#his stubble was supposed to be smaller but my pen is too thick

[g4y-ghxst]

Gorillaz art if you even care

It’s been a while since I’ve colored a sketch, and I’m not the best with water color. >_<‘ It’s not the best but I like it.

[satoruvt]

the color of you - gold (2)

i lost the template for the banner i used in part one so i had to make a new one and it looks different and im sad but at least this chapter is fuckin AWESOME

pairing → keigo takami x bakery owner!reader

word count → 1736

summary → you’re not really dating, so you can’t really be in love with him… right?

song inspo → portland by armors

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

“Does everything look correct?”

The packet in front of you is intimidating, thick and detailing every aspect of the relationship you and Hawks are supposed to have. You flip through the pages, looking over the big points - no one but you, Hawks, his publicist and your lawyer are to know about the terms of your “relationship,” you need to be okay with having your picture taken, and the whole thing will only last a few months to cover a few press conferences and an awards ceremony. The line for your signature on the last page is blank - you expected Hawks to have signed it already, but the line above his name is blank as well. The ball’s in your court, it’s saying.

“Yes,” you say, nodding up at his publicist. “Everything looks fine, thank you.”

“Any boundaries?” Hawks speaks up, and you meet his eyes from across the table. You shake your head no, offering a curt, gentle smile. Your lawyer hands you a pen to sign the contract, and after a deep breath, you drag the pen across the paper in your name. Hawks does the same after you.

“There we go,” he says when he’s done, clicking the pen. His smile is laid-back, easy. “We’re officially in an unofficial relationship.”

You can’t help the smile that dances on your lips, because it really is ironic, but it’s quickly forgotten as the publicist goes over the general idea. There are big events scheduled for the two of you to be seen together - the press conferences, a few dates, the awards ceremony. You’re welcome to do anything else that you might want, the publicist says, and you don’t miss the wink Hawks sends you.

The rest of the meeting is settled with a copy of the contract handed to your lawyer, and the four of you disperse. You’re gathering up your things when you see Hawks waiting in the doorway. “Let me walk you to the front,” he says, and you do.

His agency building is smaller than you thought it would be, given he’s the number two hero. You get strange looks from a few people as the two of you walk towards the front - you’re not surprised, if you were anybody else but yourself you’d be curious too - and it’s not until the two of you are in the elevator, taking it down to the first floor, that Hawks speaks again.

“So,” he begins, and you turn towards him. “Fancy going on a date with me tonight?”

His gaze is playful, so you join in, and it’s not as awkward as you thought it would be. “You read my mind. Must be a lovers’ connection.”

He likes the humor, you decide, when his teasing smirk grows into a grin. “Well, I figure since we’re gonna be dating for the next few months, I should know about my new girlfriend. Doesn’t do well for the press if they ask me questions about you that I don’t know how to answer.”

You laugh, nodding along to his words. The elevator doors open and the two of you continue to the front of the building in comfortable silence.

“I’m very much looking forward to our date tonight,” you tell him when the two of you reach the front doors. They slide open as another person walks into the building, and the warm air from outside brushes against your legs. Hawks grins, pulls you closer to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. It takes you by surprise and you feel your face grow hot, but before you can say anything Hawks is already walking back to his office.

“See you tonight, babe!��� He calls, and you roll your eyes, but the soft smile on your face would fool anyone.

And although it’s embarrassing to blush over something as simple as a cheek kiss, you suppose the pink on your face is a good thing. You notice paparazzi outside of the agency, and they definitely saw what just happened.

-

By this point, you’re not really nervous to be going on a date - “date” - with Hawks, but Jesus, it’s stressful to pick out what the hell you’re gonna wear. Do you actually try? Do you put on some jeans and a nice blouse and call it good? What does going on a fake date with the Number Two hero call for?

In the end you settle for a sundress, something in the middle. It doesn’t take much longer for you to finish up getting ready before you’re heading out the door to the restaurant Hawks had told you to meet him at. You’re lucky it’s not that far away - a fifteen minute walk at most. The sun glows in the evening light, drenching the world in melted gold.

The restaurant is small, but filled with a decent amount of people. When you step inside the gentle hum of overlapping conversation fills your bones, and you see Hawks in a booth down a walkway. You point him out to the hostess and she lets you find your way to him. 

“It’s awfully rude to keep your date waiting,” he says when you get close enough, standing up to greet you.

“What can I say? I dress to impress.”

Hawks kisses your cheek and you scrunch your nose at the feel of his stubble on your face. He lets you into one side of the booth, and you’re expecting him to sit on the opposite side, but instead he sits next to you. The low light of the lamp overhead makes his eyes brighter.

“You do look great.”

“Why, thank you.”

Both of you are teasing, playful, and the conversation is fluid to follow. You’re not speaking across a table so your voices are hushed, gentle, and you think you’re starting to understand why Hawks chose to sit next to you rather than across from you - it’s intimate, couple-y. 

“You know,” you say, finger tracing the rim of your wine glass, “since we’ve been dating for a total of, like, five hours, there’s a lot that I don’t know about you.”

“Ugh, were you even a fan?” Hawks teases, and you scoff, rolling your eyes. His tone softens when you make eye contact with him. “Ask away.”

“For starters, I don’t even know your real name.” You lean your head on your palm as you look at him. “And I feel like, as your girlfriend, I am entitled to that.”

Hawks chuckles, and there’s a certain look in his eyes that you can’t put your finger on. “It’s Keigo Takami.”

Keigo.

“Keigo, huh?” You repeat. It floats around in your mind, lingers on your tongue like the taste of honey. It reminds you of amber, gold, of coins and riches. Keigo.

“Well, I’m Y/N L/N.”

“I know, I looked you up.”

“At least one of us is smart.”

By the time your food comes, you’re barely eating, and it catches up to you how much the two of you have been talking. You’d been worried that the whole thing would be awkward and weird and not at all convincing, but you’re certain if anyone saw the two of you right now, they’d assume you were dating. The conversation rarely stops, and if it does -

Oh. He’s close.

There’s a moment of silence, a break from talking as you shift from one topic to another. On top of the two of you already being close from sitting on the same side of the table, with how much you’ve been talking, you’ve just gravitated towards each other. His arm is draped over the back of the bench, casual, but you can’t really focus when you fixate on his lips.

“And so we, um…” you trail off, then blink yourself out of your trance. “Wow, I completely forgot what I was gonna say.”

Hawks - Keigo - notices, and his face is smug. The smirk on his lips is nothing short of pride.

