library pop

Eldarya’s salty sugar

here’s an image i found compiling some of this item’s most common locations

top row, from left to right : bank, closet/modify appearance, library (pop up window when you click on “modify your crush”, market, companion’s page

middle row, from left to right : rankings, clothes shop, messages, goodies, minigames’ page

bottom row, from left to right : inventory, terms of service

Are you going to C2E2 this weekend? Wanna find some cool new queer comics?

Visit me at the pop-up library in Booth 853, right in front of The Block at 2pm on Saturday!  I’ll be talking up some of my favorite LGBTQ comics and giving personalized recommendations to help you find the bestest, coolest, and queerest choices for you!  Think of me like your personal comics concierge.   See you there!

Friendly Companion

Originally posted by gabriel-of-the-day

Request: Hi! Congrats on your writing anniversary! Could you do a GabrielxReader smut fic with some fluff? You decide what it’s about?

Pairing: Gabriel x reader

Word Count: 1,000ish

Warnings: smut

A/N: In honor of JIBcon just ending, a little scenery change for a bit…

Keep reading

alocalband  asked:

You're taking prompts?!! I'm over the moon at the mere thought! Not only do we get an update today, but I get to look forward to more of your lovely writing :) If you have the inclination, I would love some fluffy Nursey/Dex get together fic. Or some Zimbits coming out to Bitty's parents fic. <3

[aaaah thank you so much! I had several ideas for your prompt. this is one of them.]

It isn’t one thing. Or, if it is, Derek’s hard pressed to name it. Maybe it was the way Dex has taken to nodding of gently beside him on roadies, or the way Dex always turns his head away with a smile that could be a smirk if asked when he thinks Derek’s said something funny. Maybe it’s the way Derek’s stomach goes fluttery and his skin goes hot when Dex stretches his arms high above himself when they’re studying late together in the library, back and elbows popping, and reveals a strip a skin that runs from hip to hip. Or the way he holds his pen and swears under his breath and is so determined to do well.

Maybe it’s the way he always knows how to fix what’s broken.

Derek’s heart aches when he watches Dex ordering coffee–black, he’ll add sugar himself–at Annie’s. It’s a slow day, and the girl at the counter is smiling brightly at him. She says something as he hands over ones, and Derek watches as Dex laughs, cheeks flushing.

Derek adjusts his grip on his pen and looks away.

When Dex sits across from him, he’s got his coffee and a muffin, one of the large blueberry ones Derek loves but denied himself most of the time. His stomach rumbles, and he looks back at the unfinished poem in his notebook, the ink smudged where the side of his hand brushed too close.

“You guys looked cozy.”


Derek tilts his head at the counter without looking up. “You and the cashier.”

“Ashley,” Dex says, and Derek’s heart clenches. “We had a group project together last semester.”

Ah, Derek thinks but doesn’t say.

“Here,” Dex says, pushing the plate with the muffin toward him. “She said you’ve been here for the last four hours. This is for you.”

Derek stares at the muffin, the plate, at Dex’s strong fingers and close-bitten nails.

“For me?”

He can practically hear Dex roll his eyes. “Yes.”

“From her?”

Silence. The sound of the cash register, the spring rain outside, traffic, a study group in the corner. Nothing from Dex. When Derek looks up, Dex’s cheeks are pink and he’s biting his bottom lip, but his gaze on Derek is steady and open.

“From me,” he says. “For you. I know they’re your favorite and that you probably haven’t had one in a while because you live in a constant state of denial. But yeah, for you. From me.”

Derek stares a moment longer before reaching forward and pulling the plate closer. “Not a constant state of denial.”

“Oh? You gonna let yourself have other things you want?”

Derek’s eyes fly up. Dex’s gaze is still steady, still open, but there’s a challenge there now, burning bright as a flame.

Swallowing hard, he picks up the muffin, breaks it in half. He pushes the plate between them. His hand is absolutely not shaking enough for Dex to notice. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I think I might. Prospects seem good?”

Dex turns his head away, hiding a smile that could be a smirk if asked. “Prospects seem great.”



Made with SoundCloud
Come on, Eileen

Summary: Dean ships Sam and Eileen. He decides not-so-subtly to let them know.

Characters: Sam x Eileen, Dean

Word Count: 1,141

Warnings: None, really. Slight crack, some fluff.

Author’s Note: It is my personal headcannon that Dean ships Saileen just as hard as the rest of us. So I wrote that. Enjoy!

Eileen doesn’t move into the bunker on purpose. In fact, she is all set to leave and head back to Ireland so she can battle her private demons while facing literal ones. But then Sam’s arms are so warm and he is so kind. And Dean is so protective, sitting up in the war room all night after the incident with Renny Rawlings, class valedictorian of Kendrick’s.  He catches her as she tries to sneak out.

“It’s safer if you stay,” he insists. “You never know with those British douchebags.”

“They might hurt you,” she says, intent on keeping her friends safe, even if they didn’t want her attempt at protection. “Or I might hurt you.”

Dean rises from his chair. “I’m not worried about it. Not to mention, Sam would worry about you. I need his head in the game.”

Keep reading

A story about librarians in a post apoc world who now drive old buses outfitted as mobile libraries. They use a shorthand that has been cobbled together over the years talking about the areas that they have been and where they are headed. And it’s not just books, though they are there. But tools of all sorts are able to be used/borrowed, everything from cooking to welding.

Many folks believe that these librarians have developed some sort of sixth sense to know when there is a settlement that is struggling to survive. Sometimes they even arrive in force, with two or three buses appearing on the horizon just in the nick of time. Maybe a water pump has failed and no one knows exactly how to fix it. Or the entire town (all 5 of them) need new pants sewn. Or maybe they have gotten a small windfall and are thinking about splurging and sous vide a steak.

The normal information highways are as shattered as the pothole riddle asphalt these brave souls drive every day. And thus new ways of getting knowledge to where it needs to go have had to been forged. It started as a trickle, as a whim from a group of newly graduated MLIS students and their mentors. But it has grown. Retired vets, part-time assistants, little library builders, half hidden cataloguers, binders, all step up and out. And these librarians aren’t your stereotypes. They are patchwork, svelte, lean, muscular, broken, put-back-together, I’ve-seen-shit-you’ve-only-imagined types. Old, young, and in-between. From all parts of the old world and some parts of the new. Partially mutated or fully. Missing limbs, hearts, family, friends, an eye or two. Speaking languages that have been long forgotten or made up on the fly.

There are teams, you could even say families that run each bus. There are those who are able to provide protection from roving bandits or unsavory mutations. There are mechanics who have developed a new appreciation for the Dewey Decimal system. Or librarians who have read one too many technical manual and have developed a small obsession of spark plugs. What once may have just been a hobby of baking has now become a key asset in keeping the mobile library alive. An avid seed lending librarian now holds the key to feeding the world, mentally and physically.

Artists gather to paint each bus with its own unique theme. Each inspired by the folks whose blood, sweat, and tears keep it running. There is one with a giant cthulhu on the side. Another with stacks and stacks of classic book covers. And of course one with a Harry Potter theme. They even have a sorting hat and questionnaire for those who would still like to be sorted.