#which can either mean a treatise on small animal breeding or a treatise on breeding disease. respectively.

[thegreatyin]

12 for your fallen london ocs

The Scoundrel says they would never dare to keep overdue library books. They're a bat of the people! A beloved and respected patron of the arts! They would never in a million years dare to do something as despicable as stealing from a library!!

Which is of course, to say. Well.

Let's just say they've hoarded more than a few very particular books in their time, and a certain bookish coworker of theirs hates them for a reason. They do finish all of them though... admittedly whilst adding them to their own collection without permission. But they do finish them!!

As for how many they have? Let's just guesstimate and say at least five and a half. The half is all that remains of a poetry book after they accidentally breathed correspondence on it and they're really embarrassed and still trying to cover their crime up to this day. It's been months. The library knows their sins. They're literally a book criminal.

The Scientist on the other hand is a model library citizen. Like. He's the kind of guy librarians dream of. He visits pretty much every week, checks out a dozen books at a time, returns them all long before their due date, etc. He's a huge book nerd. He loves those things more than life itself. Admittedly he values his life at approximately 0.000000000001 cents maximum so pretty much everything has more life value by comparison-

Clears throat. Ahem. I mean.

Caeru has books. A lot of books. He loves books. If he's not committing murder or trying to throw himself off a cliff, he's usually tucked away in a corner reading some 1,000 page novel about the most boring subject you can think of. He is the archetypical nerd. He would get shoved in lockers if he could. He's such a loser and I love him dearly. He has million library books, all day, every day, and the only reason he doesn't have more is because he physically can't carry them all with his stupid skinny little nerd arms.

The Songbird is... actually just a normal guy. He goes to the library when he feels like it, and doesn't when he doesn't. He has no particular preference for or against it, it's just something he does sometimes. He doesn't tend to finish a lot of books on account of having "other things" (crimes) to "occupy his time" (more crimes) but like. All-around, he's just sorta vibing with it.

And also he has one (1) overdue library book that he stole from a little humble shop on the surface two years ago and to this day he lays awake at night fearing that the Library Police™ will come and wring him by the neck for his crimes. They won't, but he has anxiety about it anyway.

[spale-vosver]

hounded (1/?) | The Magnus Archives

A/N: After a long absence, here I am writing TMA fic again! This was originally intended to be posted on my 18th birthday, since it’s fluffy and cute and the total opposite of what you associate with turning 18, but I lost track of time, so it’s coming out now. This fic, also crossposted on my AO3, is a gift for dundee998, who I won’t tag here to avoid annoying them, as well as the Jonah Server; I love all of you guys’ fics, and now that I’m 18, wish I could join you. Alas, I am socially awkward and haven't asked. On AO3, this fic is rated T for period-typical drinking, swearing, and mild sexual references; there’s nothing explicit, and the worst it gets is making out and “sexy tennis” (you’ll see). Other than that, please enjoy!

Summary: Barnabas Bennett adopts a dog. That dog just so happens to be of the Flesh. Shenanigans ensue.

--

Barnabas Bennett is standing in Jonah’s doorway with a dog in his arms.

 Not just any dog, either; the thing is  enormous, wider than the door frame itself, and Jonah briefly wonders how Barnabas is managing to carry it before he refocuses his thoughts. 

 “Barnabas,” he begins, then shakes his head. “You’ve got-” he tries again. After a few more failed attempts at starting a conversation, he gestures broadly to the two of them. “Dog. In your arms. Why?”

“Well, I could hardly just leave him on the street, Jonah!”

“You’re attempting to bring a street mongrel into my house?” Jonah says, and, true to what he’s said, Barnabas is in fact trying to maneuver himself to fit the massive beast through Jonah’s door. 

 “Jonah, it’s pouring outside! I’m already soaked through, and- oh, angel, would you move over?”

Despite Jonah’s protests, Barnabas manages to get through the door, and, as he makes his way towards the parlor room, the dog’s wagging tail catches Jonah across the face, smearing him the same mixture of mud and slush that Barnabas is now tracking across his nice, clean rug.