“Catching feelings for me already, Y/N?”

“In your dreams,” you bounce back.

For the first time tonight, you check your phone. It’s getting late, and although you don’t live very far away, you don’t want to be caught alone after dark. “Ah, I should probably get going.”

Keigo nods, reaching into his pocket to pull out a few thousand yen banknotes and set them on the table. You want to tell him that you have your own money to pay, but he cuts you off by getting out of the booth and speaking himself. “I’ll walk you home,” he says, and you furrow your brows as you get out, too.

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna trouble you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Keigo says, offering his arm to you with a sly grin. “It’s my duty as a hero. And your boyfriend.”

He puts emphasis on the word and you can’t hide the amused smile from your lips, looping your arm through his. 

The walk to your apartment is as comfortable as being in the restaurant with him, but somehow it feels nicer. You suppose it’s the open air, the golden sun having gone down past the distant mountains, leaving remnants of its light in freckles and rosy skin. The walk home seems faster, and you find yourself a little disappointed that the night is ending so soon.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come inside,” you say, voice sultry as the two of you stop in front of your door. “Make the paparazzi think we had a little more fun in the privacy of my home?”

Keigo shrugs, and you can see him thinking about it. “I mean, if you’re okay with it…”

“Now who’s catching feelings?”

He scrunches his face up and you giggle. When you speak again, your voice is softer. Crickets chirp somewhere nearby. 

“I had a good time, dating or not,” you tell him, find your key and unlocking the door. “Thanks for taking me out.”

Keigo takes your hand in his and brings your fingers up to his lips in a formal kiss (though the wink he sends you says otherwise). “Anytime, princess. See you later.”

He takes off out of your apartment building and you go inside, immediately laying down on your sofa in the living room. You feel over the spot on your hand where he kissed you, humming quietly to yourself. 

Maybe this won’t be as hard as you thought.

[lady-o-ren]

The Hunger of My Heart

//PROLOGUE//

//PART ONE//

Long before he begged his heart away,wrecked and ruined beneath his breast. 

It had beaten with love, irrevocable as breath

                                                 _________

                                   Carried by the briny seawinds and over the jutting peaks of the highland mountains was an inexplicable sound of a bell-like hum that had bewildered Jamie since boyhood, seeping like a sun-touched caress to his heart, calling him to elsewhere. 

When the lad finally came of age he was determined to do something about it. Longing to know why it was only he and no one else who could hear this incessant other.

He followed the beseeching siren across land and begrudgingly by sea, supported only on his savings, then as a freelance writer when the money went dry, submitting scribblings of his misadventures to local papers and occasionally something worthwhile to stamp the family name to. 

Now it beckoned him to London.  

But over a year of living little better than a vagabond Jamie's hope began to wane and he questioned if this chase towards wonderment was nothing more than a delusion spurring him further and further into madness. 

Then the tether that bound him to the unearthly other twisted sharp and taut around his doubtful heart, scarcely could he breathe til he yielded to its shrill command that drummed wordless in his ears.

"Whither thou goest, I must go, eh?" He gasped breathless with defeat.

So be it then. 

Once more he'd follow. To London he'd go. But after that he would journey no farther, let it tear his heart out by the roots, he dared. Maybe he'd finally know peace. Be free to roam where he desired like he did as a corbie in his dreams, always flying towards home. 

To Lallybroch.

He'd soar between the rocky crags and across the sweeping hills, swoop down to the fields dotted white with sheep, fat and spoilt by his sister, and forever escaping their pen. Then there at the end of the valley, thick with oak and larches, would be the auld stone manor glowing umber in the warm sunlight with his mother's roses climbing up on either side of the doorway, welcoming him home. 

And Jamie was sure the second he crossed the threshold his sister would clout him over the head like the diminutive Valkyrie she was for being away so long. Then just as suddenly grab him by his curls, "Be still, ruadh," she would order and hold him close like when he was a bairn and all that was left to mother him.

Thinking on it, he well deserved her bumps and bruisings. 

Upon first footing off the plane, Jamie felt an electric spark rush hot underneath his skin, heard a silvery chime in the air that signaled the alluring presence was near. 

But for once the sensation hadn't faded to a distant echo like it had always done before. Only growing stronger, more pronounced, the longer he stayed in the city, stalked the insufferably crowded streets. Nights left him bleary-eyed, for how dare he try to sleep when enchantment was out there closer than he'd ever come before.

If only he knew what he was supposed to be searching for.

After days of endless wandering, Jamie was lured to a barren, nameless street. The pull there suddenly faint as a wind-swept whisper, piercing his heart with dread that he'd been abandoned once again.

Then noise blared all around him violent as a storm, rattling down to the throbbing marrow of his bones. 

He staggered blindly, head spinning, to reach for a rusty lamppost when he felt a palm press strongly at his chest, and another inquiring as moth wings to cup his stubbled cheek. He breathed a ragged sigh, a moan, as their thumb stroked and stroked the furrow from his brow and the chaos in Jamie's head was replaced with the rousing sound of his heartbeat aflame.

A voice gentled with kindness then spoke to him. An ethereal sound he'd been tortured by, had ached to know.

"Open your eyes for me, lad. Let me know if you can hear my voice, see my face. Else I'll have to throw you across my back and carry you to a bench. A damn feat I assure you that would be." 

The breath of a broken laugh passed between his lips as his hand rose shakily to envelope hers so much smaller than his own and so very, very real. 

"I've heard ye all my life, lass."

Jamie then opened his eyes to hers radiant as a midnight flame with curls spiriting frightfully, beautifully awry around her face, lovelier than any delusion could ever conjure.

A siren had captured him indeed.

"A charmer you are," said the woman resisting the urge to roll her eyes and slipped her hand from his reluctant grasp (that was quick to find solace against her other still lingering between the catching rise of his breasts), pressing two fingers against his pulse that fluttered keenly underneath his jaw.

"Tell me, has this happened to you before or is this just a stumble from the pub?" 

Jamie shook his head, blushing brightly pink

"I've had naught but water to drink and barely even that I assure ye. And this, here wi' ye -" He gazed at her half in awe, half in disbelief. "I feel all the better just having yer kind touch upon me, lass," he said with breath coming short, but enough to grasp the scent of oak moss, dirt and leaves dewed with rain, spun sweetly around her as if she'd ran through a glade to find him.

Had she? 

This willow-curled faerie, this freckled nosed nymph?

Unaware of the utter besottment beaming in his face the woman responded with a huff, more concerned with this babbling stranger's alarming color and the way his body heavily leaned as if to envelope hers.

