Campfire Chronicles

Storys form me for you, at my little virtual campfire.

[campfire-chronicles]

My little campfire to share storys

Take a seat, share the warmth, and treat the people here with care. Different views are okay; unkindness is not.

You can find a currated SFW version of this blog here and an overview on the Masterlist.

Pretty much everthing else lives my personal blog Hexenratte.

I don’t fulfill requests. You’re welcome to send ideas.

If you want to know what I enjoy reading, check my recommendations blog.

Treat others the way you want to be treated. When in doubt, be kind.

Main rule: As long as all parties are consenting adults, they can do whatever they want—in my head and my stories.

I will not write:

non-consensual or dubiously consensual content

sexual interactions involving minors

RPF (real person fiction)

Works containing mature content (including sexual content and/or violence) are set as Mature Content using Tumblr’s post settings.

They are only visible after an explicit opt-in (18+).

Consent matters to me — not only within stories, but in what readers are shown. I will not knowingly expose people to content they did not choose to see.

Standalone works. No series commitment required.

Currently:

No resolutions on New Year's Eve - Matt Casey x fem!reader

No Way in Hell - John Shen x Jesse Van Horn x fem!succubus!reader

Stoking the Fire - One-shot fic action

Of Serpents, Magic and Wings - Good Omens - ongoing (9 entries)

Between Always & Never - The Pitt Jack Abbot - ongoing (7 Chapters)

Spot on - Chicago PD AU — Series (7 Chapters)

Sleepy Eye - Supernatural - case fic Mini-Series complet (5 Chapters)

In this case Works of Art like moodboards and headers. I will create a Masterlist, when I have more to show.

The visual anchors used here were created specifically for this space. If you’re interested in something similar, you can ask.

If you want to know what I love reading, this lives on a separate recommendations blog.

This space is for sharing, not promotion pressure.

[campfire-chronicles]

Reclaiming and Restoration

In front of A-Z Fell and Co. the Bentley’s engine comes to life with a low rumble. It rolls six feet into the midday sunshine— then suddenly stops, tires kissing the curb. The door swings open before the engine has fully quieted. Crowley crosses to the bookshop in three long strides, his coat snapping behind him. He reaches past Aziraphale’s shoulder to tear the note from the door’s glass panel, leaving a small curl of tape still stuck to the corner.

“The devil’s work?” He scans the page once, jaw tightening. “Right. If Jack and his little followers want to play at hell, I can educate them.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pushes him back a step. “It’s just a note. From people with rather severe grammatical deficiencies.”

“Grammar isn’t the only thing they’re deficient in,” the witch mutters.

“There is still no justification for unleashing hell on unsuspecting commoners,” Aziraphale insists while unlocking the door.

Crowley snorts. “I’m not unleashing anything. I’m not planning on raining hell on anyone. We worked hard enough to avoid that disaster. I’m just giving the scum fair warning.”

That earns him a deeply unimpressed look. Aziraphale opens the door and promptly drags him inside by the arm.

The witch follows with a small shake of the head.

Aziraphale closes the door with a thud and turns the lock. The witch watches Crowley from across the room. “What did you mean by the two of you working hard enough to avoid hell raining on people?”

He smirks, “Just a trip down memory lane. Nothing that concerns you.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about hell.”

“Comes with the territory.”

“What territory?”

“Mine.” He straightens his lapels. “Now I have to go and put the fear of hell into some cockroaches.”

“We were not done discussing your plans, Crowley.” Aziraphale steps squarely in front of the exit, hands clasped behind his back.

“Sure, we are old friend.” With a small wave, Crowley drops straight through the floorboards as though they were water closing over him. A second later the Bentley’s engine roars to life on the street outside.

Aziraphale stares at the bare patch of floor. “Pft. That impossible de...,” he stops midsentence.

“That impossible de-what? Devil? Demon? Deity?”

