In this short video (no ad), shards of ice are forming and are literally popping out of a frozen lake in large piles. We are witnessing the natural phenomena of the formation of ice needles. They even make an incredible sound as they form. This is amazing to watch!
Ice needles occur when the temperature of the soil is above 0°C and the surface temperature of the air is below 0°C. The subterranean water is brought to the surface via small capillaries and then freezes as it goes into needle-like columns a few centimeters long.
Pairing: Bucky x Reader Rated: T Word Count: 1,816 Original Request:anonymous: halo :) could you make up a story in which bucky is very mean to the reader despite her crush on him, and in one mission, when reader gets injured, bucky was terrified and confesses his love and their love buds :)))
so i turned this into a multi-part series thing and i’d love to know what you think about me dragging this out?
A/N: If requested, I’ll do a part three! As always, show my MASTERLISTsome love, and maybe request some more in the ask box?
You were familiar with heat. You were familiar with burning and crisping up from the inside out. Your insides are made of charcoal and ash, you exhale cinders and your hands glow with the threat of flame.
Cassian’s wooden staff cracked across my knuckles, forcing me to drop my own weapon. The loud clatter interrupted the sounds of my labored breathing, while Cassian merely grunted “Again”.
“No,” I gasped, rubbing my stinging hand. “No more.”
He sighed my name, pinching the bridge of his nose. I could tell he was tired–there were always dark circles under his eyes now, and faint wrinkles across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, as if he was consciously holding off pain. It had been a constant expression on his face since that night I had been so much more vicious than I had intended, when I had spurned his heartfelt confession because I was too afraid of my own heart. He rubbed his temples and groaned in frustration.
As if I was giving him a headache. As if I were a burden. The thought pierced my heart like a shard of ice.
“Nesta,” he began again, picking up my staff, “We only have so much time to train. Please don’t make this about pride or.. or feeling inadequate, or being angry, or whatever it is.”
I jerked back, as if struck. He reached for me, slowly, curling calloused fingers around my bicep, his thumb rubbing soothing circles across my skin. It felt–it felt like being grounded, like coming home, like a missing piece had been restored, all at once.
And then he ruined it by opening his stupid mouth.
“Feyre told me, once, that she thought you felt things more deeply, more strongly, than others. That you burned with it. Please-just tell me what it is. Help me understand.”
I hated him in that moment, for being kind in the face all that I had done to him, after all the ways that I had lashed out at him. I hated him for making him see myself, and I hated what I saw.
“Feyre is presumptuous. She has no idea about what I feel, what I think, and it’s not any of her business,” I spat.
He only wrapped his calloused fingers tighter around my bicep. “She is your sister and also my friend, Nesta. And no one can know what you think if you don’t tell any of us. If you don’t let any of us help. If you insist on pushing me away.” His voice had taken on a subtle, frustrated growl again.
My blood went cold, quenching the forge fire in my heart. I tore myself away from his grip and stepped away and immediately I felt… bereft. Broken. A hollow ache echoed between my ribs at the loss of his touch. I had let myself become weak then, if I needed him, after promising myself that I would stop caring for him. I could not afford to be weak. And so I raised my chin and let the bitter words fall from my tongue.
“So you will choose her over me. I made the right choice then.” He flinched from the venom in my voice, but still advanced.
His wings snapped open, filling the room as he stalked towards me. Backlit by the fire in the hearth, face wreathed in iron determination, it struck me that this, this was the commander of the Night Court armies, a warrior capable of such great destruction, and yet so much more able and free to give of himself than I was. So much braver in his vulnerability.
“She is my High Lady,” he growled, voice dropping to an even more primal register, “and you know that his has nothing to do with choosing one of you over the other. But if you insist on seeing it that way, if you insist on choosing to hate everyone and everything,” he inhaled deeply, bracing himself, and I felt my heart quail despite knowing I had finally pushing him away–don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t say it, don’t leave me– as I watched his jaw clench, as he hardened his face, “and torment yourself, torment me, then you can do it alone. I can’t be a part of it anymore.”
It was like all of the bones in my body were broken, the marrow drawn out with a thousand piercing knives and salt poured into the absence and still I needed to keep my mask in place. This–this was worse than the Cauldron. Worse than the smothering, the suffocation, the bruising hold of Hybern guards pushing me forward, holding me under.
Worse, because it was my own fault, my own doing.
Worse still, that he walked away without looking back