"Is that so, charmer?" She held him by his shoulders, surprisingly strong she was. "Because you're likely to fall and crack your head with the way you're swaying. Both your arms too if I were to leave you where you stand. And I will eventually have to."

"Leave?!" Jamie choked, squeezing tightly to her wrists that left her worried-eyed.

Had she not heard his voice calling from afar all these years as he?  

"But I've only just found ye, know ye to be real. Myself no' insane wi' the haunting of ye!" His haggard voice then cracked on the verge of a sob. "I - I dinna even ken yer name."

His grip ashamedly loosened then, coiling anxious between them, but his gaze stayed fixed to hers. Desperate, imploring.

But she remained silent. Cocking her head to one side in scrutiny of him. Her eyes glowing like the wild nameless thing Jamie imagined her to be as they searched his, delving deep til he felt an extraordinary brush of Her within him somehow, curling impossibly around his wearied heart with exquisite gentleness. 

A shuddered gasp escaped them both as she brushed against a tender wound that Jamie had felt all his life and all at once her face softened with understanding and sympathy.

"Oh dear lad, my name is Claire," she breathed softly, soothing his cheek.

"And yours?" 

It took Jamie a second too long to gather his dumbing wits as Claire's name wove itself to the gaping part of his soul he never knew was missing. When he found his voice, he gave all five of his names. But she neither laughed, nor commented on his parents indecisiveness, only hummed the one that mattered most, "Jamie," with a curious glimmer in her eyes. 

"And you say you've been searching for me?"

He nodded, his forehead nearly flushed against hers. "Aye, for sae long. I thought I was going mad. Am I, ye think?"

Claire shook her head, the cloud of her curls bouncing eager as her grin. She then wove her arm in the crook of his.

"The better question is how can I help you?"

_____

A/N: So...this happened....I feel like there are a million mistakes. I won't see them until I post. Definitely could be better written. Be kind please. Just skip right over if it sucks. Also I haven’t posted in forever so sorry if the format looks wonky.

Descriptions of Lallybroch and the bit of the corbie are taken and reworded from the first two books as well as the quote whither thou goest.

[vicekings]

the kids aren’t alright || sidestep & baphomet

any sidestep & jasper colt || baphomet ~1200 words

made a quick piece for jasper’s companion au (for lack of a better term lmao.) Jasper & Sidestep meet again during Rebirth.

triggers: brief mentions of neglect & ECT, neither goes into depth.

The universe has to be dicking with you. 

First Ortega, and now this? 

You had thought that the perpetually-empty secondhand bookstore would be safe, but apparently the universe didn’t quite get the message that you wanted to be left alone. It ignored of the musty smell of aged paper and the inch thick layer of dusk on every other case, and it placed Jasper right in the center of the nonfiction section. Right in your way. Despite your irritation, you take the chance to study him before he notices you. 

For once, your old companion met years later doesn’t look older; he just looks worse. 

Tired eyes with dark bags underneath. Heavy stubble and unkempt curly hair. The only neat part about him was his undercut, shaved short. He’d added a few new piercings since you’d seen him last; a small silver ear cuff and a second smaller star, a little above the first. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Jasper mutters dryly, not bothering to look away from the crumbled journal in his hands. 

Before you can reply, he looks up. 

Jasper freezes for a moment. Confusion flashes in his eyes. “Holy shit.” He whispers. 

“It’s been a long time.” You reply.

Your throat is dry. Whether it’s from nerves or the dust, you don’t know. 

“No fuckin’ shit!” He hisses. 

Jasper finally sets the book aside to look you over. He frowns, looking much more like a sad puppy than he probably intends. 

“I didn’t even recognize you… you… your air feels. Different.”

“I’d imagine.” You mutter, the memory of Heartbreak pulsing in the back of your mind. 

Worry pours out of Jasper like a toppled glass; realized too late and faster than he can stop it. He hasn’t been regulating his emotional output like he used to, isn’t able to stop you from feeling his anxiety creep over you. It snaps back as quick as he can pull it, but it doesn’t remove the impression. 

“Ah. Sorry, just got back from therapy, my guard’s a little shaky right now.” He tells you quietly, turning his gaze to his feet and shifting awkwardly. 

“It’s okay.” You reassure him. “I didn’t mean to intrude, anyways. I should get going.” 

Jasper chews at his lip. “Oh, uh, okay. Would… would you be willing to meet up sometime? I’d like to catch up whenever you aren’t busy.” 

“... I'll see if I can clear my schedule.” You eventually reply, the words fumbling on your tongue. 

Jasper’s face lights up with a smile. He quickly pulls a pen and notepad from his jacket, ripping off a piece of paper and scribbling something onto it. He hands it over with a phone number written on it. Odd. He was never comfortable with anything he could be tracked through. 

“That’s good for about two weeks, but if you can’t get to me before then, you can find me here most Fridays.” Jasper explains. 

Ah. A burner phone. That makes more sense. 

You tuck the number into your pocket. “I’ll call before then.” You promise, though you’re not sure if you’ll hold to it. 

----

So, you held to your promise. 

You’re breaking a lot of rules by keeping it, but you suppose that Jasper was always good at coaxing you into rebellion. Steal a cookie from the break room, explore the offices you weren’t allowed into, break out of the Farm and hit the road running. His mother had called him a bad influence, his father had called him a disappointment, and the other scientists called him a failed experiment that kept on interfering with other projects. 

You called him a friend, once.  Perhaps the first one you ever had. 

It’s easy to see the lanky fifteen year old with a bumper crop of pimples and a sweet smile that you used to know. It was ironic, how he was born long before you and yet was younger. He’d looked on you in wonder when you’d first fell from the tube. He’d rushed to your side to help you when you stumbled through your first steps, even as the scientists scolded him. No matter what they said or did, Jasper did his best to remain beside you. 

Until Heartbreak. 

“The hospital told me you were dead. They told me as far as the Rangers were concerned, I was too. Two years in a coma with no indication I’d ever wake up... they’d given up on me.” He tells you, as you walk along the beach. 

The evening is quiet and cool and gray, like waves slowly lapping against the shore, like the storm in Jasper’s eyes as he speaks. You feel a sting of anger at the idea of him being forgotten 

You remember the first time he watched them administer ECT to you. The fury that sprung up in his eyes, the rage in his mind. You remember that he wasn’t allowed to watch after they realized he was trying to take your pain onto himself, trying to catch it before your receptors could. You remember hearing him being yelled at from the hallway, remember him yelling back. 