“Demanding man.” He smooths the front of his waistcoat. “Always so demanding.”

“Aziraphale! Don’t try to pull wool over my eyes. What exactly are the two of you? He just dropped into the damn floor!”

Aziraphale considers his reply for a moment. “We’re two beings that went down opposite lanes a very long time ago, my Dear. That’s all.”

“My ass that’s all. Where did he go?”

“I genuinely have no idea.”

“Sure,” and the witch heads to the stairs – lips a thin line.

Meanwhile Aziraphale unlocks the door and turns the sign to “open”.

In the old industrial district, small things change in the wake of a man clad in sunglasses and an all-black suit. The ugly neon graffiti is the first. The unreadable scribbles transform into London’s skyline. A big blowfish is swimming in the Thames between Westminster bridge and Big Ben. The title reading: King Jack’s Kingdom KJK.

Three teens stop beside the graffiti.

“Whoa, that’s cool.” One of them steps closer, tilting his head at the blowfish. “Jay, take a pic of me and King Jack.”

“Kay, but I want one too. Mick?”

“Bro, I’ll go get my paint.“ Mick is already backing away toward the alley, grinning. “This King needs a crown.”

The other two chuckle, hands in pockets.

“Constable is gonna get you. This looks pro. Though I’d know Westminster had humour.”

“Good one. They never come down here.”

“And the figureheads? – They just paid the bill.”

“Yeah. See you in five. I wanna add my five cents.”

In the narrow alley behind Joe’s garage, a phone buzzes against a stack of pallets before “We Will Rock You” kicks in.

‘Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise’

Jack snatches it up, “Hello?”

‘Playing in the street’

He tries again, “What the...Heelllooo?”

‘Gonna be a big man someday’

“Why is this fucking piece of shit...?” He’s jabbing at the screen with one finger, jaw tight. Then, smoothing his voice, “Oh, hello Sir. No, I was not talking to you. The phone had some issues.”

A voice on the other end replies laughing.

“What are you talking about? Cat videos? I don’t...” He holds the phone away from his ear and stares at it the way a man stares at something he’s considering throwing. Then he mutters, “Cat videos? A new ringtone? And suddenly disconnecting calls? Magic doesn’t work on tech.”

“Ugh, Jack?” A figure shifts at the far corner, half in shadow. “I kinda got some cats from you as well.”

“No, you did not. Because I do not send videos like that.”

A slow shrug, one shoulder. “Sure. Must’ve been a glitch then.”

The muscle in Jack’s jaw tightens. “Since when do you call me Jack?”

“Since ever?”

“No.” His voice drops. “You, and everyone who values their position with me, addresses me properly.”

“Properly meaning what, exactly?” “Sir. Or Boss. Sir or Boss, Joe.” A short exhale, almost a laugh. “Not sure the job’s that good.” And the figure steps back into the dark of the alley and is gone.

A road crew arrives, one of those city-contracted teams in reflective vests and steel-capped boots, their faces weathered and flat with boredom. They park a battered Transit van across the curb, orange hazard lights strobing, then set to work. Within minutes the men have cordoned the worst potholes with rubber cones. They start at the intersection, resetting cobbles one by one. Placing new ones where necessary.

A constable in a blue-and-yellow jacket emerges from a side street, hands folded behind his back. His walk is unhurried, boots striking the paving stones. He pauses at the curb, squinting up at the new graffiti on the garage. His eyes follow the skyline, the fish, the triple K initials. He takes a notebook from his pocket and writes something before moving on.

Two doors down, a door shudders open. A woman in her sixties leans out, apron already dusted with potting soil. She turns the handle of the shutter with quick jerks, then disappears inside the narrow gap. After a moment, she reappears with an orange planter box and a small trowel. She kneels, scooping dirt with short, expert movements, tucking clippings of evergreen into the box.

“Good day, Constable,” she says, not looking up.

“Good day, madam,” he replies.

