#ani(dala)^2

[pencildragons]

Thinking forever about my au where padmé is very happily married to both anakin and sabé, and, possibly due to his subsequent critical proximity to sabé (who imo would take EXTREMELY limited amounts of his shit and anyway She Was There First) + the aggressively healthy polyamory negotiations that ensue after a LOT of couples therapy with the 3 of them, narrowly avoids but does avoid Falling during the events of RoTS. instead, in a Series Of Circumstances that involve obi-wan being kidnapped by the seperatists/dooku/grievous and cody being presumed dead a month or so prior, anakin: is argued off the mental ledge by sabé, kills palpatine with her, rescues his master from being tortured, gives up his vow as a member of the knight corps (but not necessarily the Jedi order), and promptly has a mental breakdown that has been thirteen years in the making.

Simultaneously and in the immediate aftermath of this, padmé is blowing shit the fuck up in the senate (only just metaphorically) as the republic threatens to crumble and collapse under the weight of its own corruption—everything is in absolute chaos, peace has been reached and the GAR has been dissolved, so the war is KIND of over mostly??? This however results in the two new bereaucratic nightmares of: a) the Confederacy of Independent Systems is still very very much a thing and b) of what the fuck do you do with two billion super soldiers who although being sentient very much still do not yet have full sentient rights, and where the fuck do you put them without collapsing planetary economic infrastructures???

this is all very very fine and a great distraction from the fact that her husband, her wife, and her friend-slash-brother-in-law are all to lesser and greater extents both physically and mentally fucked up beyond belief rn—except then she’s the target of an assassination attempt, maybe by one of former-chancellor-palpatine’s supporters (because let’s be real, anakin killed him on the basis that he was The Sith Lord who also happened to be an extremely corrupt galactic leader; however much he sucked hugely, he was above all playing a very very long game and remarkably good at hiding his tracks, so there are of course many who believe the Sith thing is somewhere between a hoax and a political conspiracy). Her spine is badly injured during this, and she ends up having an emergency c-section a month premature.

it is at this point that padmé naberrie thule amidala decides ‘fuck this actually’, retires early, and rounds up her wife, her husband, her friend-slash-brother-in-law, her two newborn children, her droid, her husband’s droid, and a nurse droid, and moves back to seceded Naboo to live on her family’s estate, and then to the mountainous belt that her mother is from, which is when my fic vaguely planned around this idea actually begins.

[simdertalia]

🍓ᛉ ACNH Nordic Set ᛟ🍓

💗 Sims 4, Base game compatible/ Steam animation requires Cats & Dogs. 43 items

This set is brought about by the lovely patrons who voted 💗

As always, turning the brightness down on functional lamps will make them look better (not overly bright) due to my vertex paint issue in Blender.

Always suggested: bb.objects ON, it makes placing items much easier. For further placement tweaking, check out the TOOL mod.

You can raise & lower items with 0 and 9 on your keyboard.

Use the scale up & down feature on your keyboard to make the items larger or smaller to your liking. If you have a non-US keyboard, it may be different keys depending on which alphabet it uses.

Set contains: -Aebleskiver Pan | 1 swatch for cast iron | 759 poly -Aebleskiver Pan Full (with steam & no steam versions) | 1 swatch for cast iron | 1067 poly -Aebleskiver Pan (wall) | 1 swatch for cast iron | 789 poly -Aebleskiver Plate | 9 swatches for plate color | 848 poly -Aebleskiver Sugar Bowl | 2 swatches for spoon color | 334 poly -Bird Sculpture | 9 swatches | 461 poly -Bowl of Fruit | 7 swatches | 502 poly -Ceiling Lamp (for best look in game, turn brightness down) | 8 swatches | 1178 poly -Chair (8 items: is a living chair, each frame color has its own package file) | 8 swatches each | 1160 poly -Cloth for Coffee Table | 8 swatches | 110 poly -Cloth for Dining Table | 8 swatches | 316 poly -Cloth for Lowboard | 8 swatches | 90 poly -Cloth for Shelves | 8 swatches | 90 poly -Coconut Planter | 1 swatch | 1214 poly -Coffee Table | 1 swatches | 870 poly -Curtains (right & left) | 8 swatches each | 575 poly -Dining Table | 8 swatches | 834 poly -Jar of Jam | 6 swatches | 400 poly -Kitchen Valance Curtain | 8 swatches | 527 poly -Lowboard (lots of slots, & slot for TV) | 8 swatches | 552 poly -Mug | 8 swatches | 393 poly -Open Book | 7 swatches | 770 poly -Owl Sculpture | 8 swatches | 772 poly -Ring Dish | 2 swatches for rings color & 7 swatches for plate color, 14 total swatches | 438 poly -Shelves TV Stand (lots of slots, & slot for TV) | 8 swatches | 848 poly -Sofa (8 items: each frame color has its own package file) | 5 swatches for plate color | 3790 poly -Tree Sculpture | 8 swatches | 340 poly

Type “acnh nordic" into the search query in build mode to find  quickly. You can always find items like this, just begin typing  the title and it will appear.

As always, please let me know if you have any issues! Happy Simming! 💗

📁 Download all or pick & choose (SFS, No Ads): HERE

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Will be public on September 30th, 2024 💗 Midnight CET

Happy Simming! ✨ Some of my CC is early access. If you like my work, please consider supporting me (all support helps me with managing my chronic pain/illness & things have been rough as of late):

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-Wooden Stool -Dala Horse -Lavender in Vase -Small Wall Frames -Wall Painting -Backsplash -Rug is EA from Cats & Dogs

The rest of my CC

[dremlikpocesku]

Kolosální pravlci opět při životě? To sotva.

Jelikož se do povědomí společnosti zase víc dostaly hloupý pokusy ještě hloupější společnosti Colossal, přicházím za vámi zase s takovým kecacím okénkem, protože je potřeba si uvědomit, co SKUTEČNĚ tato společnost teď vlastně vyvedla. Nejprve si ale musíme ujasnit dvě věci. Mnozí z vás již určitě slyšeli o touze navrátit zpět vakovlky. O tohle znovuvkzříšení se snaží právě firma Colossal, tedy ta, o které je nyní řeč. Přikládám jednu z dochovaných fotek tohoto vačnatce a taky obrázek, který znázorňuje, jak si tohle zvířátko představují v Colossalu. Také tvrdí, že neexistují moderní fotografie tohoto zvířete - možná neexistují obrázky z moderní doby, ale máme mnoho dochovaných fotografií, z nichž některé byly i zrestaurovány. Dokonce se s vakovlky dochovaly i video záznamy. Tím chci upozornit na to, jak moc mimo lidi tam jsou.

Druhá věc, kterou je třeba znát pro pochopení celého problému, je, že direwolf, česky pravlk, byl psovitá šelma, která vyhynula před asi 10 000 lety. Nutno říci, že se jedná o zástupce rodu Aenocyon, zatímco vlci obecní, které známe my, jsou zástupci rodu Canis. Tyto rody se od sebe oddělily už někdy před 2 500 000 až 6 000 000 let. Oba dva druhy jsou akorát zástupci skupiny Canini, do které se ovšem řadí… no, mnoho psovitých šelem, od pravlků přes šakaly po psy hyenové. Morfologické, tedy vzhledové podobnosti mezi pravlkem a vlkem dříve nasvědčovaly tomu, že nejbližším přeživším příbuzným pravlka je právě vlk.

DNA ovšem ukázalo, že nejbližšími žijícími příbuznými těchto mohutných psovitých šelem jsou však šakali. Příbuznost mezi pravlkem a vlkem by se dala přirovnat k příbuznosti rodů člověk (Homo) s rodem šimpanz (Pan). A co se týče podobnosti DNA, skoro by to šlo přirovnávat k podobě DNA člověka a prasete. A teď k samotnému problému.

Tvrzení, která Colossal přináší, jsou nejen k smíchu, ale potenciálně nebezpečná, neb šíří mnoho dezinformací. Existuje přibližně 20 400 genů kódujících proteiny u člověka, šimpanzů necelých 19 000. Kromě toho, že tu je rozdíl v asi 1 500 genech, které je třeba vytvořit, pouze 30 % z daných genů mezi těmito dvěma rody je ve skutečnosti identických v kódující sekvenci. To znamená, že genetická modifikace jednoho druhu na druhý by vyžadovala úpravy, potažmo mutace ve více než 14 000 genech. Akorát že Colossal provedl jen 20 změn na pouhých 14 genech - a to je prostě sakra málo na to, aby člověk mohl ty bílé "hafany", které stvořili, nazývat pravlkem. Z těch 20 změn je 6 zodpovědných jen za jejich bílou barvu srsti. 6 je víc než čtvrtina z toho mála. A pozor, pozor - ačkoli to Colossal tvrdí, skutečná barva pravlků nikdy nebyla jakkoli prokázána, avšak předpokládá se, že jejich srst byla v odstínech hnědé. Nedávalo by smysl, aby byli bílí, vzhledem k prostředí, v němž se pohybovali. Další zvláštností týkající se zbarvení těchto zvířat je, že všichni tři tihle "hafani" byli bílí již odmala, narodili se tak. Což se ovšem u vlků ani dalších psovitých šelem neděje. V případě bílých vlků, ale také třeba polárních lišek, se mláďata rodí vždy tmavě zbarvená a to z jednoho prostého důvodu - být malou bílou koulí v přírodě není úplně bezpečné.

Kromě toho, že 5 úprav je zodpovědných za úplně zbytečné bílé zbarvení, ještě ke všemu pouze 15 z těch 20 odpovídá genům pravlka. Slovem odpovídá míním, že se ani nejedná přímo o geny pravlků. Není totiž možné získat kompletní informace o tak starém DNA. Stejně jako Colossal tvrdí, že byli pravlci bíle zbarvení, také sdělují, že jejich výtvory dokonce i znějí stejně jako jejich předchůdci. Připomínám, že ti vyhynuli před 10 000 lety. Copak když nevíme ani jakou měli barvu, můžeme vůbec jen tušit, jak přesně zněl jejich hlasový projev? No, očividně to zase nevěděl nikdo, kromě zaměstnanců dané společnosti, která svá tvrzení nijak nepodložila.

