#handprinter

[wolfcomix]

Jelly cycle, gamblin ink on kitakata paper, hand pressed

[letmeinimafairy]

A bigger decorative piece with cave painting handprints. River pebble and tempera

[strawlessandbraless]

Dean forgetting his own name, calling a lamp a light stick - but sees a bloody handprint and immediately starts obsessing about his angel

GIF Credit

[casdeans-pie]

Dean and Cas are visiting Jody and the girls one day and Dean has insisted on cooking them all dinner. He hears them all chatting and laughing in the next room while he cooks - he can especially hear Cas's rumbling replies - and it warms something in his chest and makes him smile, even though he's not actively part of the conversation.

Patience comes into the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine and stares over at Dean long enough that he gives her a curious look. "Y'okay there?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry," she says, "it's just that, I've never seen that mark on your shoulder glow so brightly."

Dean freezes. "The what?"

Patience gestures with the bottle at his left shoulder. "The handprint?" she says, with a little uncertainty after his reaction. "It's glowing brighter than ever."

Dean immediately pulls his arm out of his flannel and yanks up his shirt sleeve, but there's nothing there.

"Oh wow." Patience blinks and squints at a light only she can see. "Must be hard to sleep with that."

Dean feels like he takes a long time to respond before he finally says, "You get used to it."

"Guess you'd have to," Patience says, shaking her head as she leaves the room, "when it's as bright as that."

Dean immediately touches his shoulder, where the scar used to be, but it's just smooth unmarked skin under his palm.

He presses down.

The sound of a glass clinking over onto the table comes from the other room and he hears Jody cheerfully claim that Cas has had too much to drink (which Dean knows isn't true unless they had a significantly lot more wine).

Castiel, Dean prays, I think we need to talk about something in the kitchen.

-----------

(Part 2)

(AO3 link post)

[wolfchans]

BANG CHAN ♡ RAILWAY dominATE WORLD TOUR IN SEOUL (240901)

[bitterrfruit]

price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat

girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ♡

18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.

Here’s part 2!

Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.

Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.

But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.

He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;

“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.

“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”

It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.

Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.

One, two, three, four…

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.

“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.

“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”

A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”

“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”

With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”

Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.

But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”

Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.

“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”

That was a step over the line.

You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.

And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.

He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.

“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.

And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”

[casdeansangel]

Castiel handprint embroidery 🪡

[dirtgh0ul]

dyke bandana // want one?

[omaano]

🌟The Dominoes are in the house!🌟

Well. They are in the Hades AU finally :D Thank you @lovexfroggie for your insight on the twins and their possible mythological inspiration ❤️ (the wonky stars are on me)

It's only their character art for now, because I still need to work a lot more on what I want their interaction with Din to look like (also I haven't thought of dialogue yet, so I'll need some extra time there, so stay tuned!)

[letmeinimafairy]

No idea why these prehistoric handprints in the caves make me feel Things but they do, whenever I see them. I even remember watching Brother Bear as a kid and being hypnotized by the imagery, lol. Painted river pebbles, will make two macrame pendants with rough stone beads with them

[eleadore]

they come as a pair

[strawlessandbraless]

Possessive Castiel with a marking kink makes me feral

[cicada-crt]

I want to use a transfem sub with another trans guy dom so bad its unreal... we could tie her up and take turns facefucking her with our tdicks and breeding her with our straps, groping her tits and leaving bitemarks and dark bruises wherever we can. It would sooo nice hearing her whine as we talk about how good she feels and how pretty she is right in front of her. We'd constantly praise her but only to each other as if she's just an adorable fucktoy for us to use (because she is!!)

Maybe if we're feeling really mean we could just make out and frot our dicks together in front of her until the poor girl is whining an begging for our touch, barely able to stop herself from grinding her hips back and forth from how desperate she is. Or maybe we'd get competitive and try to see which of us can make her cum the most, writing or carving little tally marks on her thighs to keep score until her mind is completely empty and she's reached the limit of what she can take

[hemlock-dreams]

I am BEGGING for a full tattoo tour of your Peter

I love your AU so muchhh

BEHOLD: THE TATTOUR:

Been procrastinating on this because I hadn't actually figured out what his tattoos were beyond a few key ones. But here we are!

Some explanation for a few of them:

3 Eye Dots: Prison tattoo signifying 'My crazy prison life'.

Dice: Common prison tattoo signifying gambling with life.

Skull: Common prison tat. 16 year old Peter thought it was cool.

Eye with Tears: Signifying watching his back-3 tears mean 3 attacks over the course of 5 years.

Cobweb: Common prison tattoo meaning the person was sitting on their elbows for so long they started to get cobwebs.

MJ on Knee: Mary Jane Watson used to be a dealer back in high school/college. As a joke she signed her name with a weed leaf instead of her name. Peter tatted it as a show of love/loyalty.

