cinnamoniic:    The cat mmrps in their lap and butts their head against their hand. &ldquo

cinnamoniic:

    The cat mmrps in their lap and butts their head against their hand. “Yes, yes, I’m petting you, don’t worry,” they say, resuming what must be their earlier petting. They look back up at Martin, and gesture halfheartedly towards their stack of books. “I, er. Had a bit of trouble, deciding.”

    Martin chuckles. “So you got the cat to help you choose?”

    “Well, the cat has a name,” Jon informs him in their most esteemed professional voice, “and a very fine one at that. Pangur Bán is the official defender of this bookshop, and he is very good at his job.”

    That… sure is a name. “Uh. Pardon?”

    “Pangur Bán - you know, the, er, ninth-century Irish abbot’s cat?” Jon asks him this, innocently, as if this is a question to which Martin should reasonably answer yes.

woke up and realized today is Jon Sims and Cats Day, so I figured I’d illustrate one of my favourite scenes from my fic one foot in sea, one on shore! it is. so late at night where I am oops

[ID: a picture of Jonathan Sims from The Magnus Archives petting a cat in front of a window in a secondhand bookstore. Jon is a thin brown person with long, dark hair, angular glasses, and slight freckles, wearing a dark sage cardigan and dark trousers. Sat in their lap is a fluffy cat so dark black its only discernible features are its big, round yellow eyes with wide pupils, staring directly at the viewer. Jon also looks at the viewer with a softly surprised expression, one leg perched on the seat and the other hanging down towards the floor. On one side sits a stack of books, and on the other rests their cane. Behind him through translucent glass is a small-town street punctuated with leafy green trees, where the bright sunlight shines across their shoulders. Framing them on each side of the image are bookshelves, and dust motes float through the air. End description.]