Kromě jiného si určitě nejen fanoušci Písně ledu a ohně, respektive Hry o trůny, všimli podoby těchto geneticky modifikovaných zvířat se zlovlky z této knižní série, potažmo seriálu. Inu, odkazuje na ně i jméno jednoho ze zvířat - Khaleesi. Toto je pouze (byť nejen) moje osobní domněnka, ale věřím, že za bílé zbarvení oněch vlků může akorát blbost nějakých fandů díla G. R. R. Martina, který se namísto psaní dalších knih raději fotí s přerostlými bílými vlčaty a píše na socky o tom, jak se rozplakal dojetím.

Hodí se zmínit, že tahle vlčata odnosila feny, samice psů, které následně musely podstoupit císařský řez, což, jak všichni víme, není pro zvířata úplně dobré.

Takže ne, žádné znovuzrození neproběhlo. Žádní pravlci neexistují, ani bílí, ani jiní. Pouze lehce geneticky upravení vlci obecní, kteří jsou ale stále 100% vlky, neb 20 změn na 14 genech z asi 19 000 opravdu nic neznamená. To, že je banda miliardářů označuje za něco, čím nejsou, opravdu nehraje žádnou roli. A já vás timhle prosim - děcka, nevěřte všemu, co se píše na internetu, ani když se jedná o informace od strašlivě bohatejch americkejch společností, jejichž slova papouškují novináři, kteří toho o genetice a vyhynulých zvířatech vědí ještě méně než já.

Tak jo, díky!

[deconstructivesurgery]

We back out the trenches with this one folks: Someone sent me the "fallout companions' alcohol tolerances" post and I immediately decided I had to make one about the Think Tank in turn. So, here we bloody go:

Dr. Mobius: 9/10. Mobius could tank a solid 3/4ths of a bottle of vodka, perch himself in front of a chalkboard for a few hours straight swaying back and forth slowly and still wind up inventing a new formula for rocket fuel. He is unbothered. Unphased. In his element. Years of horkin' down Mentats like they were going out have style have numbed his entire nervous system to the influence of lesser chems like booze. He's got the Logan's Loophole perk equipped somehow.

Dr. Klein: 8/10 Listen he's got wine bottles and a full bar in his home I bet this man is a frequent flier- but that doesn't spare him from getting like miserably drunk off a bottle of wine and lying in his bathtub scrubs and all contemplating his seething hatred for his many neurotic coworkers. Not only is Klein a mean drunk, but he's a miserable one, too. He'll crab and bitch at anyone that dares to encroach upon him whilst smashed, and all at top fucking volume too. Thankfully, I feel like he stays cloistered in his office or in his Higgs home on the days he spends day-drinking.

Dr. Dala: 4/10 Listen, she's decent- mildly less so than 8, but not bad either- not like 0. I feel like she gets incredibly talkative when she drinks and enjoys telling stories or recounting her latest research- you just get hit with like a laser-beam of oddly loving recountments of the latest liver she's pried out of a war criminal or other some such information. Don't put her and Klein in the same room if both are drunk, she's such a generally personable drunk that his attitude alone would sour her night.

Dr. 0: 2/10 I CANNOT see him having any decent tolerance towards booze at all I'm gonna be so real with you I think he'd down a few espresso martinis in an attempt to combine the coffee he likely chugs 24/7 with alcohol and then spend the rest of the night vaguely weepy, incoherent, fumbling around and generally white girl wasted. He'd somehow end up IN Dr. Borous' backyard in Higgs in an attempt to weep openly into Gabe's fur and wind up with like 3 dog bites because of it.

Dr. Borous: -1/10 Listen how much alcohol he's CAPABLE of tolerating is irrelevant, if you offer this man a drink not only will he turn you down but he'll go on a verbal tirade about how he never tolerates the evils of alcohol because one time in American High RICHIE MARCUS dared to invite nearly EVERYONE in his class to an ALCOHOL party except for him and now he refuses it out of sheer PRINCIPLE. Bonus points if he somehow, some way brings Communism into it.

Dr. 8: 5/10 I feel like he just has the most normal man alcohol threshold known to man. I also hate to say it but I FEEL like he'd be a horny drunk. I'm sorry. I don't like that fact any more than you do but my brain contemplated it and so I must share.

[sodapopcurtis-dx-asks]

Why must the universe give us both the gift and burden of the feeling of love? Side note where has Steve been recently? My friend roasted a rat in a stick last week. Not to eat it. For run. (Shes I’m juvie) also good luck on ur girl problems. Another side note: I think that dalas’s ex is kissing broads.

best wishes, anon

Been around. Mostly at school. We've only got 2 weeks left, n' I'm just trying to get this shit show over with so I don't gotta do stuff anymore.

Me n' Soda made a bet a few months back before senior year started that he didn't think I'd make it the full school year without skippin' for something stupid.

His judgment is a little blurry, because apparently I can still skip when it comes to him. But he's been more stubborn on rushing me off to class now that we're almost finished. I got testing next week, n' then some other stuff. Seniors get out early though, so...

I dunno.

Anyways, eating a rat isn't about the craziest thing I've heard of. Your friend sounds batshit, but that's major talent if they got it on a stick.

Steve stares at both the comment on the "girl problems" and about Dallas' ex in confusion. Soda's busy off doing something for a customer, so he's not bothering to ask him what it means.

Which one? Either way, I don't really think it matters. He's not exactly here to bitch about it. N' I don't exactly think any of his exes plan on staying hooked onto a guy that treated them like he was already dead.

Dallas was an ass when it came to relationships. If they're kissin' girls now, good on 'em, I guess?

Steve sighs. Soda come back over as Steve puts the paper in the jar.

“What'd I miss?”

Steve stretches tiredly. “Nothin'.”

[kralovna-ne-stesti]

Se svým obvoďákem nemám dobrý vztah. Je to protivnej chlap co jenom pospíchá, absolutně neposlouchá a jenom hledá nemoci aby mohl vypisovat léky. Nemám ho ráda, mám z něj akorát stres a úzkost a to je taky důvod, proč jsem u něj přes pět let (až na jednu výjimku, kvůli potvrzení) nebyla. A světe div se, člověk zvládne i chřipku nebo angínu bez léků na předpis.

Nicméně kvůli těhotenství jsem potřebovala do průkazky nějaký potvrzení právě od obvoďáka. Zavolala jsem tam dopředu, abych se objednala a nemusela čekat hodinu v čekárně s nemocnými. Jojo, to dá rozum, samozřejmě, přitakávala sestřička do telefonu.

Přijdu tam na čas. A sedím s lidmi v čekárně hodinu.

Mezitím se otevřou dveře a doktor se sestřičkou na mě koukají, ale baví se mezi sebou, jak kdybych byla hluchá. Doktor: "Kdo to je?" Sestra: "Nevím, ale byla objednaná na čas." Doktor: "A proč? Co chce?" Sestra: "Nevím, nemůžu po sobě přečíst papírek." Dveře se zavřou. V tuhle chvíli mi už dávno buší srdce úzkostí (nezvládám ty doktory už) a do toho mě malej šťouchá jak kdyby chtěl pryč.

Konečně mě teda po tý hodině vezmou. Nebudu tu popisovat konverzaci, jen ve zkratce, sestřička mi stále říkala slečno a že mám divný příjmení, a nechápala, že jsem těhotná, prý to není vidět a asi budu ve 2 měsíci. Jsem v sedmém. Doktor na mě doslova vyjel, co po něm jako chci, když na EKG jsem už byla jinde. Říkám, že nevím, byla jsem sem poslána. Celou dobu jenom opakoval, že jako nechápe co po něm chci. Když jsem mu dala okopírovaný všechny zprávy od doktorů a z nemocnic, aby mi je založil do složky, protože je to celkem důležitá věc, řekla bych, hodil je na kraj stolu a začal se na mě rozčilovat, co s tím má jako dělat, jestli po něm chci aby si to přečetl nebo co, že na to nemá čas.

Celou dobu jsem skoro nic nedokázala říct, protože mlel jenom on, ani se mě na nic ke zdraví vlastně nezeptal, a cítila jsem se, že ho obtěžuju (což jsem se tak u něj cítila vždycky).

S mým křehkým psychickým rozpoložením jsem došla domu, lehla do tmy a brečela. A cítila se hrozně, že mrňousovi dělám stres.

(A ano, to je ten doktor, co mě v lednu, když jsem tam šla jen pro potvrzení, bezdůvodně a bez kontextu sjel, že jestli si s manželem (který k němu taky ne-chodí) myslíme, že my dva s naším zdravím a věkem někdy budeme mít dítě, tak ať na to jako zapomeneme, že my dva rozhodně ne).

Byla to poslední kapka, abych ho vyměnila. My oba dva.

Já se za to vždycky cítím špatně, že se bude zlobit, bude si myslet že jsem kdo ví co namyšlená nebo nevděčná... ale na druhou stranu, je to člověk, kterému částečně svěřuju svoje zdraví, když už mi na něj moje vlastní síly nestačí... a já se ho bojím obtěžovat. Ale naštěstí žiju ve světě, kde nemusím trpět chování, které mi nevyhovuje a mám plné právo beze slova odejít. Jen se tu prostě projevuje můj strach z doktorů a autorit.

Ale vážně, k tomuhle šaškovi už znovu nepůjdu. Sama sebe na první místo, já jsem pro něj jen karta a účtovaná položka, ne citlivý, individuální člověk.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Frozen Ground: Part 2 (Din Djarin x Female Reader)

Content & Warnings: Mandalorian culture, romantic fluff, breeding kink / undertones, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv (it’s fantasy, wrap it up), creampie, multiple positions, happy ending

Word Count: 5k

Din travels to a farming planet to recruit a reclusive group of Mandalorians to help retake Mandalore. The snowy season is starting, and the locals are preparing for their winter observance. While waiting for the Mandalorian covert to come to a decision, Din spends time with the local population, finding a bit of comfort with a particular someone.