You didn’t see him for a week after that. When he was finally allowed to visit your “dorm,” he snuck you a list of the behaviours the researchers were looking for that would cause them to bring you in for more electroshocks. 

You remember him never giving up on you.

Had you given up on him? Or had so much happened, had so many fallen, that he’d been lost in the maelstrom of chaos that followed?

“Turns out that was good though, ‘cause the Farm gave up too. They’d been told I was killed in action. My last contact on the inside told me my files had been destroyed, and that I’d been deemed a failed experiment. Let me know the good Dr Jones and Dr Day were facing repercussions for it.” 

There’s a little laugh that escapes Jasper— sharp and bitter like the black coffee Dr Day had  always sipped as she gave you your list of tasks for the morning. 

“I’m sorry, Jas…” You murmur. 

“Is it bad? That I felt nothing when they told me my parents were on trial at the Farm? That I couldn’t bring myself to care that my own flesh and blood parents were going to face heavy punishment for my actions? No joy, no hatred, just nothing.” 

“You never asked for them to be your parents.” You try to reassure him. 

“I asked for them to be my parents a lot, but they were never interested in it.” Jasper’s making an attempt at a joke, but neither of you are laughing. 

You both go silent for a moment, watching the waves and inhaling the overwhelming smell of saltwater. 

Soon, Jasper chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. We’re supposed to be catching up, and here I am, turning into an angsty teen ten minutes into the conversation.” 

“You needed to get it out.” You tell him, patting him on the back. 

“I guess I did.” He shrugs. “Fuck, that’s enough about me. What have you been up to?” 

For a moment you want to clam up, but then he stares at you with those soft grey eyes and hopeful air and you find yourself pouring out your heart like he had just moments before. 

[arthur-morgan-slap-my-ass]

Extra Credit

Anonymous said: actually oh my god could you please write dutch taking a young woman (like early twenties ish) under his wing and being her mentor and obviously it turns hella smutty and he’s super daddy and in control ✊🏻✊🏻👌🏼👌🏼😩😩

Anonymous said: Hello, love your blog. Just wondering, are you by any chance going to write more professor Dutch stuff? The one you wrote a while back was 😚👌

AN: Ask and you shall receive, amirite. This took longer than I expected, mostly because I got sidetracked by my midterms and I’ve had some personal issues alongside while writing so I’m not entirely satisfied with how it turned out - but I hope you like it! There lots of love put into it!!!! As always, thanks to wondeful @winters-uprise for being my beta! Also, happy easter.

Word Count: 4800+

Summary: Questionable decisions, perfect marks, crumpled essays, daddy Dutch not knowing how to handle teasing, sweet and indecent comments, awkward conversations and strange proposals.

Part: 1 | 2

Consider supporting the writer and donating to my Ko-Fi!

When you were offered the student aid position, this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind — not really, no. You were glad, of course — a student aid position was going to send your GPA over the clouds —, but you didn’t expect to be assigned as Mr. Van der Linde’s aid, and even more surprising of you to accept it. When you knocked on the office door, still as dark and riddled with books as you could remember it, he didn’t seem surprised or startled when you slipped in carrying the essays of your fellow classmates.

He didn’t seem particularly surprised neither, when you put the papers on his desk with a sheepish smile, asking in a mellow voice, “will you be needing anything else, sir?”

“My dear,” he started, leaning back on his chair, the perfect vision of temptation — suit jacket discarded, dark-navy waistcoat hugging his lean frame tightly and white shirt rolled up to the elbows. “I’d like to ask you a very serious question.”

The smile on your face cooled, nearly disappearing, and you had to shift from one foot to the other. “Sir?”

Dutch cocked his head to the side, idly play with the gold rings on his thick fingers. “I have a theory,” he smirked now, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “and I’d like to test it out.”

“Oh?,” you prompted him on, fidgeting on the sleeve of your worn out wool cardigan.

“The outcome,” Dutch groaned, scratching his chin, a very self-pleased aura about himself, “will depend entirely on you; or might I say how you’re going to do, shall you decide to accept it, my dear.”

You gnawed on your lower lip, skin prickling slightly in anticipation. “Sir?”

“I will write you a commendation letter, my girl,” he spoke offhandedly, smirking when your eyes widened a little. “That shall be enough for your honorable mention, if that’s really what you want.”

“My commendation letter?,” your eyes widened then, urging him on, too curious for your own good.

Dutch now smirked, clearly amused at your expense, “but bear in mind, sweetheart,” he held his gaze at you, examining your smaller frame from head to toes, “I do not do favors for my students.” This sent your mind to a screeching halt, tumbling and crashing to the walls of your better judgment. He simply cocked his head to the side, now looking at your face. “I prefer to say… we’re here to help each other.”

You frowned slightly, somewhat flustered and sensing the oncoming blow to the conversation — one that you were sure would rattle you to the bones —, and so you stayed quiet.

The man looked at the papers on top of his desk, hand coming up to rub his thumb on his bottom lip. “You just picked those up?”

“I—,” you stuttered, following his gaze, “yes, um… I did, these are the essays from last week, although I think some in the class didn’t hand it in time—“

He touched the pile of papers, apparently counting the number of students under his tutoring that had followed through with the activity. “It’s enough.”

Again, you frowned. “Enough?”

“How badly do you want to graduate, Y/N?,” Dutch asked at last, turning his dark and brooding gaze to you, an eyebrow cocking up at your clear absence of response. “It’ll be a year from now, I reckon?”

“Ah— yes, it…,” you staggered slightly, “that’s… right.”

He hummed then, nodding as if satisfied with your response. “You have a thesis advisor yet?”

“What’s the point of this, professor Daniel?,” you snapped, the rebellious streak surfacing in your voice as you challenged him. You weren’t just a pretty instrument to be played by him.

“I have a proposition for you,” he continued, not paying mind to your little outburst — and looking very unimpressed, in fact. “I’ll advise your thesis, since I know you haven't found an advisor yet — and I do believe your project is interesting.”

Dumbfounded, you blinked. What were you supposed to say to him now?

“Sir, I’m very thankful—“

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dutch waved his hand at you, dismissing your gratefulness. “As I said before, this isn’t a favor. I’m going to give you something that you want and you, my beautiful girl, are going to give me something that I want.”

You swallowed nervously, the slow beating of the antique clock way too loud in the room. It felt too unreal, and yet cliché — something to be expected, really, but it was hard to believe that it was happening to you. “And… what… what is it that you want?”