“Good to see we’re finally having a Constable again.”

“Sorry madam. My colleague fell ill and his route wasn’t reassigned until now.”

A small figure in a red puffer coat sprints past the Constable and the kneeling woman, arms slicing the air. Two other children chase close behind, shrieks and laughter bouncing off the brickwork. The lead child ducks under a low-hanging branch, then slaps the trunk for balance. The pursuers nearly collide, then scramble and follow. The Constable’s head turns at the noise. The woman sets down her trowel and smiles. The smallest child, noticing the audience, slows abruptly and crows, “Not fair!” He doubles over, panting. The other two catch up and pile on him, their combined laughter rising into the air.

At the corner, the bakery owner emerges and sets out three metal tables. He arranges the chairs, then wipes the surfaces with practiced circles before retreating inside.

A few minutes later, two elders in flat caps settle onto one of the tables. One produces a battered travel chess set, the pieces already arranged. They nod to the Constable as he passes, then begin their game, quietly negotiating the opening. One of them clicks a stopwatch; neither seems in any hurry to win.

All afternoon, the two men play. They swap places at the board but not at the table. The one on the left always takes black; the one on the right, white. Occasionally, they wave at a passing pedestrian or accept a refill of coffee, but otherwise, they speak little.

The sun slips below the rooftops, casting jagged shadows across the pavement. The streetlights along the house façades blink into being, one after another, forming a chain of orange halos in the icy air. The third in line by Joe’s garage flares, dies, then erupts in a strobing cascade, drawing the attention of everyone on the street. Kids point and laugh. The chess players pause, glance up, then continue their silent duel.

A group of people in vests of the Salvation Army sets up shop in an empty storage space. A battered signboard is propped beside the entrance: “WARMING HOUSE 16:00 – 20:00” in black marker, the bottom edge curling in the cold wind.

A small, olive-skinned man in a navy pea coat wheels a cart of pastel macarons onto the sidewalk. He arranges them on trays, then dusts each row with icing sugar from a mesh shaker. He offers samples to the next batch of children, who pause their game to point at the colors. A minute later, a woman with salt-and-pepper hair arrives with a cooler and a folding table. She pours a steaming red punch into paper cups, arranging them in neat lines. The aroma drifts between the buildings, and soon her first customer—one of the road crew—exchanges a handful of coins for his drink.

Just before dusk, a street musician in a thick scarf sets up between the food stalls. He tunes his guitar, then launches into “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Two chess players glance at him, then to each other.

The one with the beard mutters, “This is starting to look like our neighbourhood again.”

His companion, still focused on the board, nods, “It’s like someone turned a switch and everything turned back the way it was.”

“Well, now it’s better. These cobblestones there have been missing for ages.”

The other laughs, “Fair enough.”

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous · → Next (coming June 16th around 7 pm CET)

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Comments and asks are welcome.

tags: @rayraywillis

[campfire-chronicles]

“What are you talking about? Cat videos? I don’t...” He holds the phone away from his ear and stares at it the way a man stares at something he’s considering throwing. Then he mutters, “Cat videos? A new ringtone? And suddenly disconnecting calls? Magic doesn’t work on tech.”

“Ugh, Jack?” A figure shifts at the far corner, half in shadow. “I kinda got some cats from you as well.”

“No, you did not. Because I do not send videos like that.”

[campfire-chronicles]

Reclaiming and Restoration

In front of A-Z Fell and Co. the Bentley’s engine comes to life with a low rumble. It rolls six feet into the midday sunshine— then suddenly stops, tires kissing the curb. The door swings open before the engine has fully quieted. Crowley crosses to the bookshop in three long strides, his coat snapping behind him. He reaches past Aziraphale’s shoulder to tear the note from the door’s glass panel, leaving a small curl of tape still stuck to the corner.