A/N: Part of the Winter 2023 Collection

Part 1

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

Mando’a Translations: cyar’ika – darling / sweetheart ka’rta beskar – iron heart mesh’la – beautiful ner dala – my woman riduur – partner / spouse

That evening, after everyone eats, another meeting is held.

Din does not speak during the entire discussion. Right now, his voice is not wanted. They’ve heard him, and they must decide as a covert whether to follow him to Nevarro.

He leans against a wall at the back of the communal area. Grogu is at Din’s feet and periodically reaches out to him with one arm, indicating he wants another berry. Din fishes out the little fruits and hands them one-by-one to Grogu who eagerly stuffs each round berry into his mouth. His little, three-fingered hand is dripping with juice, and the area around his mouth is stained a deep red.

Crix and Jido are with them, standing off to Din’s left, watching the whole affair just like Din. Even though the two men are only acquaintances, their presence is comforting. Mandalorians are strongest together even if they come from different tribes.

So far, most of the meeting has been spent debating. Whoever wants to speak is allowed to, and everyone else must listen without interrupting. Every voice must be heard, which is difficult for any Mandalorian. It is in their nature to act, not to sit around in philosophical thought.

A male Mandalorian in golden armor sits down. Another stands to take his place, beginning their monologue.

Crix leans toward Din and Din turns his head slightly in acknowledgement. “She’s pretty,” murmurs Crix.

“Who?” asks Din flatly, knowing exactly who Crix is referring to.

“Really?” snorts Crix.

Din runs his tongue along his top teeth. “What about her?”

Crix leans in a bit more, lowering his voice. “You should approach her.”

What would be the point? You are not Mandalorian. There is no future there. Din grits his teeth, his hand forming into a fist as he tries to calm himself. Not having you, knowing that he cannot be with you, is a gut-punch. The Way of the Mand’alor always comes first.

“Why?” Din keeps his tone neutral. “She is not Mandalorian. How would that work?” The words coming out of his mouth feel hollow. Din is almost resentful of them.

Crix laughs softly, and one of the nearby Mandalorians listening turns around abruptly. Crix waits until their attention returns to the middle of the room. “Why should it matter whether she is Mandalorian? Several of our tribe were once members of the very same farming community. To walk the path of a Mandalorian is often a lonely one. Why not make it a bit less so?”

Din shakes his head, not understanding. “This is common for your tribe?”

Crix shrugs. “Yes. Is it not with yours?”

Din steps around Crix’s question by asking one of his own. “But you don’t remove your helmets?” Even with the helmet on, Din can sense the confusion on Crix’s end.

“I’m not sure what life is like for your tribe,” says Crix slowly. “For us, we only remove our helmets in front of immediate family. That includes our riduur and our younglings.” Crix glances down at Grogu and adds, “or foundlings.” He sighs. “This is the Way.”

Jido, who has mostly been quiet this whole time softly repeats it back.

Crix nudges Din’s arm with his elbow. “You don’t need to remove your helmet to make a youngling.”

The very idea of Din doing such a thing with you warms him everywhere and sends blood rushing to his groin. He needs to stop focusing on this and focus on the betterment of all Mandalorians.

The same Mandalorian who turned around minutes ago does it again, glaring behind their helmet.

Din pays them no mind, returning his attention toward the middle of the room. There are plenty of members of the tribe who vehemently disagree with returning and many more who wish to go. Each Mandalorian who stands and speaks has a solid point. They all have a clear and thoughtful response to Din’s message.

And nothing is solved. No one comes to an agreement.

Din will be here longer than expected if this the rate they’re moving. He hasn’t even contacted Bo-Katan to give her an update. What can he tell her? That he has made no progress?

When the covert ends discussions and begins to break apart, Din picks Grogu off the floor, tucking the foundling close to his heart.

“Sleep well, Din Djarin,” says Crix, tipping his helmet in a goodbye. “I’ll come by in the morning.”

Crix stays true to his word, and this time, Din brings Grogu with him. Jido, Ran, and Cerra all tag along as well. They respectfully keep their distance, mostly focusing on walking the streets and keeping an eye on the settlement.

Snow falls in light swells from the sky, and covers the tops of the buildings. Grogu coos, his little hand reaching toward the flakes as he tries to catch them. Every time he does, and he draws his hand to his face for a look, the snowflakes have melted.

Grogu’s ears droop as he presents his hand to Din.

“You run too warm. Melts when it touches you,” replies Din to Grogu’s silent question.

Grogu’s head tilts to the side and then he’s back to watching the falling snow.

Crix draws up to Din side. “Are you going to approach her?”

Din sighs, unsure of how to answer. He wants to, but his obligation to his tribe and his people gives him pause.

Crix nods at Din’s silence, and then tips his helmet toward the right. “Whatever you’re thinking about, decide fast because she’s heading your way.”

Din immediately straightens, his helmet pivoting to locate you. There is a soft, unsure, almost demure smile on your face.

“Is this little one yours?” you ask.

“This is Grogu.”

At the sound of his name, Grogu perks up, his ears flaring slightly.

“Hello, Grogu,” you croon. With delicate movements, you gently clasp Grogu’s small hand and shake it in greeting. Grogu’s coo is a pleased one, and Din carefully wraps this memory up for safekeeping.

You let go of Grogu’s hand and look up into Din’s t-shaped visor. He knows that you cannot see his face, but yet he still feels vulnerable under your stare. Your attention pleases him.

“May I seek your assistance with something?” you ask, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Anything,” says Din automatically.

Crix and Ran snort. Cerra punches Ran in the arm and shushes them both.

You shrug sheepishly. “I know you’re a Mandalorian and you’re used to more…strenuous work.” Someone snorts after the word strenuous, and then Cerra is shushing the other Mandalorians again. “But most of the women who usually help me are unavailable,” you continue. “They have other matters to attend to, and I could really use the help. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

You sigh, relief spreading across your face. It’s beautiful, and Din has to resist reaching out to brush the curve of your bottom lip.

“I’ll take the young one,” says Crix, stepping up to Din.

For a brief moment, Din doesn’t want to hand Grogu over, but Crix’s reasons for doing so suddenly come flaring to life in Din’s mind. Crix keeps pushing him to be alone with you. Deciding to take the chance, Din slowly removes the strap of the bag from over his shoulder, handing the precious bundle over to Crix.

Grogu makes a little sound and then Crix, Jido, Ran, and Cerra are walking away. Din watches them go. When they disappear around a corner, you lead Din to the small building where you placed the necklace around his neck and kissed his cheeks. As you lead him inside, Din sees that no one else is there.

There are only two illuminated lights along with the uncovered window. Under the window is a heater that pumps in warm air. There are several of those canvas bags stacked in the middle room of the room Din noticed the other day.

“I need help separating the flowers from the nettle. It’s time consuming and the young boys who went out this morning to gather it all didn’t take their time. It’s all jumbled together.” Your hands move in the air as you explain, almost like it’s a nervous habit. It’s cute, and Din doesn’t realize how close he’s actually standing to you until one of your wandering arms knocks into his chest plate.

He steps back as your gaze softens. Separating flowers from nettle seems like a vacation compared to Din’s usual work. “I’m happy to help,” he says, meaning every word.

You gaze drops to a point near his waist. “You still have the one I gave you.”

Din looks down at the Daily Strand attached to his hip. “Yes.”

“We replace a new one each day. I can do that now if you like?”

Din shakes his head. “Afterward.” It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to say, because Din wants to say yes. He wants you to put another one around his neck and receive your kisses even if he cannot feel them against his skin.

You guide him to one of the bags, and the two of you kneel next to them. The bags are heavy, nearly overflowing, but Din selects one and begins sorting. He understands what you mean the moment he opens one up. It’s an absolute mess.

The nettle is sharp, even Din can feel it through his gloves, and you’re working without any. He sees the flinch, notices your gentle recoil from the constant poking. You try to hide it, and when your fingers bleed, you attempt to discreetly mask the red that blooms on your fingers.

“Do you have gloves?”

“No,” you reply, shaking your head. “And I can’t seem to locate a spare from anyone. It’s not bad. Really.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Din reaches out but you pull back.

He’s having none of it. Din grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, but the momentum is too great. You go tumbling into his lap. Din’s back hits the floor and your hands fly out to steady yourself, landing on his chest.

The two of you hang suspends like this. There is Din flat on his back and you straddling his hips, hands firmly planted on his chest, your face dangerously close to his helmet. Din’s hands float in the air on either side of you.

You and Din linger like this until the reality of the position seeps in. Din doesn’t drop his hands to his sides or try to lift you off his lap. Instead, his hands drift closer, resting on your hips. When you do not pull away, Din’s hand slide lower, squeezing your thighs. The little sound you make goes straight to his groin.

He immediately sits up, but he does not allow you to slide off his lap. Din won’t let you get away. One of his arms slides behind your waist, securing you against him, drawing you closer. Idling in this closeness, every temptation to run away with you scorches in Din’s blood.

Yet it is you that speaks first. “I’m not really in the mood for sorting flowers anymore,” you murmur.

“I’m not either,” answers Din, his voice raspy and low.

You lick your lips, and his gaze follows it. “There’s a backroom.”

By the time the suggestion is leaving your mouth, Din is already up, keeping you against him. “Show me,” he growls, no longer able to contain the fire burning within his blood.

You nod in the direction of the back wall. Din’s helmet turns and he sees the panel. Din strides forward, legs pumping as he keeps you aloft with one hand while smashing the button for the door. It slides open and Din steps in with you.

It’s cramped, more of a storage space than anything. There is a plain table pushed against the wall, and a full shelving unit next to it. Din deposits you on the table, his gloved hands reaching for your hips. Din is eager. He has you alone.