Dutch seemed very pleased at your question, resting his head back at the cushioned chair with a light smirk. He looked at you with half-lidded eyes, taking in your whole figure deliberately as if summoning the words he wanted to say before actually verbalizing them. “Many things, but for now, I think I’d like to have a smoke.”

Changing your weight from one foot to another, you fidgeted with the sleeve of your cardigan once more. “A… smoke?”

“Get my cigarettes for me,” Dutch huffed, somewhat amused at your confusion; pointedly looking downwards to his front pocket. “And don’t make me repeat myself.”

Gawking at him, you then snapped and gasped indignantly. “I’m not—“

“You will,” he spoke firmly, watching you darkly, like a wolf ready to pounce. “You will, won’t you?,” his head cocked to the side, “you want to please me. This is your chance.”

You pressed your lips together, fingers flexing restlessly as you weighed your actual options. Should you? Where was this leading to? How long had he been planning this? Is this why you were offered the position as an aid? This couldn’t possibly be ethical—

“Don’t think too hard,” Dutch said finally, looking somewhat caring, but also impatiently waiting for you to move. “Just do as I say.”

Taking the first step forward felt way harder than it should’ve been, and you did it meekly — not daring to look him in the eyes for longer than a couple seconds. He smiled, pleased as you got to his side with a furious blush creeping up your cheeks, and you hesitated for a second; leaning into him for your hand to slip into the left pocket of his chalk-stripe navy dress pants.

Dutch watched you with half-lidded eyes, dark and predatory as only he could be, and the glint there wasn’t missed when your hand brushed the inside of his thigh; doing your best not to touch the obvious bulge of his cock through the linen of his fancy three-piece suit. Your pinkish blush turned into a crimson one when you took hold of the cigarette pack and the man spread his thighs with a quiet sigh at your feather light touch.

“Thank you, my girl,” he spoke easily, taking the carton box from your hands without much of a fuss, the cigarette making its way to his lips in a well known motion — and you stood there, too anxious to move; but also incredibly… hot.

He looked at you then, lightening the cigarette and taking a deep drag. The smirk spread further and you felt small and somewhat silly standing there, behind his dark mahogany desk and next to him. It still felt surreal. “I’m going to correct the essays now.”

Sensing it in the air, you asked somewhat hesitantly, “would you want me to leave?”

Dutch scoffed, taking another drag before answering. “You’re staying,” he moved the papers to his line of eyesight, skimming over them before fixing you with an expectant stare. “Sit, girl,” he patted his thigh.

You stared blankly at him, unbelieving. “… Dut—“

“Come, now,” he flipped the page of the first paper, reading over it, “you do know I don’t enjoy saying the same thing twice,” the red pen scribbled something over the paper, his cigarette burning lazily at the corner of his mouth and he blew a small cloud of smoke. “Don’t you want to do me proud, mhm?,” he flicked the cigarette on the crystal ashtray, fixing you with an expectant stare. “Do as daddy says, sweetheart.”

With your lower lip trembling, you felt your will melt away. Dutch put out the cigarette, stretching a hand out towards you — which you took, shy; but willing. He smiled, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, touch warm and calloused on your skin. You slid into his lap, legs on each side of his thigh as Dutch adjusted you weight on top of him; his hand pulling your waist against him. “Now, there is a good girl, don’t you think?,” he purred into your ear, the minty smell of his aftershave mixing with the smoky tobacco. “Aren’t you?”

“I…,” you whispered, feeling very small and exposed there on his lap. What if someone came in and saw you like this? But Dutch pressed his face to the side of your neck, nose brushing the skin and raising goosebumps in its wake. You blushed, trying hard not to squeal at the prickling of his stubble. “… ah, yes.”

“That’s it,” you felt the smile in his voice, his hand caressing up your thigh and riding your black pleated skirt up, nonchalant and confident. You fought the will to push his hand away, not because you felt uncomfortable but because it was embarrassing — and very lewd in a certain way. “Cute little thing, you are.”

You let out a low keening sound, sighing as he leaned forwards to pay attention on the papers; your eyes barely registering the words he wrote on them and the scribbling in red ink; grades being assigned that easily and effortlessly. That made you squirm on his lap, your own hand coming down to rest on his knee between your legs. “Dutch…”

He didn’t reply, ignoring you instead; turning the page with a single and well-practiced move. You frowned, pressing your lips together as the pen came down to scribble more on the paper; and his other hand brushed up your thigh once more, sliding under the soft fabric of your skirt and the soft skin between your legs. “Dutch—“

“Try again, sweetheart,” the man whispered back at you, picking up another essay, “you’re smarter.” His hand squeezed the flesh of your thigh, fingers digging into it as he pulled you more fully against his crotch. “I know you are.”

You breathed in sharply then, both hands flying to grasp at his forearm and wrist between your legs. “D— daddy…?”

“Smart girl,” Dutch praised, now brushing his thumb at the front of your panties and making you squirm, unconsciously pushing back at his lap. You leaned forwards, head low and eyes closed with a deep frown at the new sensation, at him toying and complimenting you — and it was a surprise, really, how easily he had managed to push you around. “You’re not just a pretty little thing,” he quipped at you, voice low and sultry. “You’re smart and want to be praised, isn’t it? Is that why you keep making little mistakes, taking up too much work, baby?”

Dutch cooed at your answering whimper, brushing his fingers over your sex and cotton panties frustratingly on the way. “Do you want me to notice you?,” the man asked, lips touching the back of your neck. “Want daddy to give you some attention?”

You pushed back on his hand, not entirely sure if you should focus on it or the leg between yours; his half hard cock straining at your constant rocking. “Daddy, I—“

His hand grasped at your waist, hugging you to his chest as to keep you from moving too much; and you let out a low, frustrated drawl at it. “You squirm too much,” Dutch hummed, hints of amusement in his voice. “Makes me think you’re almost enjoying this, no?”

“Maybe,” you answered, voice low and tiny compared to his, and when you opened your eyes you saw another two essays graded on your right. “It feels good— daddy...”

“It does, doesn’t it?,” Dutch kissed your neck again, hand around you moving and fingers now rubbing a slow teasing circle over your pussy — and you weren’t ashamed to admit it, you were wet. “You like it, sweetheart?”

You leaned back on his chest now, turning your face to bury it into his neck and you could feel the way he had tensed up; the hand that had been correcting the papers stilling for the moment — but you couldn’t care. You moaned, canting your hips upwards towards his touch with a burning need.