“The devil’s work?” He scans the page once, jaw tightening. “Right. If Jack and his little followers want to play at hell, I can educate them.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pushes him back a step. “It’s just a note. From people with rather severe grammatical deficiencies.”

“Grammar isn’t the only thing they’re deficient in,” the witch mutters.

“There is still no justification for unleashing hell on unsuspecting commoners,” Aziraphale insists while unlocking the door.

Crowley snorts. “I’m not unleashing anything. I’m not planning on raining hell on anyone. We worked hard enough to avoid that disaster. I’m just giving the scum fair warning.”

That earns him a deeply unimpressed look. Aziraphale opens the door and promptly drags him inside by the arm.

The witch follows with a small shake of the head.

Aziraphale closes the door with a thud and turns the lock. The witch watches Crowley from across the room. “What did you mean by the two of you working hard enough to avoid hell raining on people?”

He smirks, “Just a trip down memory lane. Nothing that concerns you.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about hell.”

“Comes with the territory.”

“What territory?”

“Mine.” He straightens his lapels. “Now I have to go and put the fear of hell into some cockroaches.”

“We were not done discussing your plans, Crowley.” Aziraphale steps squarely in front of the exit, hands clasped behind his back.

“Sure, we are old friend.” With a small wave, Crowley drops straight through the floorboards as though they were water closing over him. A second later the Bentley’s engine roars to life on the street outside.

Aziraphale stares at the bare patch of floor. “Pft. That impossible de...,” he stops midsentence.

“That impossible de-what? Devil? Demon? Deity?”

“Demanding man.” He smooths the front of his waistcoat. “Always so demanding.”

“Aziraphale! Don’t try to pull wool over my eyes. What exactly are the two of you? He just dropped into the damn floor!”

Aziraphale considers his reply for a moment. “We’re two beings that went down opposite lanes a very long time ago, my Dear. That’s all.”

“My ass that’s all. Where did he go?”

“I genuinely have no idea.”

“Sure,” and the witch heads to the stairs – lips a thin line.

Meanwhile Aziraphale unlocks the door and turns the sign to “open”.

In the old industrial district, small things change in the wake of a man clad in sunglasses and an all-black suit. The ugly neon graffiti is the first. The unreadable scribbles transform into London’s skyline. A big blowfish is swimming in the Thames between Westminster bridge and Big Ben. The title reading: King Jack’s Kingdom KJK.

Three teens stop beside the graffiti.

“Whoa, that’s cool.” One of them steps closer, tilting his head at the blowfish. “Jay, take a pic of me and King Jack.”

“Kay, but I want one too. Mick?”

“Bro, I’ll go get my paint.“ Mick is already backing away toward the alley, grinning. “This King needs a crown.”

The other two chuckle, hands in pockets.

“Constable is gonna get you. This looks pro. Though I’d know Westminster had humour.”

“Good one. They never come down here.”

“And the figureheads? – They just paid the bill.”

“Yeah. See you in five. I wanna add my five cents.”

In the narrow alley behind Joe’s garage, a phone buzzes against a stack of pallets before “We Will Rock You” kicks in.

‘Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise’

Jack snatches it up, “Hello?”

‘Playing in the street’

He tries again, “What the...Heelllooo?”

‘Gonna be a big man someday’

“Why is this fucking piece of shit...?” He’s jabbing at the screen with one finger, jaw tight. Then, smoothing his voice, “Oh, hello Sir. No, I was not talking to you. The phone had some issues.”

A voice on the other end replies laughing.

“What are you talking about? Cat videos? I don’t...” He holds the phone away from his ear and stares at it the way a man stares at something he’s considering throwing. Then he mutters, “Cat videos? A new ringtone? And suddenly disconnecting calls? Magic doesn’t work on tech.”

“Ugh, Jack?” A figure shifts at the far corner, half in shadow. “I kinda got some cats from you as well.”

“No, you did not. Because I do not send videos like that.”

A slow shrug, one shoulder. “Sure. Must’ve been a glitch then.”

