Vietnamese photographer Thanh Ha Bui captured this incredible image in his parents’ back garden and, after spotting a line of super strong weaver ants marching across a branch, decided to test their legendary weightlifting skills. First experimenting with pieces of food and leaves, he eventually ended up with this incredible shot
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Sometime in the last twenty minutes, Stiles had lost track of Scott, the darkness of the rave lit only by the glow from the blacklights. It shone brightly from the dizzying assortment of neon paints, scattered from the glow sticks people swung and settled deep into the neon threads people wore as crowns and bracelets and necklaces. He had thrown a cursory glance around for Scott, but he’d been heading for where Allison had disappeared, swallowed by the crowd on the tips of Isaac’s fingers.
It wasn’t a huge deal; he hung out with Scott often enough that a little time to dance by himself in the throng of people was not unwelcome. If he stayed put, eventually Scott would range back, or at least leave him a text to find out where he’d gone.
So Stiles just closed his eyes and let the bass seep into his bones and set his blood pumping hard. It was easier, here in the darkness, to forget the rest of the world. It was easy to forget his own darkness, heavy in his heart since the day he’d died. It was easy to forget the people that were missing from his life, both the ones that had been taken and the ones who had been left. It was easy, he thought as he danced with warm bodies so close all around him, not to feel alone.
He didn’t catch sight of the stranger prowling through the crowd toward him until they were only a few yards apart. Stiles smiled, because he couldn’t see much through the glowing colors traced onto the guy’s features like war paint, but he could see the line of his jaw, the spiky hair. He could see broad shoulders as the guy moved in closer, hesitating just enough for Stiles to angle his body to grant permission to join him.
The stranger practically radiated heat as he moved in close, closer than anyone casually dancing should have done. It should have felt uncomfortable, but it only felt familiar to Stiles, like he was dancing with a friend- except this wasn’t a friend if for no other reason than because Stiles’ friends didn’t dance like that. They didn’t move like their hands belonged ghosting over his hips, or like they would like nothing better than to bury their nose in the soft crook of his shoulder.
He wanted to ask questions, but the music was too loud for anything but shouting, so he just let go of his reservations and let the music move them both a little closer.
Of course Derek knew who Stiles was, even from across the sea of people, even through the smear of glowing lights that skewed his vision just slightly. He’d been assaulted at the entrance by a young woman wielding body paint. He could have gotten past her easily, but the idea of being able to hide in plain sight, the shape of his face costumed by the colors she traced onto his skin, was tantalizing. A part of him wished he had a mirror, but not enough that he was willing to lose track of Stiles’ scent, of his heartbeat thrumming underneath the bass.
He’d been away for months, running with Cora for the sake of running. They’d spent the change of the new year ranging up and down the coast, sometimes in his car, sometimes on the pads of their paws through the forests of the north and down to the beaches near the border. Through all of it, the scent of the loud-mouthed, stupid teenager had followed him, dogging every step, haunting through his dreams.
Finally, he’d given up. He’d come back to Beacon Hills and tracked him down, only to find him at what was arguably the most obnoxious location in the entire town. Derek hadn’t been thrilled, but here he was, threading through the undulating crowd, following the muddied trail of scent until he could catch sight of him.
When he did, he froze.
Yards away, Stiles danced with his eyes closed, a ring of glowing red around his neck like a collar, his hips gyrating in a positively sinful manner. Somehow Derek remembered to breathe, remembered that he’d come here to find Stiles, and that meant moving forward. He hesitated for only a moment before the orange glow around his eyes reminded him that he was wearing a mask. It would be so much darker for Stiles, so much less clear, and that gave Derek the courage to take a step toward him, and another, and another, until he was close enough that Stiles looked up.
It had been far too long since he had seen those amber-brown eyes. When he caught sight of them, lit unearthly shades by the strange glow surrounding them, his breath caught in his throat. For a split second Stiles studied him, and then angled himself toward Derek, an invitation. Neither of them said a word as Derek moved in closer.
He wanted to tell Stiles he was back. He wanted to tell him how he had to come back because he couldn’t forget him, how he chased him in his dreams, always just out of reach. There were a million things Derek wanted to say to Stiles, but his tongue couldn’t seem to find even one of them, and so he left his hands speak for him, fingers ghosting over Stiles’ hips. He was warm, so warm Derek could feel it even inches away, could smell the sweat on his skin from dancing. Just like in his dreams, too close and too far, all at the same time.
Just as he opened his mouth to say something, anything, to beg Stiles to step away from all this noise and heat and humanity, he felt Stiles’ fingers slipping into the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him closer. He was sure he made a sound, a small, severed whimper when their noses touched, and then he was closing the distance between them, finally close enough to kiss Stiles.
It was everything he had been wanting, the soft warmth of Stiles’ lips, the feel of his knuckles along Derek’s hipbones as he grasped a little tighter, pulled him in a little further. Derek pulled his hands up, smoothed his palms over the line of Stiles’ jaw and sank into the kiss.
The same instance, Stiles pulled back like he’d been startled, eyes wide. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet the music lapped up the word to every ear but Derek’s.
An apology fell from Derek’s lips before he could even think about it, but when he began to pull away, Stiles tightened his grip on Derek’s belt loops, halting him. Looking back, he met Stiles’ gaze, wide and bewildered, like maybe Derek was a unicorn or a ghost, something which didn’t belong at the tips of his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated softly, knowing Stiles could hear him only by virtue of reading his lips.
“You came back,” Stiles said, a little brokenly. Derek straightened at the tone, unable to discern if Stiles thought his return was good or bad.
Then Stiles gave a good, solid yank to his belt loops, dragging him back closer even as he released him long enough to bring his arms up. Derek froze completely as Stiles draped his arms over his shoulders, buried his nose in Derek’s shoulder, got so close Derek could feel his heart beating against his chest. Slowly, he brought his hands up, running them down Stiles’ flank once before surrendering, wrapping his arms around Stiles and holding on as if Stiles might disappear if he didn’t.
“Welcome home,” Stiles mumbled into his shoulder, and for the first time since he’d left, Derek relaxed.
Hockey is so fucking entertaining without even meaning to be.
All these hockey gifs and they didn’t include the best one:
this made me want to watch hockey
This is why Hockey is the only sport I will watch