The white ones were his first, stolen from the dresser drawer of a temporary friend in one of a dozen equally temporary towns. They’re plain cotton bikini cuts, worn-in and high-waisted, shouldn’t make him feel half as sexy as they do. They don’t have any lace or fine detail, just a little, powder blue bow right where Sam’s cock leaks through them when Dean’s got him on his knees with a hand twisted in his hair, calling him a ‘good girl’–like a good girl would ever let her brother bruise her lips like Sam does.
The red ones were a Valentine’s day gift, something that caught Dean’s eye in a window display. They’re so sheer that they might as well not be there at all; Sam feels somehow even more naked with them on. They have a heart cut-out in the back where they hug the high curve of his ass, and Dean loves to get his fingers through the middle and down into Sam’s hole, working him until he creams the front of them, makes the see-through fabric cling wetly.
The pink ones are definitely Sam’s favorite, bubblegum-bright and covered in polka dots with a ruffle along the back that’s starting to fray from how often Dean’s had his hands on them. Sam used some of the money dad gave him for school supplies to buy them, took them up to the till with his face flushed a matching pink. They’re stained with the evidence of all the lessons he’s learned while wearing them. Like how if he pulls them to the side and buries two of his own fingers into his hole, bites his lip and says ‘need you’ just right, he might get Dean worked up enough that he comes on his ass before he even gets inside it. And a follow-up lesson on how round two will always wind up leaking out of him to wet the inside of his panties, too.
Sam inevitably strays into the girl’s section every time they go out for essentials, eyeing something other than the dirt cheap necessities and surplus survival gear dad’s interested in. This time he’s biting his lip and gazing fondly at a pair of black boyshorts. Dean clearly isn’t sure what the appeal is, looking at the plain front of them, so Sam turns them around with a small, shy grin. There’s two purple handprints on the back, one for each cheek, like they’re inviting a spanking.
okay but neville longbottom as head of gryffindor house and there’s all these stories of him going head to head with an army of werewolves, being tortured by death eaters and killing Voldemort’s snake with godric gryffindor’s actual sword but when the students see him he’s like cradling a pot plant and crying cause he saw someone lost their pet on the noticeboard and they’re like “that guy? are you sure it’s that guy”
BONUS: one of the older student’s get dared to go up and ask him if it’s true and neville just makes direct eye-contact and says “voldemort was a punk bitch” and continues knitting a lil baby sweater for a mandrake
In the heat of battle, photographer Horace Bristol captured one of the most unique and erotic photos of WWII.
Bristol photographed a young crewman of a US Navy “Dumbo” PBY rescue mission, manning his gun after having stripped naked and jumped into the water of Rabaul Harbor to rescue a badly burned Marine pilot. The Marine was shot down while bombing the Japanese-held fortress of Rabaul.
“…we got a call to pick up an airman who was down in the Bay. The Japanese were shooting at him from the island, and when they saw us they started shooting at us. The man who was shot down was temporarily blinded, so one of our crew stripped off his clothes and jumped in to bring him aboard. He couldn’t have swum very well wearing his boots and clothes. As soon as we could, we took off. We weren’t waiting around for anybody to put on formal clothes. We were being shot at and wanted to get the hell out of there. The naked man got back into his position at his gun in the blister of the plane.”
“And well, there was his butt, and I had a camera. I mean I AM a historian.”
That is the BEST EVER quote about the nature of historians I’ve ever seen
