#handprints

First work for a space-themed exhibition, Fires above. I'm super emotional about early humans, them looking at the sky, telling stories about these lights up there. Stories older than the glacier. We've been looking for thousands of years, and it's impossible not to.

Painted on agate.

all sold

Cueva de las Manos, Santa Cruz, Argentina

They're best known for their Optimus/Reader fic called "Handprints", which has been through several iterations, and has been deleted from Ao3 and the internet at large multiple times. Sadly, it seems as though they've deleted it and themselves yet again.

While I wasn't familiar with this fic's latest iteration, I was familiar with it,(it brought back repressed PTSD memories. yay.) as were many of my close friends. It meant a lot to these people and functioned as a huge source of comfort during what is arguably the shittiest fucking time period on earth. I'm not going to try to guess why they felt the need to delete it again, or convince them to come back. But I am going to extend to offer to, should they be amicable to it, adopt the fic from them and finish it.

If you have a way of contacting them, I'd deeply appreciate you letting me know. I don't even need to contact them directly. We can do whatever sort of middleman fuckery everyone's comfortable with. I'd like to request the synopsis/notes/etc if they're willing to share. If they're not, that's also fine. I'll do my best to continue where they left off and pick the brains of those who were invested in it this time around to get the best idea of where it was going plot-wise.

IDK how the fuck I'm gonna do this w Bread and Hard Mercy also looming over my shoulders. God willing, if one or more of y'all wanted to make this a group effort and go in as co authors, that'd be fucking dope. But letting this holy relic disappear from the fandom isn't something I'm willing to let slide if I can help it, and no matter how fucking daunting this seems it also seems like the right thing to do, so I'm gonna try.

The mark blooms slowly, a deep rose impression of his hand against her skin — five unmistakable fingers curved where he held her. To anyone else it might look like possession. A brand. A claim pressed firm enough to linger.

But she knows better.

It isn’t the sting that makes her shiver when she shifts in her seat the next morning. It’s the memory that rises with it.

Every time fabric brushes over the tender welt, she feels him again — the heat of his palm, the steady pressure, the way his voice dropped low when he reminded her who she was to him. The mark isn’t cruel. It isn’t careless. It was given with intention, with control that was never reckless, only deliberate.

A handprint can look like ownership.

To her, it feels like belonging.

The warmth of it settles deep in her belly when she moves. A quiet pulse. A private reminder. No collar rests at her throat, no visible symbol announces anything to the world. And yet she carries him with her in a way that is far more intimate. Hidden. Felt.

She touches the edge of the fading red with her fingertips and exhales slowly.

It’s not about being claimed like property.

It’s about knowing she knelt there willingly. Knowing she offered herself to that moment, to his guidance, to the strength of his hand — and that he held her exactly as she asked to be held.

The welt will fade.

The memory won’t.

Blood Slime Stimboard for Anon

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