The muscle in Jack’s jaw tightens. “Since when do you call me Jack?”

“Since ever?”

“No.” His voice drops. “You, and everyone who values their position with me, addresses me properly.”

“Properly meaning what, exactly?” “Sir. Or Boss. Sir or Boss, Joe.” A short exhale, almost a laugh. “Not sure the job’s that good.” And the figure steps back into the dark of the alley and is gone.

A road crew arrives, one of those city-contracted teams in reflective vests and steel-capped boots, their faces weathered and flat with boredom. They park a battered Transit van across the curb, orange hazard lights strobing, then set to work. Within minutes the men have cordoned the worst potholes with rubber cones. They start at the intersection, resetting cobbles one by one. Placing new ones where necessary.

A constable in a blue-and-yellow jacket emerges from a side street, hands folded behind his back. His walk is unhurried, boots striking the paving stones. He pauses at the curb, squinting up at the new graffiti on the garage. His eyes follow the skyline, the fish, the triple K initials. He takes a notebook from his pocket and writes something before moving on.

Two doors down, a door shudders open. A woman in her sixties leans out, apron already dusted with potting soil. She turns the handle of the shutter with quick jerks, then disappears inside the narrow gap. After a moment, she reappears with an orange planter box and a small trowel. She kneels, scooping dirt with short, expert movements, tucking clippings of evergreen into the box.

“Good day, Constable,” she says, not looking up.

“Good day, madam,” he replies.

“Good to see we’re finally having a Constable again.”

“Sorry madam. My colleague fell ill and his route wasn’t reassigned until now.”

A small figure in a red puffer coat sprints past the Constable and the kneeling woman, arms slicing the air. Two other children chase close behind, shrieks and laughter bouncing off the brickwork. The lead child ducks under a low-hanging branch, then slaps the trunk for balance. The pursuers nearly collide, then scramble and follow. The Constable’s head turns at the noise. The woman sets down her trowel and smiles. The smallest child, noticing the audience, slows abruptly and crows, “Not fair!” He doubles over, panting. The other two catch up and pile on him, their combined laughter rising into the air.

At the corner, the bakery owner emerges and sets out three metal tables. He arranges the chairs, then wipes the surfaces with practiced circles before retreating inside.

A few minutes later, two elders in flat caps settle onto one of the tables. One produces a battered travel chess set, the pieces already arranged. They nod to the Constable as he passes, then begin their game, quietly negotiating the opening. One of them clicks a stopwatch; neither seems in any hurry to win.

All afternoon, the two men play. They swap places at the board but not at the table. The one on the left always takes black; the one on the right, white. Occasionally, they wave at a passing pedestrian or accept a refill of coffee, but otherwise, they speak little.

The sun slips below the rooftops, casting jagged shadows across the pavement. The streetlights along the house façades blink into being, one after another, forming a chain of orange halos in the icy air. The third in line by Joe’s garage flares, dies, then erupts in a strobing cascade, drawing the attention of everyone on the street. Kids point and laugh. The chess players pause, glance up, then continue their silent duel.

A group of people in vests of the Salvation Army sets up shop in an empty storage space. A battered signboard is propped beside the entrance: “WARMING HOUSE 16:00 – 20:00” in black marker, the bottom edge curling in the cold wind.

A small, olive-skinned man in a navy pea coat wheels a cart of pastel macarons onto the sidewalk. He arranges them on trays, then dusts each row with icing sugar from a mesh shaker. He offers samples to the next batch of children, who pause their game to point at the colors. A minute later, a woman with salt-and-pepper hair arrives with a cooler and a folding table. She pours a steaming red punch into paper cups, arranging them in neat lines. The aroma drifts between the buildings, and soon her first customer—one of the road crew—exchanges a handful of coins for his drink.

Just before dusk, a street musician in a thick scarf sets up between the food stalls. He tunes his guitar, then launches into “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Two chess players glance at him, then to each other.