“Stop,” Dutch spoke in a warning tone, pulling his hand away from between your legs to rest it on your waist as to still your body, and you whined; pushing back on him in a deliberate move. You could feel the firmness of his cock, outlined by the expensive dress pants, pushing against the side of your hip insistently as you tried to chase the sensation. “I said,” he hissed then, letting go of his pen and wrapping his long fingers around your neck, “stop, girl.”

Whimpering, you tried to squirm to no avail upon his lap; hands grasping on the fabric of his trousers and squeezing tightly. “No, I— just… I want—“

“And now we want things, do we?,” Dutch condescended on you, caressing your exposed neck and collarbone. “My, you’re feisty aren’t you?”

You frowned, trying to move and hump on him again, but his hold on you only tightened. “Daddy—“

“How do we say when we want something, sweetheart?,” he hissed into your ear and you could feel your body melt at the term of endearment that slipped from his lips as sweetly as threateningly. “Won’t you show me your manners?”

With a shaky gasp, you stilled and tried to debate if this was what you really should do, coming to the self-assured recognition that even if you didn’t want to do this, you’d be lying. Did you want to? Yes. But should you? The answer didn’t matter.

“Oh, please daddy,” you mewled, lips trembling and eyes watering with want, “I need more—“

“Do you, now?,” he mused, more to himself, and you felt the rough brush of his chin against the sensitive back of your neck, goosebumps raising through your body, “what is it that you so desperately need, then?”

“… you, daddy,” you answered promptly, closing your eyes in frustration and embarrassment, dreading the words about to leave your mouth, “inside me.”

Dutch breathed in sharply, the only visible sign that he was as affected by this as you, and the grasp around you slackened. “Stand.”

You turned around to look at him, confused. Had you gone too far? Misread what he had wanted from you? What if—

“I said stand, girl,” he punctuated it by squeezing the flesh of your thigh firmly, voice dark and threatening, “now.”

Scrambling off of his lap, you got on your feet with wobbly knees and your skirt riding up your waist and rumpling the nice white blouse you had picked for the day. The dark-red woolen cardigan dangled precariously from one of your shoulders and when you turned around to look at the man, meek and anxious, he all but smiled.

“Off with it,” Dutch pointed at your cardigan as he moved to unbutton his vest, briskly shaking it off — and God, something about seeing him wearing a crisp white dress shirt with rolled up sleeves was—, “and don’t make me say it twice.”

Jumping into action, you slipped off the soft coat and allowed it to pool around your feet on the floor, shuffling off your slippers at the same time. Dutch hummed appreciatively, coaxing you forwards and closer to him.

“You’re just so pretty, aren’t you?,” he whispered, hand warm and calloused as it slipped between your thighs and squeezed the softness of your skin, “blooming with it, just begging to be plucked.”

You closed your eyes, allowing him to wander with his caressing and moaning softly. “Daddy…”

Dutch hummed in reply, fingers inching upwards and hooking on the underside of your panties — and you were ashamed to admit at how wet they already were just from the light touching and the teasing he’s given you so far. “Look at you, sweetheart,” he whispered, smiling at your full-body shiver, “all wet for me.”

His fingertips pressed to the tender flesh of your thighs once more before he decided to move upwards, hooking them into your soft-cotton blue panties and dragging it down in a long and deliberate moment, one that almost felt… intimate. You reached out, to hold onto his shoulders to keep your balance as you stepped out of them and he pressed a light kiss to your forearm, pulling the piece of clothing from you — and you weren’t entirely sure where it went to, but it didn’t matter now.

“Be good now,” he whispered to you, calloused hands pushing your just above the knee skirt further up, rumpling the white shirt you had carefully chosen for today, “behave and you’ll have fun, my dear.”

You bit your lower lip, feeling the soft caress of the hem of the skirt caressing your backside. It was hard to keep quiet like that, even more so when Dutch leaned back, smiling at you; as if admiring his handiwork. He cocked his head to the side, hand coming up to scratch at his chin as if in thought; the warm glint of his ringers impossible to miss.

“Off with the shirt,” he demanded, dark and imposing, “I want to see you.”

No hesitation this time — mostly because you were looking forward the “fun” that he had promised —, you unbuttoned the shirt, the unmatching bra — a lacy baby pink with white peeking from below the fabric when you were ready to shrug it off; and you did, the fabric pooling on top of your cardigan and slippers discarded earlier. When you moved to undo your bra, Dutch stopped you with a wave of his hand.

“Keep it for now, sweetheart. You look precious like that,” he drawled, clearly proud at how readily you had complied to his request. The man eyed the remaining essays on top of his desk, looking back at you with unhurried ease, hands coming down to undo the buckle of his belt in a deliberate and uncaring motion. “Do you want to sit on daddy’s lap now?”

You blushed further, trying not to look down at his lap where he obviously had freed himself, hands slowly pumping his cock to a full erection. With a meek voice, you cast your eyes to the side, whispering, “yes, daddy.”

“Come here, baby,” Dutch called in a hushed tone, urging you further to his lap as to sit there facing him this time. His hand cradled your hip, curling there and squeezing softly as the other disappeared down below, a finger dipping into your pussy to check for wetness before taking a hold of himself, “you’ll be a good girl for daddy, won’t you?”

Squirming, your let out a broken whimper and clutched to his shoulders with a furrow on your brow, “yes…”

“You’ll sit here,” he spoke, voice demanding attention, as if in one of his classes, “and daddy will finish correcting the papers.” At this, you pouted, the protest blooming in your chest dying out as soon as Dutch cupped your cheek, “yes, yes, hush now,” he smiled, drawing his thumb down as to press it in your mouth and you instinctively ran your tongue over the pad, sucking on it. “And once daddy’s done, he’s going to fuck you silly, do you understand?”

With a begrudging nod, you agreed to his words — because what else could you do? No wasn’t something you wanted to say, not now anyways. “Okay, daddy.”

Dutch huffed a breath, cocking his head to the side with an expectant smirk, “what else?”

Your eyes widened, the flush spreading further down your exposed neck and ears — and when you tried to look away from him, his fingers pulled your face back to his, his eyes focused on you.

“I’m… thank… thank you, daddy.”

The smile widened then, Dutch apparently satisfied at your display of submission, and the hand on your hip pulled you down and towards his chest — your head resting against the crook of his neck as you sunk onto his cock; slowly, steadily, inch by inch, making you gasp and shiver, clinging onto his shirt at the intrusive sensation. It stung a bit, not enough to make it unpleasant, but more than enough to remind of how full you were at the moment.