He moves closer, stepping into the space your spread legs create, sliding an arm around your waist. Din’s helmet dips forward, and he breathes in your scent, sighing.

You are not immune. You tuck yourself against his chest, leaning into his touches, and Din is downright prideful. This is your reaction to him. You are warm and comforting, a small source of light that Din wishes to carry with him whenever he is in the dark.

To sink into you, to lose himself entirely, would be a gift.

Din’s hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. Slowly, the tips of your fingers trace the edge of his chest plate. Then, they drift up, running along the edge of his helmet.

“Is this okay?” you ask softly. You do not reach out to remove his helmet. Other women have tried to, and Din always has to draw their hands away from him.

“Yes,” he murmurs, and your gentle smile spurs him to action.

Din does not linger on your hips. He explores and touches, running his gloved hands over bare and covered skin. The skirts of your dress are up around your thighs, and Din takes this opportunity to slip his hand underneath the fabric.

The moment he makes contact with your inner thigh, you inhale sharply, fingers digging into his arms where there is no armor. The way you cling to Din pleases a primal part of him. He wants to possess you, to draw you into himself until he alone can call you his.

But the touch is not enough. Din needs closeness. He needs skin against skin.

Tearing his hand away from your thigh, Din pulls on the fingers of his glove until the fabric gives. He tosses it onto the table, and returns his now bare hand to your inner thigh. You both groan, and Din squeezes your flesh, reveling in your warmth.

He wants to be inside you. His body is blazing, calling out for you like oxygen.

Din’s fingers drift closer until his middle finger parts your sex. The tip of his finger catches on your entrance, and it’s very clear to Din just how wet you are.

Something inside him snaps. Burns bright. Neither of you are leaving this room until he’s claimed you properly.

Din draws the wetness up, dragging it over you until he finds the thing he’s seeking. He swirls the tip of his finger around your clit. Your own fingers dig into him deeper, your lips parting slightly as you inhale.

“Mesh’la,” murmurs Din, as he slides his finger inside.

You moan loudly, head tipping backward as he begins to pump his hand between your legs. The hem of your dress is bunched and covering up his view. The desire to rip your clothing from your body roils up unbidden, and it takes every molecule of control for Din not to follow through.

Your legs fall open wider, and the hem of your dress stretches, exposing you to Din’s gaze. Now that he can watch, Din is unable to look away. He is enraptured with the way his finger disappears inside your welcoming body, only to retreat, coated in glossy wetness.

Unable to help himself, Din inserts a second finger, curling them slightly to hit that sweet spot deep inside you. It pleases Din, but it’s not enough. He rotates his wrist and presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing in slow circles.

It isn’t until you’re clenching around him, whimpering, that Din realizes you’re falling apart. Your moans are sweet, and Din doesn’t stop moving until your body starts to relax. He holds his fingers inside of you while your chest heaves.

“Can I keep touching you, cyar’ika?” asks Din, his helmet dipping until his forehead almost rests against your own.

You nod frantically. “Please.”

Your desire to continue, the need to keep going also fuels his own. Din strokes his thumb across your clit. It’s the perfect flick, and you tense up, squeezing around him. Din is pleased at how easily you fall apart for him.

Din does not pause. He keeps going until the muscles in your legs tense and involuntarily clamp around his hips. Your hips jerk with aftershocks, and you slip, falling onto your elbows as your eyelids flutter with pleasure.

“You’re teasing me,” you groan.

“Am I?” Din asks innocently, his thumb stroking against your clit yet again. He is a man on a mission. He wants you wet. Dripping. Ready.

The only response you manage to muster is another groan, and this is enough for Din. He continues to pump those two fingers in and out until your wetness coats the top of the table beneath you.

If he weren’t wearing his helmet, Din would taste you. He wants to understand your taste, to put his fingers in his mouth to know your flavor. He wants to imprint it on his memory. He never wants to forget. Whether the two of you can truly be together is irrelevant. This moment—this interaction—is enough for Din if it is all he can have with you.

But Din does not taste you. Instead, he coaxes you toward another orgasm, guiding you toward it until you fall over the edge, smashing into the ground below in a wordless, choked, cry. Your back arches, hips rolling outward, meeting his fingers until the wordlessness leaves you and you’re openly begging.

Din gently removes his fingers and holds them up before his face. The glossy pleasure drips onto his knuckles and the back of his hand. While you cannot see his face, Din is watching yours, and the way you observe him through half-closed eyelids, a beautifully lusty gaze settling over your features.

With exaggerated slowness, Din tugs on the hidden zipper at the front of his flightsuit. Once it’s undone, he guides it open, unsheathing his cock. It’s been aching and hard this entire time, and he uses the wetness on his fingers to coat himself.

Your lips part, form a soft o. Then his hands are on your hips, guiding you to the very edge of the table, lining himself up, the tip pressing but not venturing further.

“May I?” asks Din softly, not understanding this odd feeling in his chest. It’s a fear of rejection, as if you’ll take everything back and push him away.

The smile on your lips tells Din everything he needs to know before you even speak. “Please. I want this. I want you.”

At your gentle plea, Din surrenders. You’re so wet, Din glides right in. You groan, your legs falling wider to accommodate him.

“Ner dala,” murmurs Din, thrusting gently as your warmth stretches to accommodate him.

He rolls his hips until you take more and more of him. It’s only when Din is completely inside of you that he pauses, holding there as your walls flutter and flex. It sends Din’s limbs into coiling tension.

Din’s next thrust hits deep. He impales you, sheathing himself entirely. He holds there for only a moment, one hand moving to your stomach to keep you firmly in place as you fall back against the table.

He stretches forward, resting one hand on your stomach while the other presses into the table next to your head. Din anchors himself, leans forward, and groans at the feeling of your body adapting to accommodate his change in position.

It’s kriffing sinful, and now Din understands why the local covert has absorbed some of the local planet’s citizens. If this were his life, he’d convince you to take the Creed, to join with him, and be by his side.

Then, he has is way with you, setting a pace that has you begging for him. You take him in, pussy stretching around and squeezing him. Din is relentless, hips rolling forward and back until the table creaks and bangs against the wall. Your fingers grab and pull at him, and your desperate need to touch him only fuel’s Din’s desire more.

Din’s brain is buzzing, his body screaming for release. You’ve lost your words, the little pleas falling from your lips now transformed into sharp exhalations. But you are wanton, and Din catches sight of your hand sliding between your bodies, fingers searching for your clit. When you do find it, it only takes a few flicks and then Din feels you clamping down around him, squeezing, drawing him further into your body.

“Kriffing hell,” groans Din, grinding forward, his hand sliding away from your stomach to grab onto your hip. He needs to anchor himself somehow or he’ll be quick to follow.

Your hand slips away, and then Din resumes, knowing that his end will come swiftly.

“Say my name, cyar’ika. Beg for me. Tell me you're mine.”

“Din,” you moan, legs locking around his back. “Please. I’m yours.”

Din rolls his hips a few more times and still, creating a seal as he empties himself inside you. His hand against the table slips, and Din goes down on an elbow, trapping you against the table as his breathing become heavy and labored.

The two of you cling to each other, and Din is reluctant to let go.

One of your legs starts to slip and Din catches it, guiding it softly back to the table. You place your hands on his chest and push slightly, indicating you want to sit up.

Groaning, Din slides out of your body, immediately wanting your warmth again. Before your dress can fall over the mess, Din glimpses the pearly white of his release pooling at your entrance.

The skirts of your dress fall into place, and Din pretends like he wasn’t just gazing on the results of your mating. He discreetly tucks himself back into his flightsuit as you fidget with the sleeves of your dress.

Are you nervous? Embarrassed? Din hopes not. He isn’t ashamed of what the two of you did. With gentle tenderness, Din guides you off the table and onto your feet. You’re a little wobbly and Din is immediately alert.

“Did I harm you?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “No. Of course not.” Your gaze drops to your feet but he catches your flustered lopsided grin.

Din simmers with smugness behind his helmet. He returns his glove to his hand, only to reach out and tug on a strand of your hair in a playful gesture. You immediately step into him, and Din sees this as a victory.

“May I have that Daily Strand you offered.”

“Of course,” you murmur, sliding your hand in his.

“The two of you made a youngling.”

Din turns on Crix. “We did not make a youngling.”

“You sure? I can smell—”

Din holds up a hand. “Be careful of your next words.”

Crix throws his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m happy for you. Really. Us Mandalorians struggle to grow in number.”

Crix isn’t entirely wrong. Once the two of you returned to the main room to keep sorting, it wasn’t long before Din had you pinned beneath him, moaning his name. You make him vulnerable, and while in any other situation Din would despise that, with you, he enjoys it. With you, he doesn’t feel judged or unwanted. It’s a different kind of want Din feels with his tribe. They value his skills, but you value him for everything else.

This meeting is just as unproductive as yesterday’s. There is no progress, but Din is thankful there isn’t a regression. After all this, he doesn’t want to return to Bo-Katan without this tribe in tow. They are a fairly large covert, easily numbering in the hundreds.

The next day, Din is right back with you, sneaking off to your private home on the very edge of the settlement.

“Hold on to me, cyar’ika. Don’t let go.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his flightsuit, and your forehead rests against his helmet. Your warm breath fogs the beskar with each exhalation.

Din reclines in a large chair with you straddling him, knees pressed into the cushion of the chair. Din grips your hips, guiding them forward and back, gliding you up and down his cock.

Those delicate fingers of your slide upward, curling around the edge of the flightsuit, pulling until there is a faint sliver of skin. Din does not stop you. Your mouth presses against that flesh. Kissing, sucking, nipping over and over until Din is bouncing you on him, his head falling back to revealing more of that skin to you.

Your mouth opens, comes down on his throat, sucking, and Din groans loudly, slamming your hips down on him as he finishes. When you pull away, Din is quick to lift you out of the chair and into his arms, moving toward the small bed in the corner.

You giggle the whole way, and then shriek in playful surprise when he tosses you down onto the bedding. It isn’t long until Din guides you onto your hands and knees, sliding back inside.