The one with the beard mutters, “This is starting to look like our neighbourhood again.”

His companion, still focused on the board, nods, “It’s like someone turned a switch and everything turned back the way it was.”

“Well, now it’s better. These cobblestones there have been missing for ages.”

The other laughs, “Fair enough.”

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous · → Next (coming June 16th around 7 pm CET)

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Comments and asks are welcome.

tags: @rayraywillis

[campfire-chronicles]

Priorities

Pairing / Character(s): Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader

What starts as a quiet day off turns into a reminder that some things don’t stay outside the front door.

warnings: racism, police procedural nonsense

So, that’s what you get for insisting on your side of the bed. You wake up half hanging over the edge of it. Your left leg already touching the floor. The cold wood floor. Thanks Jack. During the night he must have scooted over and pushed you to the side further and further.

Well, since half of your body is already cold, you pad downstairs to use the bathroom. Blinking against the onslaught of midday sunshine you check the clock in the hallway. It shows 11:30 am. Great! You consider your options and shuffle back upstairs. Getting back into bed on the side Jack has vacated. It takes a while until you’ve warmed up enough to fall asleep again.

Next, you wake to the smell of coffee. You blink, rub your face and find a coffee mug beside you on the nightstand. Turning to the other side you find Jack leaning against the headboard reading ‘I’ll teach you how to be rich’. Why would he read that? Your copy sits on your nightstand, but why would Jack...Your eyes search for the book, which isn’t where you left it.

“Jack, why are you reading my book?”

“It looked interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Partially.”

“Thanks for the coffee.” You lean over to take your water bottle from beside the bed. Only to remember Jack took over your side.

“Would you pass me the water, please?”

“Sure. Morning by the way.” He hands you the bottle.

“Morning,” you drink half the water down and notice Jack’s already wearing his prosthetic.

“Did I push you out of bed?”

“Yeah, do you tend to do that?” you’re more curious than angry. He could have warned you.

“No... Not...it’s been years since I’ve done that. Sorry,” his voice is quiet.

“Okay. So, workout before lunch?” You feel awake enough now to get through your HIT routine.

“Sounds good.”

After throwing on your workout clothes you head down to the basement, Jack in tow. The improvised home gym is an ice-box as there’s no heat down here. So, in winter you had motivation to actually move with minute breaks and during summer you get to enjoy the more moderate temperatures. The equipment is a mix made by opportunities. The newest piece being your rowing machine from the last Black Friday shopping at Dick’s Sporting Goods. And the oldest the weight bench your grandfather had dragged in with you after the old boxing club closed. Though the half dozen weights you snagged during the last update in the academy might be older.

“You need anything, Jack?”

“You’ve got a balance board around here by chance?”

“Well, I use the hardwood plank with the pole underneath.” You point to where the two pieces lean beside the self-made jump box.

He nods, “That works.”

After snatching two waters from the box in the corner and putting one beside Jack, you head over to your rowing machine and set the timer for your HIT training. Jack has located the jumping rope and put your thick gym mat in front of the impromptu balance board. You sync your phone with the speakers and start your training playlist.

During your eight minutes warm-up you keep an eye on Jack. He stands on the balance board with a tennis ball and throws it against the wall at varying angles. After a minute he lifts one leg, another minute and he switches to the other leg. He uses the board throughout his routine, with planks, squats, side-planks and side-steps.

In the 3-minute intervals you’re busy concentrating on your breathing and motions. During the minute intermissions, you watch Jack. And when he catches you doing it, he smirks at you. By the time you’re sweat soaked and in cool down, he has switched to stretches.

“Looked like the board worked.”

“Yeah, it was intriguing. The one I have at home is round. So, it behaves differently.”

“30 minutes on a balance board. Wow, you really put those core muscles to work.”

“I have to. Couldn’t do 12 hour-non-stop-shifts otherwise.”