Dutch ran his big hand over your back, soothing and gentle like you didn’t imagine he’d be capable of — and that made you shiver, moaning quietly and clinging harder to him, your knees sinking into the warm leathery seat of his desk chair. He shushed you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple as he rummaged through the papers; the moving of his thighs under yours enough to make you want to cry out and rock down on him.

When you were offered the position as student aid, that wasn’t what you had in mind — no, not at all in fact. Gulping nervously you squirmed, painfully embarrassed, although not enough to turn away on the affair, sitting snugly on his lap; Dutch’s fingertips caressing the soft skin of your thigh below the skirt. You keened lowly then, trying to get more of his cock inside by pressing down on him, unconsciously clenching around it with needy lust and—

“Don’t be greedy now,” Dutch admonished you, stilling your hips with a heavy hand, “be a good girl for daddy. You wanted this, remember?”

You whimpered weakly, tucking your head under his chin with a weak nod, core trembling in need — and by god, he felt so firm and big under you, a constant reminder of how Mr. Van der Linde could just up and fuck you against the mahogany desk of his office, manhandle you and whisper dirty things in your ear and—

“Daddy,” you moaned quietly into the skin of his neck, yet he seemed unphased by it. “Please—“

“Don’t,” Dutch answered, a hand snaking down to brush lightly on your clit and you bucked up on it; only to have his hand squeezing on your waist to remind you to stay still.

The steady scratching of the pen on paper kept going, Dutch sighing in deep thought and paying no mind to you or your soft complaints; even as you shivered at the obvious huff of breath on your shoulder. There was the rustle of paper on his desk and, at the same time, the hand down under your skirt moved to squeeze the supple skin of your thigh. You pursed your lips, closing your eyes as you tensed up to keep from moving too much on his lap — and he still paid no mind to you.

You pressed down again, whimpering quietly and pulling at the roots of hair at the base of his head in a desperate plea for release. Dutch hummed in annoyance, muttering a quiet “let go, princess,” and when you pretended not to hear it, the hand on your thigh moved and delivered a soundly slap to your backside. You yelped, bucking up in surprise, soon followed by a low whine.

“You naughty little thing,” Dutch huffed, kneading the tingling skin, “you know better than to defy daddy like that. Don’t act up on me, princess,” he whispered now, breath past his lips brushing against the shell of your ear and making you shiver, “unless you’re sure you can handle it.”

Dutch leaned forwards, the change in angle making it all feel so much deeper inside of you, the pressure nearly overwhelming. You keened quietly, squeezing his shoulders once more as a dark chuckle rolled out of his tongue.

“What a pretty essay you put up this time.”

What.

“You can’t be…,” you turned around taking a look at the paper in front of him, your name printed out at the top of the page. Your gaze turned to him, eyes wide as embarrassment took over.

“You should stay really quiet if you want daddy to focus and grade you accordingly, don’t you think?,” he mocked, the fingers on your waist drumming up your back, undoing your bra with the help of his other hand. “After all, your GPA looks so pretty now…”

It was true, that getting the position as a student aid had sent your GPA over the clouds, but he wouldn’t—

“Please,” you pleaded, somewhat desperate, “I’ll be quiet, I promise—“

Dutch smiled then, pulling the bra from your shoulders and tossing it to the side with a pleased sigh, calloused palms cupping your breasts tenderly, almost lovingly. “Good girl,” he groaned, kneading the soft flesh slowly before looking up at you with a smug smile. “Won’t you give daddy a kiss to show how grateful you are?”

With a quiet moan, you leaned forwards, one arm lacing around his neck while the other curled between your bodies; fingers brushing the sharp line of the man’s jaw. The kiss, when it came, was sweet and intoxicating — and you tried to ignore the fact that you were to kiss the man now, for the first time, after he’s already bottomed out in your pussy. Dutch sighed, pleased and languid, unable to avoid the unconscious thrust of his hips up into the inviting warmth of your sex.

“Daddy—,” you whimpered, kiss turning from a gentle ember to a roaring fire at the quiet groaning from the man below you, “I’ll be good, I—“

“Yes,” Dutch agreed heatedly, fingers digging into the skin of your buttocks and pulling you down onto him, “yes, a good girl aren’t you?”

You gasped at it then, as he started to move you on his cock; and your hips soon followed the desperate rhythm. He leaned back, moaning lowly as you pushed down on him, clinging to the crispy whiteness of his dress shirt.

“Look at you,” he growled, a palm coming up to cup your cheek rather roughly — but you didn’t mind, you didn’t—, “such a sweet little thing, aren’t you?”

You nodded, face burning hot at the sensation of his hand on it, blushing furiously; a sob blossoming from deep within your chest as he hugged your smaller frame into his chest with a trembling huff. “Oh, God—“

“My girl,” came the answering groan and you felt the hand on your face move to cradle your head to his chest, holding you there in a protective and somewhat selfish manner, “you’re making daddy so proud, sweetheart.”

Dutch pushed up, your body still held within his grasp as he set you on the table; the cool surface of the dark desk raising goosebumps on your skin. The papers scattered, some sliding off, others crumpling under you or simply floating away, but neither of you cared, you couldn’t—

“Fuck,” the man cursed, pressing his body snugly to yours, the head of his cock pushing in somewhat too deep, “feel so good, baby—“

Whimpering, you closed your eyes, arching your body up and digging your fingers into the exposed skin of his forearm; other hand wrapping around the back of his neck in a vice grip. The desk rattled at the first few thrusts, Dutch holding your hips down against it to keep you still and pliant under him.

“Please,” you gasped out, desperately clinging to him, legs lacing around his, “please—“

He all but snickered, looking down at you with wonder. Dutch pressed his thumb into your mouth again, pleased to see that you complied and started suckling on it; brows furrowed and eyes closed. “You want to cum, sweetheart?”

You nodded, whining lowly and arching your hips up for a better angle, and Dutch pressed a soft kiss to your chest; thrusting purposeful and languid to get the most out of it from you, but it was when he pressed a finger — the thumb previously in your mouth — down on your clit that your release came, flaming hot and desperately sweet at the same time. And at that, you cried out, curling under him as he kept going to let you ride out the final waves of your blissful orgasm, still shaking and breathless under him—

“Shit—,” Dutch groaned, pulling out and before you could ask why, you felt the hot splash of his seed on your thigh, hand coming down to jerk his spent cock a couple more times. You closed your eyes, basking in the bliss of release, bare chested and exposed on his desk with your legs still wrapped around your professor.