He wants to stay here, to linger with you, but he knows that this will end. That he will have to leave. But for now—for the moment—Din will enjoy the time he does have.

That is how it goes. For almost two weeks, the covert debates, and between their debates, Din goes to you, falling into your arms with eagerness. Then it all comes to a crashing halt. It is a blow that Din knows is coming and yet still takes him by surprise.

“We will join Lady Bo-Katan Kryze’s efforts to reclaim Mandalore.” Vikal stands with the other leaders of the tribe, addressing Din in the early morning light.

“When can we leave?”

“Immediately,” answers Vikal. “Within the next few hours.”

“I will contact Nevarro and tell them to expect us.”

Vikal and the other leaders place their clenched fists over their hearts, bowing slightly. Din does the same. As they depart, Crix steps up beside Din, watching them walk away.

“Would you like to go to her?” asks Crix. “Tell her you’re leaving?”

“Is there time?”

Crix nods. “I’ll see that you get it.”

When Din arrives at the farming settlement, and locates your home, it’s a slash across his heart. As he steps inside and sees you there, standing to greet him, Din’s resolve starts to faulter. He is not immediately walking toward you, and as you realize this, your face falls, concern replacing the joy.

“You have to leave,” you say simply.

“I do.”

“For your tribe?”

“For my people.”

You glide across the floor like a phantom. As you draw close, you lift your hand, and press your palm against the side of Din’s helmet. He leans into it, his own hand cradling yours.

“Then go, with all my love leaving with you.”

Din shakes his head. “You cannot give that to me.”

“My love is for me to share. And I place it with you.” Your other hand gently rises and then rests against the ka’rta beskar, the iron heart in the middle of every Mandalorian’s chest plate.

Slowly, Din removes your hand from his helmet, only to press it against the spot where his lips would be if he weren’t wearing it. Din reaches out, draws you against him, the two of you standing in that little room in quiet contemplation.

Din is reluctant to leave, but he pulls away, aching within his heart with every step.

The Great Forge burns bright and hot.

The uncovered faces around Din glow with pride. They are stained with joyful tears. While Din also feels the same, while he also feels victorious and proud of his people, there is one person that lingers in the recesses of his thoughts.

Of the last Daily Strand he received, there is only a single petal left. Din keeps it tucked inside a pocket of his flightsuit, and when no one is watching, he removes it, rubbing the delicate petal softly between his fingers.

The deed is done. Mandalore belongs to the Mandalorians again, but there is still a missing piece within Din. A shape that is simply an empty hole. Bo-Katan told him he is not obligated to stay, but that his presence is a welcome one.

Din watches from the back of the crowd, and decides that he needs to do what is best for him.

The N1 lands on frozen ground.

It is deep winter on Itera, and the snow crunches beneath his boots. The people walking around all greet him like the first time he stepped beyond the wall. Din knows the path. He knows where to go.

When he stands before your door, he hesitates, unsure if he should just go inside. He almost debates turning back, and he does, briefly.

“Din?”

His voice is a question. It is you, asking. Din glances over his shoulder and then turns his upper body in the direction of your voice. There is a momentary pause, a second where everything stands still.

The basket in your hand falls, and then the two of you are falling into the snow together. You are real and warm and wonderful in his arms.

“You came back,” you whisper, your breath turning to steam in the air.

Din tugs you closer, presenting the petal he’s kept all this time. Your lips pull back into a wide grin that stretches toward your ears.

“I need a new one.”

You lean in. Kiss the beskar helmet on the right and then left side. “Is that all you want?”

Din’s gloved hand brushes against the curve of your jaw. “No. It’s not everything.”

Part 1

taglist:

@padawancat97 @foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @garfunklevibes2012 @tiredmetalenthusiast @dameron-grant-spector @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @kayden666 @enfppixie

[goodbuttaken]

shiz and giggles list jmen, která reálně mají/nedávno měli lidé v česku

(part 1, domácké verze common masculine jmen; per 2016, kdy je KdeJsme naposled mohlo sbírat)

Dva obecné trendy: 1) jména se i oficiálně zdrobňovala před 70 lety i dnes, akorát často jinak [musí být pro ty rodiče dycky šok, když zjistí, že Sváťa a spol. rostou lol] 2) kolem roku 2011 nějaký zlý zákon/byrokrat extrémně zredukoval množství originálních jmen českobčanů; k čemuž se ještě dostaneme

Honza (7 lidí, současné) x Jeník (4 lidi, ale nejmladší r. 1947)

Kája (9; od konce socialismu jen 1)

Míra (7), ofc spousta Mirků, ale i 1 Fynn Mirek (Kaplice)

Mára (6)

Marty (7), Dave (5, obě ofc recent), Da Vit (ex 2011)

Frantíšek (4), Franta (1)

Miky (10), Mickey (6), ale i Mikuláš Miky (1, Brno)

Jarek (4), Jára (1) a taky pouhý jeden Jarda (r. 2004)

Slavek (2), Slávek (206, stále populární) a králové všech: Slávek Miroslav (1 v Hořovicích) a Stanislav Slávek (Teplice)

Ríša (6, od r. 1962 nikdo nový)

Jirka (29, ale od r. 1973 pouze jeden), Jiřík (častější! 55), Jiřik (3, sever Čech), Jirik (1, tipl bych remigrant), Jiříček (1), Renzo Jirka (1)

Rosťa (1, r./přejmenovaný 2015), Rostik (Ostrava)

Toník, Tonda, Tonček (byli každý jen jeden, oba 2011 vymazaní či vymřelí)

Jožka (12, vesměs staří), Peppino (2), Pepino (byl 1)

Vojta (brutálně trendy; do r. 2005 jich bylo pár, o 10 let později už 565, wtf?!)

Kuba (17, mírně trendy) X žádný Kubík

Sváťa (jen 1, r. 2016)

NE Standa (velmi mě překvapilo) a od r. 2015 ani Vašek

Fred (15), Fréd (1), Freddie (2), Fredy (7), Fredi (2), Freddi (1), ex Freddy

Ondra (další velký trend 21. století, per 2016 jich bylo už 112), Ondráš (6)

Broňa (13)

Olda (4)

Čenda (1), Čeňa (1)

Tom (25, celkem stálice), Tom Tomas (1)

Láďa (3, samí staří), Laďa (totéž)

Luďa (od r. 1971 nikdo, ale do té doby jich stihli zplodit 27!)

Ráďa (1, r. 2016), Raďa (r. 1933)

Žeňa (17, od r. 1961 pouze 1 nový) + Ženja (1), Ženka (1), Žeňka (1), Žennja (1)

Kosťa (3 staří)

Pája (1)

Zdenda Nicholas (1)

Closing remark: jakkoli mi přijde úžasný se takhle ofiko jmenovat, o tom, co tihle lidi zažívají na úřadech atp., by se asi dala napsat kniha. ("Já jsem Olda." - "Aha, takže Oldřich..." [byrokraticky, pohoršeně] "Ne, Olda. Opravdu O-l-d-a." [s katatonickou rezignací])

[thedalatribune]

© Paolo Dala

Shame

...we can sometimes fall into the trap of thinking, “Well, if it’s always good to move beyond shame, then shame must always be a bad thing.” That would be a trap, I think. That would be like saying, “Since we should always seek healing from having our skin cut, therefore surgery is always a bad thing.”

...Having your skin cut by a knife is not in itself a good thing, and neither is shame in itself a good thing. But given the reality of disease, being cut by a knife may become a kind of good thing because of what it leads to - namely, healing. That’s the way it is, I think, with shame in the New Testament.

Sometimes shame functions like surgery to bring us to the healing that we need, but that doesn’t mean that all shame has a healing function, any more than all skin cutting leads to health. There is surgery, and there is stabbing. So, we need to make distinctions...

...there’s misplaced shame, the kind we should not have, and well-placed shame, the kind we should have, but only temporarily while it does its healing work.

This is 2 Timothy 1:8: “Do not be ashamed of the testimony about our Lord, nor of me his prisoner.” So, there are two kinds of things in that verse that you should not be ashamed of, shouldn’t feel shame about:

speaking about the Lord Jesus [and]

being associated with somebody who’s in prison for the Lord Jesus.

It doesn’t matter how many people belittle you or make fun of you. Which shows us that, for the Christian, the source of shame should not come from the false opinions of other people, no matter how belittling they are. That takes a great deal of self-identity in and for Jesus to live through that.

Another example is when Jesus said, “Whoever is ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him will the Son of Man also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels” (Mark 8:38). If human opinion is more emotionally powerful than God’s opinion of us, and if the power of human opinion cripples us and silences us with shame because we claim to be a Christian, we are not going to stand in the judgment, Jesus says...

Now, what about well-placed shame - namely, the kind we ought to have, at least temporarily? Paul says to the Corinthians who were doubting the resurrection, “Wake up from your drunken stupor, as is right, and do not go on sinning. For some have no knowledge of God. I say this to your shame” (1 Corinthians 15:34). They ought to feel shame, he’s saying. And in 1 Corinthians 6:5, when the Christians were disputing with each other and taking that dispute into the secular courts, he says, “I say this to your shame. Can it be that there is no one among you wise enough to settle a dispute between the brothers?”

...I conclude that well-placed shame says you should feel shame for having a hand in anything that dishonors God, no matter how strong or wise or right it may look in the eyes of men. Now, when I say that we should feel shame if it is well-placed because of our wrongdoing, I don’t mean that we should feel shame 'indefinitely', any more than we ought to spend the rest of our lives on the surgeon’s operating table. I call it well-placed shame because it ought to be there, but it ought not to stay there.

So the key question for both misplaced shame and well-placed shame is, How do we properly move beyond both of them? How do we get rid of both of them?

...[A] promise from God that covers both cases of misplaced shame and well-placed shame, so that we can get rid of both of them appropriately, quickly. Here’s Isaiah 45:17: “You [namely, you who believe] shall not be put to shame or confounded to all eternity.” Which Paul then applies to Christians with these words in Romans 10:11: “Everyone who believes in him will not be put to shame.” No one, finally, will be shamed in the kingdom of God. It will be over.

