and something softer behind his dark eyes. “I might be dangerous,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, “but you wouldn’t want me any other way.”

Richard chuckled, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through your chest. “No, I wouldn’t. But I think you should know,” he added, his voice taking on that familiar commanding edge, “teasing me like that has its consequences.”

A shiver ran through you at his words, a mixture of excitement and anticipation stirring within. “Is that so?” you replied, your voice laced with playful defiance.

Without warning, he rolled you onto your back, his body pressing down on yours, pinning you beneath him. His hands were firm as they slid up your arms, gripping your wrists and holding them above your head, just like before. This time, however, there was a dark, smoldering intent in his gaze, something that sent a delicious thrill racing through your veins.

“Oh, it is,” he purred, his lips brushing against your ear, making your breath hitch. “I think you’ve learned that the hard way tonight. But I’m not done with you yet, Y/N. Not until you’re begging me to stop.”

You trembled beneath him, your body already responding to the promise in his words. The soreness from earlier only heightened your anticipation, making you crave more, despite the ache in your limbs. Richard knew exactly how to push you to your limits, and tonight, he was going to make sure you remembered who was in control.

He moved down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, down your collarbone, and over your breasts. He sucked on your nipples, hard, making you gasp as the sharp pleasure-pain shot through you. He licked and nipped his way further down, his hands still holding your wrists captive, ensuring you couldn’t escape his torment.

When his mouth finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. You squirmed, your hips arching toward him, desperate for his touch, but he merely chuckled, his tongue flicking out to tease you, just barely brushing against your clit.

“Please, Richard,” you whimpered, the need in your voice clear.

“Please what?” he asked, his tone taunting as he continued to toy with you, his fingers spreading you open as his tongue circled your swollen nub.

“Please… fuck me,” you begged, your voice shaking with the intensity of your desire.

Richard hummed in approval, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Good girl,” he murmured, before plunging his tongue inside you, his mouth devouring you with a hunger that made you cry out. He ate you with a ferocity that left you breathless, his lips and tongue working in perfect rhythm, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You writhed beneath him, your hands straining against his grip, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer, but he held you firm, refusing to let you go. The pressure built inside you, the tension winding tighter and tighter until it snapped, sending you hurtling into another earth-shattering orgasm. Your entire body convulsed, your muscles clenching around his tongue as you came, the pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable.

But Richard didn’t stop. He continued to suck and lick at your overstimulated clit, prolonging your orgasm until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You sobbed his name, your body trembling, completely at his mercy.

Only when you were a quivering, breathless mess did he finally release your wrists, letting you collapse onto the bed, your limbs heavy and spent. He climbed over you, his lips finding yours in a deep, possessive kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Remember this,” he whispered against your lips, his voice dark and commanding. “Next time you think about teasing me.”

You nodded weakly, still dazed from the pleasure, unable to form words. But deep down, you knew that this wasn’t the last time. You loved pushing his buttons, loved the way he took control, punishing you in the most delicious ways. And you knew he loved it too.

As you lay there, tangled together in the sheets, your bodies slick with sweat, the dawn light began to filter through the curtains. Richard’s hand traced lazy patterns on your skin, his touch gentle now, soothing in the aftermath of your shared intensity.

The night had been a whirlwind of teasing, tension, and explosive passion, but as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, one thought lingered in your mind—this was only the beginning.