“Thank you, daddy,” you whispered, smiling at yourself when Dutch huffed out a laugh above you, the sound sweet and endearing in a way you couldn’t quite place your finger at.

And when he put out the grades on the notice board next week, claiming that the essays were to be kept by the graduation Dean, you simply smiled at your perfect mark.

[bluraydisco]

Life On Mars In Boston: Adjust Time On Hour

Possible Time/Space traveler (or perhaps just a schizophrenic homeless man) leaving cryptic messages and glyphs in the area of Allston, MA (from late Summer to Early Fall 2018).

These images are the main reason I had created both a Redit and a Tumblr, so that I could get answers to the meanings behind it all. If this subject matter piques any readers attention and if anyone can decipher the meaning behind any of it (if there is any at all) feel free to comment with suggestions of what they could mean!

After much research, I know SOME of these are indeed simple hobo symbology (ie: the feathered arrows featured below). However, there is some unknown imagery such as crosses/unfinished clocks, a circle with a "teardrop" left blank on the inside or including either an A, B, a DC or even a question mark! (+/-). This individual also has written messages to a "Lauren" (one legible the other not so much) and has an obsession with the U.S.A., Time and Mars. As a matter of fact that planet was visible to the naked eye during the first of happenings

A little backstory:

I first noticed him in late August/early September while I was on my way to work, waiting to cross the street. He is a short, thin straggly looking man with thick stubble, a gray mullet, wearing a red hat, wire rim glasses (80s style) and a brown blazer. He was sitting at the bus stop. Then, in a flash, I saw him manically get up and he started writing on an advert for a local gym that was on a city recycling/rubbish bin with a sharpie. After work I took a snap of it. It was the first of many *unfinished clocks.

***NOTE: A Reditor with the handle "Qualiawiddershins" concluded on the "Fringe Science" forum that these are known in psychological circles as "clock tests". In which delusional patients are instructed to draw a clock (from memory) by their Doctor in order to come back to reality and to come down from their mania. What intrigued this commenter was the fact that the subject was using this specific method for his own advantage in order to further justify his obsessions/fantasy world. END NOTE***

The next day revealed a rather large diagram at the very same bus stop where ad space is supposed to go. It contained plenty of A's, B's, what I call "teardrops" connected with the word "America" intersected with arrows and, of course Mars, up top and circled. I thought it was scientific, so a close friend (who has a legit background) theorized the following:

"I think he was a physical chemist. Electron cloud diagrams, charges, anion and cation exchange...Or maybe I've been staring at it for too long".

***NOTE 2: I uploaded the pictures on the Science thread. As it turns out, she was indeed looking at it too long. No science to it. Just incoherent ramblings and (as stated at the start of the post) some "Hobo symbology". END NOTE 2***

The blank area behind the route map of the same bus stop was also adorned with a compact oval version. Mars written in the middle curving arrows surrounding it, with A's and B's on each corner of the square surface!

That Saturday, I went clubbing. I passed a Bank of America ATM kiosk in which I had discovered his "Magnum Opus"! There were more mentions of Mars and more lettered circles with tear drops and clock tests! That's when I became tantilized and had decided to follow and record his work. Simply because of the strange, almost "Toynbee Tiles" aspect to it all.

The next few months I had decided to do some field investigations on my days off from work. That's when I realized there were markings in specific areas. Mostly where that certain bus route is!

He had labeled apartment buildings, restaurants, convenience stores. Mainly near doors, entance ways, and in the front, sides and in the rear of these businesses and residences. Hell, he even tagged an old fire call box, a window and a fire hydrant!!!

The message to the aforementioned woman read "Lauren, if you care PROVE IT". As I stated previously, this was in two spots, one readable the other...chicken scratch. They were both written on City Utility boxes. If it is the same person (and there are more teardrops and crosses/clocks on these, plus the handwriting is too similar for it not to be, in my humble opinion) this changes the ENTIRE narrative and it's absolutely heartbreaking.

I eventually returned and did a walk through video of the ATM Kiosk. There I found a body of water with numbered bouys where there appears to be a countdown. It's only after someone mentioned it I had realized that 9 repeats. More mentions of Mars. More circles w/ teardrops, crosses and clocks.

Then, there was a crude map of the United States listing (what I assume are) possible places where he has lived or visited and locations such as Cape Canaveral, NASA and Houston, Texas. Some of these locales have question marks over them (Like Kansas). There are even some local-ish areas he had jotted down (Sandwich and Falmouth).

There are also unintentionally humorous misspellings ("Welleft" = Welfleet Beach and "MinneSODA") and oddities such as a mention of Georgia Peaches and Manhattan being placed on the West coast. (Possibly in reference to the "Manhattan Project")?

Eventually they painted over his "Sistine Chapel". Only for a smaller version to appear on a new bus stop marker down the street with the message that read "Adjust time on the hour" and another map of the Good ole US of A, with Houston, TX and with Kansas bold, prominent and inside of a rectangle. (No question mark this time).

The last thing he had done is return to the freshly repainted ATM kiosk!!! There he started a bigger map ( of which remains an unfinished outline) and had drawn a message that read "Navigate" in a circle w/ teardrop with arrows pointing outward. Sadly, he had run out of black marker and used a barely noticeable red pen to finish a smaller scale US Map, with no mentions of other areas but Kansas front and center (and yes, enclosed in another rectangle)!

*** NOTE 3: Thinking it would be right up his alley, I have been sharing my findings with host of You Tube's " Down The Rabbit Hole" Fredrik Knudsen on Twitter and boy was I correct. It resulted in retweets and threads from him and a few of his followers. I often keep him/them up to date on anything recent. (ie: My recent realization that SOME of these markings are mere Hobo symbology or variations that there of) END NOTE 3***

Through the months of late August into early October he has been active. Since then, he has been quiet. The city had cleaned up or covered most of what he has done. I walked down the street to see if he had resurfaced after November Fourth because of his "Adjust Time on hour" message. Unfortunately, I had found nothing new at the moment of this writing but will continue to look.

Perhaps he had simply descended into the ether of his madness or he had truly ascended up into the Red Planet on the day Daylight Savings Time ended? For now he has vanished without a trace. Leaving no more markings. Will he reemerge? Who knows? (Ironically) Time will tell.

***NOTE 4: I have various photos and (full) videos here. Linked is my You Tube channel, which goes more in depth visually about what is contained in this blog. Enjoy!!! END NOTE 4***

Thanks so much for reading.

#LifeOnMarsInBoston.

-DGD