John Piper Shame: Its Uses and Abuses

[pencildragons]

snippet of married sabé/padmé/anakin, or as i like to call it, 'ani(dala)^2 couples counselling saves the galaxy that i'd said i'd share. this fic was originally meant to be codywan (or possibly cody/obi-wan/quinlan), and this is from its opening, hence . the codywan in it lolol. i think if i Do end up writing this, this fic would be the second or third part of a series, with the first work focusing more on. what is outlined in above linked post :]

Dear Cody, Obi-Wan writes. His hand is shaking, and the ink blots untidily about the flimsi, pooling at the stems of his lettering. I think you would like the mountain belt Padmé has whisked us away to. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision six months after we moved to Naboo; after years of having to do everything and say everything in careful moderation, as is befitting for a politician, I think she delights in wild spontaneity. Or perhaps it is just the time she has spent in critical proximity to Anakin. It is likely that he delights in her wild spontaneity too, more’s the pity. Now, instead of my Padawan merely being a bad influence on his wife, they are just bad influences on each other. It is a vicious, vicious cycle. Then again, when I think back to Christophsis—the first time, the week before I met you—perhaps this is not such a new development. I’m rambling. Back to the mountain belt. The tallest of its peaks is nineteen thousand metres, but the one that we now reside on is but a modest three thousand metres in height, known in the local language as Jaraam. Much of the belt and the surrounding region was colonised by a northern provence until Monarch Réillata, Padmé’s predecessor as Ruler of Naboo, brought about total planetary unification approximately fifteen years ago, at which point reparations were begun to be made. Since the reparations and the land being both placed under legislative protection from corporate or urban development and returned to its custodians, the traditional practices of transhumance between the high mountain pastures where we now reside, and the lower, warmer valleys has been allowed to flourish. Padmé’s mother, Jobal, hails from the semi-nomadic community whose territory includes Jaraam, and was wholeheartedly supportive of the decision to come here. I am to understand that she took great pains to ensure that both her children were taught of their heritage, of their language and culture, and it is a relief to her that her eldest is reconnecting with it. Anakin has told Padmé in no uncertain terms that he will not hear a word spoken in this house of Basic or of Nubian, the language so thoroughly globalised that the planet was named after it during its entry into the Republic, until after the children begin to learn those themselves when they enter the schooling system. He is adamant that along with Amatakka and Dai Bendu (at my request; believe you me that I will be shocked until the end of my days that he agreed, and without a fight), the children will also learn to speak first in Durrathaam, the language of this place. ‘Tongues of the heart’, he called it; I think fatherhood has changed him, Cody, for there is a maturity in him now that I do not recognise.

We are living in an old stone hut built for such semi-nomadic herders currently—Padmé tells me it is where her great-great-grandfather was born. Truth be told, I do not mind the hut. It is chill at night and the only power source comes from a singular solar generator that Anakin jury-rigged, relegated to powering the kitchen, the ‘fresher, and the comm-signal relay, and it is most certainly not a space space meant to be shared by four adults, three droids, and two infants, but we make do. Padmé and Sabé are, however, concocting plans to enlist the hordes of teenlings and young adults of House Thule, Padmé’s maternal family group, who apparently have nothing better to do than to help design and build a chateau. …And still I ramble. Oh, this place is beautiful, Cody. I remember the wonder in your eyes when we landed on Hoth and you saw that huge mountain range in the distance once the snowstorm had settled and the air was clear, and the view is somewhat similar. You can see for klicks and klicks, further than you could ever on Coruscant, even to the granite cliffs on the horizon before they plunge into the sea. If one looks up, one can see the sky, quite devoid of clouds and a soft, pinkish red, generally with a moon or two visible even in the daytime, although disrupted by the snow-capped horns of the mountains surrounding us. If one looks down, one can see the valleys spread out across the land, deep hollows of green and forests of close-growing alpine trees and the little settlements nestled among them. I feel like I can breathe, here. Now, for the most important thing; the star of this system is small and hot, and the sunrises—I think you would like the sunrises, Cody. I would even go so far as to say that they would make your list of the top twenty greatest sunrises you’ve ever personally witnessed. They’re better here than they are in Theed, I daresay, although I shall of course leave this final judgement to you. Yours always, Obi-Wan Kenobi

Obi-Wan puts down his pen and stares out the window at the cool light of the not-yet-dawn sparkling across the frost, then sighs and reaches beneath the dark recesses of his bed for the small plastoid box. It is not particularly big, although its protective casing is heavy, and he settles it on his lap, brushing his thumb over the small lock in the centre of the lid. Its key, slim and fine, is strung around his neck on the same cord as a chip of his lineage river-stone and the broken tip of a helmet antenna and the worn charms that Bant and Quinlan had made in their Padawan years long-past after his return from Melidaan; a collection of keepsakes from some of the most important people in his life that are now gone for whatever reason, be it distance or death. He dips his hand into his sleep tunic and draws the whole lot out, fits the key into its hole, and turns it. The box contains the few other material possessions that he owns: Anakin’s braid; his own lightsaber; a dozen prized ‘graphs that he hasn’t yet pinned upon the wall; the comm; and, beneath it all, a small sheaf of flimsies, folded neatly into thirds. He takes the letter from his lap and waves it in the air to dry. When the ink has set, he creases it into three with care and slips it to the very bottom of the pile, then shuts the lid, locks it, and replaces the box in its hiding place once more. He wonders, just for a moment, what his ex-Padawan and his wife and her wife would think if they knew that, once a week for the past eight months, he’s been writing letters to a man almost certainly dead. (It really doesn’t bear thinking about.)

if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging it!!! it rlly means a lot to me :3

[what-the-hell-is-going-on-here]

you. do you have any vore hcs for dala. or mobius perhaps

- 💥

hmmmm….. Yes. Yes I Do. 😈

first vibes are switch. definitely pred leaning, but prey with people she’s comfortable with. it’s rarer, but not out of the question.

honestly.. i think dala could be kinda shy sometimes with noms, especially in public! but, around someone she’s comfortable with, she is SUCH a tease, both pred and prey.. i’d imagine pretty protective too. she’d love eating someone and just chilling with them in her tummy all day i think… she’d let someone stay in as long as they want- she’s having a great time and doesn't mind one bit

very much a nerd, like the rest of the crew, but especially on the physical feelings. she thinks its really cool how close you can be to someone without being harmed.. loves the intimacy, platonic or as a show of romantic love. it’s more personal to her, not as much of a casual act as 8 sees it sometimes. she isn't offended with how 8 views it, she just thinks it's something you’d only do with someone you really trust, and it should be treated seriously! but once she’s comfortable with someone, she can be a little silly sometimes

very picky with her prey. very picky with their CLEANLINESS, too. like klein, you’ve gotta be SPOTLESS. your shoes are OFF and you better be clean or else ur getting a bath with a washcloth. no exceptions.

biiiig mouthplay girl. i’d imagine she’d be relatively gentle unless her prey says otherwise- it gives her something to fiddle with while she works. it’s especially helpful since it’s hands free :3 can imagine her doing some solo computer or lab work with her mouth full since her hands are occupied (OOUGHGHGHHHHHHJ I NEED)

hmm.. despite my first instinct, i think she’d prefer solo prey instead of multiple. idk she just gives off the energy to wanna be close to one person and not overwhelm herself with too much all at once

can totally imagine her rambling about how someone tastes to tease them…AWUGHGHGHH

tastes like passionfruit and raspberry sorbet

noww…. for mobius..

switch, kinda like how dala is. pred-leaning, but he doesn’t mind being prey sometimes. depends on his mood, really, but hes mostly pred

im thinking also very protective. he’ll chat with his prey the whole time as if they’re just standing in front of him, confusing every single person around him who doesnt know LMAOO

“blah blah blah did you know that the longest living whale was over 200 years old? it was a bowhead whale… quiet cool….!!” 

“...MOBIUS WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING TO?????”

couldn't care less if anyone finds out he ate someone. he might be a little embarrassed if he’s around higher-ups or people he aren't as close to, but with the rest of the thi//nk ta//nk he doesn't mind at all. he finds it kinda funny when his prey get embarrassed if other people point it out

klein is totally his fav prey, and klein hates it. (he gives big pred energy but mobius is the exception for him LMAO. pre-tank, ofc. we know they have their whole Thing later on. ….ooh i could make angst out of that)

such a sucker for rubs. he wouldn't admit it in words, but everyone can tell. he just can't get enough of the full feeling :3 he could quite literally fall asleep if it’s done too long LMAO

unfortunately… very, very forgetful. he’ll misplace a tiny and start worrying over it until he feels squirms in his gut, or forget he ate someone and take 5 mentats then get all confused when he feels something move inside of him. be ready for impromptu-foodplay, cause he’ll drink tea or coffee completely forgetting about his prey inside.

he’s totally down for multiple prey. not too much, maybe 2-3, but he’s soaking up the attention the whole time. 

tastes like those green melon sodas and cucumbers, surprisingly

i feel like i could make more hcs if i sat on this more but WHATEVA HERE YOU GO !!!

i apologize if these are trash- im not as good as characterizing these two 🤞 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 i hope you enjoy nonetheless……

[azurdlywisterious]

The Brainless Ones (part 2)

AN: I'm back with more of Sir’s adventures! I wanted more Sir so now y'all get more Sir.

Word count: 1.3k

CW: body horror played for comedy (idk how else to describe sir’s empty head), very unethical scientific practices, body horror not played for comedy (if the centaurs count as body horror but I think they do)

“Where are we heading, Beagle?”

He runs his fingers through his silver hair. “End goal, New Vegas. But right now, we’re going towards a little town called Novac.”

“I’ve walked this way before,” I observe. “Where is Novac on this map?”

I show him the screen built into my arm, which currently has a map of the area pulled up.