 Jonah screeches.

Barnabas quickly pivots to see what the matter is, and when he sees Jonah, he can’t help but cackle at the sight of prim, proper, perfectly made up Jonah hurriedly wiping the mixture off his face with his shirtsleeve, cursing about how some got into his mouth, goddamn you, Barnabas! When he’s finally gotten enough off his face to be able to see properly, he shoots Barnabas a scowl.

 “Do not laugh.”

“But, love-”

“ Barnabas.”

“I mean- it’s all over your face , love!”

“And now it’s all over my floor, and-  BARNABAS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT PUT THAT THING DOWN ON MY CHAIR-”  

 But Barnabas has already happily seated the dog on Jonah’s parlor chair, divesting himself of his coat to help dry the mutt off.

 For as many social graces as Barnabas has burned into his memory, animals have always been a weak point for him, whether it was hatching chickens in his dormitory at university, or falling asleep beside one of Mordechai’s horses, or, as he is doing now, completely ruining Jonah’s furniture for the sake of a dog he collected off the street. If Jonah weren’t so absolutely furious, he might be endeared. Barnabas’ coat is absolutely disgusting by the time he’s dried the dog off a good amount, allowing Jonah to get a better look at the thing.

 He surmises it might be the matted fur and mud streaks, but the dog doesn’t look like any he’s ever seen before; he’d called it a mongrel before, but now, he’s not sure if that even applies; instead of a mix of two pedigrees, the thing is more a mildly horrifying jumble of features from  every  breed: the stockiness of a Great Dane covered by the loose skin of a Neapolitan, which, in turn, is covered by the thick fur of a Saint Bernard, the drooping ears of a bloodhound somehow cut into the points of a Paisley, and though he’s not a full devotee of the Eye yet, Jonah’s been getting better at sensing the presence of other Entities, and…

 This dog reeks of Viscera, of the Flesh.

 (Well, it reeks in general, but one might not know that given how adoringly Barnabas is cooing at it).

 Jonah takes a step closer, and the dog bares its teeth; its warning growl is low, bone-rattling; it thrums through his small frame and makes his teeth ache. 

 “Now, Kibble,” Barnabas scolds, though there’s no disdain in his voice, “we don’t rumble at our friends.”

Jonah takes another step. The dog--Kibble, apparently--rumbles again, angrier, more protective.

 “Kibble, really…” 

 “Barnabas,” Jonah cuts off the other man’s sentence at the knees. “Would you mind...keeping an eye on that thing? I...have a bit of reading to do that I meant to get to earlier, before you. Well.”

“Yes, of course.” As Jonah starts off to his study, Barnabas asks: “Would you mind if I bathed him here? He’s...well. Quite filthy.”

“Yes,” Jonah says, “just don’t use my bathroom. Use the ground floor bath.”

 --

After scrubbing his face for an extended amount of time (even after several washes, he can still feel the mud caking his cheeks), Jonah has secluded himself in a small nook in his study, thumbing through A Treatise On The Powers And Their Domains, Smirke’s most recent compendium on the occult. Despite being less than a month old, the tome looks rather worse for wear; Jonah has never been the most tidy of men, and, in addition to dog-earing pages and scribbling in their margins, he’s got an awful habit of leaving books in the worst places: face down on a desk, face down on the floor, face down...anywhere, really. 

 When he finally finds the section regarding the Flesh, he rereads it a fair few times. He’s recalled that the Flesh most often manifests itself in animals, but, being the “youngest” of the Fears, is scarcely documented, and, as such, the book is of only superficial assistance.

 With a loud huff, he shuts the book, and tosses it somewhere, making a note to write to Smirke about this in the near future as he rubs his temples...and promptly discovers a dried patch of mud he’s missed.

 When he tells an elated Barnabas that yes, they can keep the dog in his estate, he prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that this whole ordeal will be worth it.