Winged Bell-Noose: Signifies time served. Wings for freedom, the bell for time served, and 5 gongs for 5 years.

Cat's eye: The job that got him in was burglary.

The double katana tramp stamp and Wade's handprint are post identity reveal and relationships tattoos- and Wade is super duper mega normal about them yessiree. His brain does not short out every time he remembers they're there, nope, not at all.

As for piercings, Peter has one on his right nipple, his bellybutton, and 3 in each ear. He used to have one on his tongue, but post mutation his mouth is WAY too sensitive. It was too...distracting, so it had to go. >:)

----

Once again, thank you so much for the support and love! I do want you all to feel guilty for making me suffer through those peonies though, so-

<3 <3

[casdeans-pie]

---- AO3 link post

---- Part 1

----------------------

Cas makes his way into the kitchen after Dean hears him apologise and make an excuse to leave the table. His gaze flicks to Dean’s shoulder as he walks into the room, in a familiar gesture that’s so quick Dean’s sure he’s seen him do that before and just dismissed it.

“Dean?” Cas says with concern, eyebrows scrunching together endearingly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but you mind telling me what’s up with this?” Dean gestures at where the handprint should be – which to him still looks like normal skin.

For a moment Cas says nothing. His eyebrows scrunch impossibly closer. He takes a longer look at Dean’s shoulder, then straightens up, clears his throat and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” in a stilted monotone that would fool absolutely nobody.

“Oh come on! You’re a terrible liar, I know that you can see there’s a handprint.”

Cas sighs. “Yes. There is.”

“What the hell, Cas? When were you going to tell me about the friggin’ mood ring on my shoulder?”

“Mood ring?”

“Patience said it was glowing brighter than ever and I guess I was feeling really happy and uh-”

The corners of Cas’s lips twitch up into a smile. “It was glowing that brightly?”

“Hey, nope, not the important thing right now,” Dean says, heat crawling up the back of his neck remembering why he’d been so happy. He gestures back at his incredibly normal looking skin. “Who else can see this?”

“Psychics like Patience…” Cas begins, a little hesitantly, “and other Angels.”

“Okay, this is starting to make sense ‘cause they’ve always looked at my shoulder funny.”

“And Demons,” Cas continues quietly.

“Wait, are you kidding?”

“And probably ghosts. Though I’ve never asked one.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “Okay. That’s great. Everyone but me can see my sparkly my little pony cutie mark-”

“I don’t understand what ponies have to do with any of this.”

Dean smiles before he can help it and Cas’s eyes flick back to his shoulder. Dean grabs at the skin there, but he still can’t see anything different. “Seriously? Just from you doing your,” he lowers his voice when he mimics, “‘I don’t understand that reference’ bit?”

Cas turns his head away, but Dean can see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes from the smile he’s trying to hide.

Dean sighs, knowing the warmth in his chest will only be making the mark glow even brighter. Damn it. “And it's always been like this?”

Cas turns back to him, the smile gone. “I healed the physical scar as soon as I could, but that mark was made on your soul. The glowing print it left behind can’t be healed away,” he says softly, “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Figures.”

“When I made it… it was the only way I could bring your soul back with me.” Cas’s shoulders tense in that way that means there’s more, he just doesn’t want to say it.

Dean catches on. “Wait… it means something, doesn’t it? What does it mean?”

Cas holds his gaze but says nothing, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Cas? C’mon man, what does it mean?”

Cas closes the short distance between them (Dean hadn’t even noticed they’d been standing so close) and gently lays a hand onto the skin of his shoulder, over where the handprint would be if Dean could see it. He gasps when a hot jolt of something electric shoots straight through him and leaves his entire body tingling.

Cas finally says, “It means you’re mine.”

[mask131]

This morning, it was discovered that, during the night, two dozen of red handprints have been painted on the Wall of the Justs.

The Wall of the Justs is part of the Parisian Memorial of the Shoah: it is the list of the names of nearly four thousand men and women who helped protect and save Jews during the Occupation of France by the Nazis.

Tell me again how the red handprint is "definitively not used by antisemites or for antisemitic purposes"? And tell me, please, how defacing this memorial (which is not even to the memory of Jews, but to the memory of those that stood up against the Nazis) will help Palestine in any way?

... Maybe you can't, because this is proof that, for some person, it is not about Palestine at all. They don't care about bringing food or medical help to Gaza. They just see an opportunity to express their own hate.

Everybody has been saying this, and I will concur: most of these people are either antisemites, or uneducated ignorants who are so short-sighted they don't even realize how bad their own actions look, and thus soil the very cause they want to defend.

At best, they wanted to say something about how pro-Palestinians are "the Resistance" but failed monstrously at carrying the message because they DEFACED A SHOAH MEMORIAL. At worst, they wanted us to understand what is the only thing to be read here: "These people who saved the Jews in World War II have blood on their hands now." And this is such a vile and nauseating message.