“I’m never gonna get used to this,” he mutters under his breath as he examines the map. "Uh, I think it's around here?"

He taps a spot on the map and a waypoint appears on the map. There's a small ping! noise, which causes Beagle to jump.

"You're very nervous," I observe.

"I still haven't fully grasped that this is my new reality," he retorts. "I've heard of lots of terrifying things out here in these sandy wastes."

"My interest has been piqued. What kind of things?"

"Radscorpions, geckos, the Powder Gangers out by the NCRCF..."

His voice trails off at that last one. His eyes lose focus, like he's seeing something playing out miles in front of us. I put my head as close to his as possible and zoom my eyes in as much as they can.

"What are you looking at?"

He jolts and does a small hop away from me. I can feel warm air on my skin. Is that his breathing? Dr. Dala told me about breathing, what it looked like, what it felt like. I don’t fully understand her obsession with it, but I am starting to gain my own appreciation for the habit.

“I was just… remembering something,” he says to me after he’s regained his bearings. “Nothing that a pretty lady like you should worry her pretty little head about.”

“Right,” I respond, disinterested in whatever it is he’s hiding. I continue to walk since he spotted nothing.

“Wait!” He half jogs to catch up to me. “Don’t you want to know what I was thinking of?”

“You can tell me if you want,” I reply, “but right now our main goal is Novac; and all this sand being blown by the wind is getting in my eyes.”

He doesn’t respond, instead lighting up another cigarette as we walk.

"We aren't walking on a road," I state. "Is there any reason for this?"

"Well, according to the maps, this is the fastest way to Novac," he tells me. "There is a longer route following the main road that crosses through a town called Nipton, but that place gives me the creeps.”

“Elaborate.”

“It's been radio silent for weeks. If anything happened down there, i doubt that it would be anything good.”

“You imply that Nipton is south?”

“Weird way of phrasin’ it,” Beagle remarks, “but yeah, I suppose so.”

I stop to show him a point on the map in my arm. “Is this Nipton?”

“Probably.”

“Then I’ve been there,” I inform him. “Boring place. Just a bunch of dead lobotomites everywhere.”

All he says in response to that is, “Oh,” before holding his cigarette in place with his teeth and shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

I continue to walk and he follows suit.

After a long while of silence, Beagle plucks the remains of his cigarette from his teeth, flicks it away, and asks me, “So what is a pretty lady like you doing wandering the desert all by her lonesome?”

“The great minds of the Think Tank made me to explore the new world beyond Big MT in their stead so that they may study it from the safety of their labs.”

“Wait…” He starts counting on his fingers before giving up entirely. “How old are you?”

“Depends,” I reply.

“Depends?”

“The body is roughly 26 years old, the computer parts that keep the body functioning are a few days old, and the data programmed onto my hard drives encompasses all of scientific knowledge that humanity has ever recorded and the Think Tank had ever saved to their computers. Though all of the components have been together for 32 days.”

“So you're 32 days old?”

“It appears so. Like Athena from the myths of the Old World, I emerged from the Think Tank fully formed.”

“Who’s Athena?”

I start to reply, but a flicker of movement from the neighboring hill catches my attention. I place a finger to my lips and crouch down. I zoom my sight in and study the creatures that caught my attention. The top half is a lobotomite torso and head, but the bottom half is a mass of tissue and extra arms acting as legs. Three tendrils hang out of its mouth like long tongues and it has no true arms.

Beagle notices what I’m looking at and grabs his gun. He’s aiming it wildly due to his shaking hands, a phenomena caused by the sudden influx of adrenaline in his body.

I gently lower the gun for him and start to quietly move closer, calibrating my long distance lasers as I move. The LRADs are already primed.

Using the pointed tip of my thumbnail as a scope, I aim a laser right between the thing’s eyes.

“Fascinating,” I remark as I see it spit sludge in our direction, taking plenty of photos as it does so. “One shot isn't enough to kill it.”

“What?” Beagle squeaks and pulls out a voice recorder. I gently lower that too before he starts talking into it.

The creature’s aim is not good enough to hit us with the sludge. That doesn't stop it from setting off my internal Geiger counter. My skin feels crackly. I need to end this quick.

The thing is charging at me and Beagle is starting to try and take voice memos again. I roll my eyes and let him. I just turn my ears off and fire enough shots to fell the beast.

I blow on my index finger to cool it off before extending the opposite hand to Beagle. I feel his hand vibrating on contact, so I grip it tightly to get it to stop shaking.

I lead him over to the corpse, the whole time him describing the encounter into his voice recorder in strikingly accurate detail. Despite his trembling hands, his voice is rather level, and nice to listen to. It’s soft and smooth, like the half melted butter on top of the waffles in those commercial breaks that Dr. 0 accidentally recorded along with his movies.

I turn my ears back off to remember to take more photos of the thing before teleporting it off to the Think Tank. I wince a bit as my still hot index finger lightly burns my temple.

I turn my ears back on, ready to listen to him talk; but all I hear is unvoiced gasping. I’m on alert.

“What is it?” I whisper urgently.

“The thing,” he points to where the creature once was. “It’s gone!”

“I teleported the cadaver back to Big MT,” I tell him, hovering my fingers by my temple. “Remember, if something bad happens to me while we’re out here, press on my temples and we’ll be teleported back to safety.”

He nods solemnly, processing the information as clear as day behind his eyes. As my science deputy, he deserves to know how to activate the teleported in case of an emergency.

He takes my arm, studies it, and places a new waypoint, saying, “I don’t wanna run into another one of those things. If we go up from here and then start cutting across, we should be fine.”

“Why not just go south to Nipton?”

He stares off into the distance and lights up another smoke. “There’s something that needs to be done up there anyways. And you’re just the person to help me.”

“Then why not just go directly to New Vegas?”

“Deathclaws,” Beagle replies coolly, taking another well timed drag of his cigarette.

“What are deathclaws?” I ask him.

“Nothing good,” he responds, gently lowering my arm for me; as if wanting to reach for my hand but not having enough courage to do so. “I’ll tell ya later.”

"When?"

"After you help me clean out the NCRCF."

[masongrizchel]

What is your earliest at work?

Isa sa mga goal ko in any work place since magtrabaho ako ay dapat ako yung pinakaunang darating. I used to work in various places, and the commuting time eats a lot of time, especially during rush hour. Before kasi, I encounter an enormous amount of deductions dahil sa pagiging late ko (with what I have mentioned above).

Disclaimer lang muna: Hindi ko gino glorify ang pag pasok ng maaga as a solution to traffic during rush hour. This is a personal preference of mine, a lifestyle.

Nung nagtuturo pa ako, dapat at least 2-3 hours akong early with my official time despite my former workplace being closer to my unit. Dala ko yun till now.

Iba din kasi yung peace na dala ng ikaw lang tao sa opisina. Napaka priceless. Iba din yung pakiramdam na ikaw patapos na sa mga nakalatag mong gawain habang yung mga katrabaho mag uumpisa palang ng mga araw nila. Iba yung focus. Parang small win and fulfillment ko (personally) every day.

Kaya walang nakakaramdam if magreresign na ba ako or lilipat ng trabaho eh. Hahaha

[scribe-of-stories]

15 Questions 15 Mutuals

Rules: Answer the questions as yourself or as an OC of your choice

The always friend shaped @vicstmichael tagged me, and you can read her lovely post here.

I'm going to be answering for both myself and Lexical's oldest OC, Samuel. (I'll be responding like this) meanwhile Sam like this.

The lightest of tags towards: @sunset-a-story @squarebracket-trick @valanke @pure-solomon @captain-kraken annnnd I know it says to tag 15 people but I've got other tag games so I'm going to save some mutual. Alternatively if 10 more individuals could do this so I don't become cursed that'd be grand.

1. Are you named after anyone?

I think I was named after one of my grandfathers, who was named after some biblical character. Someone who broke pillars? Or was that another guy? (To shorten a long story: Sam predates Lexical and is technically two older characters mixed together. One was an unplayed FATE character named Smith of Masks, who was a spooky manakin looking monster that was also a journalist. It wrote under the pen name "Sam Smith" as a loose reference to it's acronym [SoM] and the generic last name Smith [which was also already part of its name]. The other was a short story I wrote over on Reddit, but that has little to do with the name.)

(Meanwhile I was named after a Frenchman in space. Or two books of the bible. I claim the former, but my religious [secretly trekkie] parents claim the later.)

2. When was the last time you cried?

I don't know, not like I keep track of these things. Probably the last time I had a bone broken. (It was when Ashley gave him his birthday gift).

(Last night I was meditating and talking to myself and we felt emotional. It was a good cry.)

3. Do you have kids?

Biologically no, but there is a worryingly growing group of young and wyrd individuals that I keep either saving or having over for dinner. I, uh, well they know what they mean to me. I think.

(Nope, not yet at least. That said I had been working in some form of child care most of my career life.)

4. Do you use sarcasm?

I would Never do such a thing. Words have power after all, imagine if I didn't mean what I say. (See: Umbra wyrdling)

(All the time, though usually for me it walks the fine line between sarcasms and lying/gaslighting as a bit. I never let it go too far though, and only do it over un-important topics.)

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

How many limbs they have. Jokes aside, how they are presenting themselves: they way they walk, talk, stand, etc. Got worse/more noticeable recently.

(Usually their hair. I'm slightly face blind and find myself relying on the hair/dress of people I only slightly know to recognize them.)

6. What's your eye color?

It changes, but I think I was born with blue eyes? Can't exactly remember.

(Very Brown.)

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings any day of the week. Love me some sappy romance where everyone's just content at the end. Besides I see enough horror in my work life, don't want to bring that shit home. Hell it usually doesn't have trouble finding my house anyways.

(Both? Both is good. If I had to choose horror since I see that as being capable of exploring things a lot of fiction can't, but I wouldn't want everything I consume to end with "then everyone was bound to super hell for eternity".)

8. Any special talents?

Surviving things that should have killed me. My more magically inclined friends have taken to referring to me as a "Community College Wizard" so I guess I've got that going for me too.

(I've been told I'm a divergent thinker, so I think that's special. Also I'm fairly good at most video/board games. Might be linked, idk?)

9. Where were you born?

Dalas, Texas. Don't intend on going back any time soon though.

(South Carolina, though I moved to Kentucky before I started being old enough to remember things.)

10. What are your hobbies?

Reading. I've got this lovely pile of shitty novels I collect that I'm slowly working through. No rhyme or reason to what's in them, just slowly bought them on discount from local book stores. Romance is my favorite genre.

(Games, I love games. TTRPGs, video games, tabletop/board games. Anything with a rule system that I can learn and play with in unique ways. I'm usually drawn to things that are turn based, but the video game I have easily put the most time into would be Warframe. Also, uh, writing.)

11. Have you any pets?

I've got a half dozen Wyrdlings I have to babysit and at least 2 minor thought entities living in my house. Yes I consider all of them effectively Pets.

(Not currently, but I used to have a turtle named Ruto.)

12. What sports do you play/have played?

Used to place baseball back when I was a kid, but that fell off when I graduated.

(Back when I was a child my parents had me try nearly every form of sports there was. None of them stuck, and I never joined a school related team.)

13. How tall are you?

It changes, or at least I suspect it does. Around 5'8 last I checked but I swear I'm getting shorter.

(5'10)

14. Favorite subject in school?

Took a semester of forensics back in high school. It was taught by a couch who was just reading a chapter ahead of the class, but the topic was fascinating.

(Psychology/Philosophy in that order. I didn't properly start learning either till I was in college. Got some regrets that I didn't take more than 1 philosophy course; even more upset that I only ever took 1 writing course.)

15. Dream job?

What I'm doing now: private investigating. Though in a perfect world I'd deal with a few less monsters on a daily basis. I guess it's more interesting then just spying on people from inside a car. Some days I miss not knowing about the Wyrd; but other days balance it out.

(Still trying to figure that out. Ended my career as a behavioral therapist a while ago [moral/stress issues] and kinda now figuring out what I actually want to do. Would have said being a Therapist a while ago but I'm not sure.)

[psy-wojewodztwo-pomorskie]

Oddam psa, Gdańsk, Migowo, 30 kwietnia 2025

Maleńka, przerażona Suzi BŁAGA o dom!

Maleńka Suzi – zagubiona w wielkim świecie, czekająca na cud. Są psy, które od pierwszych chwil lgną do człowieka. Ale są też takie, jak Suzi – maleńka, przerażona istotka, której życie do tej pory toczyło się gdzieś na uboczu, z dala od ludzkich rąk i ciepłych słów. Ma około trzech lat, ale najprawdopodobniej nigdy nie zaznała troski ani bliskości. Urodziła się gdzieś na wsi, nauczyła się żyć sama – bez miłości i domu... Prawie 2 lata temu trafiła do schroniska i jej świat rozsypał się na milion kawałków. Bo Suzi nie rozumie, czym jest człowiek. Nie wie, że ręce mogą głaskać, a nie krzywdzić. Nie wie, że ciepłe legowisko i miska pełna jedzenia to coś, co mogłoby być jej codziennością. Jest przerażona – wielkim światem, obcymi zapachami, dźwiękami schroniska. Ale my wierzymy, że to nie jest koniec jej historii. Widzieliśmy już, jak nawet najbardziej zalęknione dusze odnajdywały swojego człowieka i rozkwitały. Suzi będzie wymagała cierpliwości, delikatności i zrozumienia. To pies do pracy behawioralnej, ale w odpowiednich rękach – w czułym, spokojnym domu – może się zmienić o 180°. Co wiemy o Suzi? Uwielbia inne psy, to w ich towarzystwie czuje się najlepiej. Może to one pokażą jej, że człowiek nie jest taki straszny? Jest malutka, nie zajmie dużo miejsca na kanapie… ale na pewno zajmie ogromne miejsce w sercu tego, kto zdecyduje się jej pomóc. Szukamy dla niej kogoś wyjątkowego. Kogoś, kto nie oczekuje natychmiastowej miłości, ale potrafi czekać. Kogoś, kto widzi więcej – nie tylko strach w jej oczach, ale i nadzieję, że może jednak, może kiedyś, świat okaże się przyjaznym miejscem. Czeka na dom w Pasłęku, województwo warmińsko-mazurskie (możliwa pomoc w transporcie). Tel. 792 074 136

[wentylacjapozarowa]

Zagrożenia Pożarowe Związane z Bateriami Litowymi w Rowerach Elektrycznych

Rozwój technologii bateryjnych przyczynił się do dynamicznego wzrostu popularności rowerów elektrycznych (e-bike). Kluczowym elementem tych pojazdów są baterie litowo-jonowe, które zapewniają wysoką wydajność przy relatywnie niskiej masie. Niestety, ich użytkowanie wiąże się także z określonym ryzykiem pożarowym. W artykule wyjaśniamy, dlaczego baterie te mogą ulegać samozapłonowi oraz jakie środki ostrożności pozwalają minimalizować ryzyko takich incydentów.

Dlaczego baterie litowe w e-bike’ach się zapalają?

Baterie litowo-jonowe są technologicznie złożonymi urządzeniami. Ich konstrukcja, choć zaawansowana, niesie potencjalne ryzyko awarii, które może prowadzić do tzw. thermal runaway — niekontrolowanego wzrostu temperatury powodującego zapłon. Główne przyczyny pożarów to:

1. Uszkodzenia mechaniczne

Upadki roweru, kolizje lub niewłaściwe obchodzenie się z baterią mogą prowadzić do uszkodzenia separatorów oddzielających elektrody. Uszkodzone ogniwo może w rezultacie spowodować zwarcie wewnętrzne i gwałtowny wzrost temperatury.

2. Przegrzewanie podczas ładowania

Stosowanie niewłaściwych ładowarek lub pozostawianie baterii podłączonej do zasilania na zbyt długo może doprowadzić do przegrzania ogniw. W skrajnych przypadkach prowadzi to do zapłonu.

3. Wady produkcyjne

Niskiej jakości komponenty lub błędy w procesie produkcji baterii mogą skutkować ukrytymi defektami, które ujawniają się po pewnym czasie użytkowania.

4. Starzenie się baterii

Z upływem czasu zmniejsza się pojemność baterii oraz odporność na przeciążenia. Starsze ogniwa są bardziej podatne na przegrzewanie i awarie.

5. Warunki środowiskowe

Ekspozycja na skrajne temperatury, wilgoć lub bezpośrednie działanie promieni słonecznych może pogorszyć stan techniczny baterii i zwiększyć ryzyko zapłonu.

Jak zapobiegać pożarom baterii litowych w rowerach elektrycznych?

Odpowiednia eksploatacja, przechowywanie i konserwacja baterii litowo-jonowych znacząco obniżają ryzyko poważnych incydentów. Oto kluczowe zasady bezpieczeństwa:

1. Używaj wyłącznie oryginalnych baterii i ładowarek

Kupując akcesoria do e-bike’a, należy korzystać wyłącznie z produktów zatwierdzonych przez producenta. Używanie tańszych zamienników niskiej jakości może prowadzić do nieprawidłowego ładowania i przegrzewania ogniw.

2. Regularnie kontroluj stan baterii

Wszelkie oznaki uszkodzenia, takie jak wybrzuszenia, przebarwienia, nieszczelności lub nietypowy zapach, powinny być natychmiastowym sygnałem do zaprzestania użytkowania baterii i skonsultowania się ze specjalistą.

3. Przechowuj baterię w odpowiednich warunkach

Baterię należy przechowywać w suchym, chłodnym miejscu, z dala od źródeł ciepła i bezpośredniego światła słonecznego. Optymalna temperatura przechowywania to 10–20°C. Nie należy przechowywać baterii w stanie całkowitego rozładowania.

4. Prawidłowo ładuj baterię

Ładowanie powinno odbywać się w miejscu dobrze wentylowanym, pod nadzorem, z wykorzystaniem ładowarki dostosowanej do parametrów baterii. Nie zaleca się ładowania baterii w nocy ani pozostawiania jej bez kontroli na dłuższy czas po zakończeniu cyklu ładowania.

5. Unikaj skrajnych temperatur

Nie należy użytkować, ładować ani przechowywać baterii w temperaturach poniżej 0°C ani powyżej 45°C. Skrajne warunki termiczne zwiększają ryzyko degradacji ogniw i ich awarii.

6. Serwisuj rower w autoryzowanych punktach

Regularne przeglądy techniczne wykonywane w certyfikowanych serwisach umożliwiają wczesne wykrycie potencjalnych problemów związanych z systemem zasilania e-bike’a.

Co zrobić w przypadku podejrzenia awarii baterii?

Jeśli bateria nagrzewa się nadmiernie, wydziela zapach spalenizny lub dymi, należy:

Natychmiast odłączyć ładowarkę, jeśli jest podłączona.

Przenieść rower lub samą baterię w bezpieczne miejsce na zewnątrz budynku, o ile jest to możliwe bez ryzyka dla zdrowia.

Wezwać straż pożarną, zwłaszcza gdy pojawi się dym lub widoczny ogień.

Nie próbować gasić baterii wodą — najlepiej użyć gaśnicy klasy D (do pożarów metali) lub specjalnych koców gaśniczych.

Baterie litowo-jonowe w rowerach elektrycznych to technologia o wysokiej wydajności, jednak wymagająca odpowiedniego podejścia do eksploatacji i konserwacji. Świadomość potencjalnych zagrożeń i przestrzeganie zasad bezpieczeństwa znacząco ograniczają ryzyko pożaru. Inwestując w wysokiej jakości komponenty i dbając o regularne przeglądy, użytkownicy e-bike’ów mogą cieszyć się komfortem jazdy przy jednoczesnym zapewnieniu sobie i innym pełnego bezpieczeństwa.