“Ugh, I never thought about that. So, quick shower then lunch?”

“You know a good place around here?”

“Pitaland, it’s a 20-minute walk.”

Jack nods, “And this time I’m paying.”

40 minutes later you both walk through the door of Pitaland. The small Lebanese café and shop combination greets you with the smells of freshly baked pitas and garlic. Most of the seats are taken by dinner guests. Since it’s Saturday most of the customers are either families or couples.

Donna notices you and stops. She frowns and heads over to you. “Hi Morgan, we don’t have an order from you?”

You smile at her. “Evening Donna, no you don’t. We’d like to eat here.” You point your thumb at Jack behind you.

“Ah, of course. Just take your corner seat. You need menus?”

“One for Jack, please. And two Lemonades.”

She nods and turns to him, “Good evening and welcome to Pitaland, Jack.”

“Good evening, Donna. And thank you.”

Smiling she heads back behind the counter. You lead the way over to the small corner table besides the kitchen doors across from the entrance marked “reserved”. While you take the seat facing the room, Jack takes the stool beside you and slides it closer.

“You’re a regular here.”

“My entire life. My grandparents met here. We were here every Saturday for dinner until I graduated. And then depending on my shifts for breakfast instead.”

“Wow, how long has this place been around?”

“My parents opened their first shop over 50 years ago,” Donna volunteers and puts down the drinks before handing Jack a menu.

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to your food then.”

“Thank you, Donna.”

“You’re welcome.” And she’s on her way to the next guest.

“Any favourites?” Jack points to the menu.

“At least half of the dishes on there.”

He chuckles, “Not particularly helpful.”

“The Pies are really good. Though today I’m going with a Sandwich.”

“Hm.” It takes him five minutes and when he looks up to order, you wave at Joe through the kitchen window. Because Donna is busy at the register with takeout orders and evening shoppers. He pokes his head out of the kitchen, “What do you need, Morgan?”

“One large Gyro Sandwich and...” you look at Jack.

“The Grilled Halloumi Cheese and a Lamb Pie, please,” he adds.

“Ready in ten,” Joe replies and the kitchen door closes.

Jack shakes his head.

“What?”

“Nothing really. You’re just so....at home here.”

A customer’s loud and angry voice from the counter catches your attention and you push your chair back, making eye contact with Donna. Her expression is one of strained patience and her next words are pitched, so you can understand her over the clatter coming from the kitchen, “Sir, this is exactly what you ordered. I’m sorry if that’s not what you expected. We can make you something else but that will take about 15 minutes. Or you can just leave.”

You get off your chair, walk over and position yourself three feet behind the stranger. Most of the other patrons are regulars and make room for you quietly.

“I’m not eating flatbread! I’m not a damn Arab!” the man spits back.

“Well, Sir whatever you are, you are leaving now,” you inform the guy.

As he pivots to you, you step between him and the register, pointing to the door with your open hand.

He gasps.

“The other guests would like to enjoy THEIR food in peace and the customers behind you would like to get served. So, leave, NOW,” you nod towards the door and take a step into his space.

His mouth opens and closes. His face is beet red. Then he huffs and storms out. You return to your table, where Jack’s still sitting.

“Some people,” Jack huffs.

“...don’t know what they’re getting themselves into.” you add.

“True. He did not see that coming.”

“How’s the Lemonade?”

“You already know it’s good.”

“It’s freshly squeezed so of course it is,” you tease him.

His stomach grumbles and you check your watch.

With a – “Time to feed you.” – You head to the kitchen doors and open one side.

“Joe? You ready?”

That gains you an offended look and two plates stuffed into your hands. It’s Jack’s order. After delivering it you return for your own. Most of the food gets demolished before the two of you slow down to genuinely savor the taste. In your case: fresh bread, tomatoes, gyros and feta cheese. Jack leans back and pushes his empty plate away.

“Ready for dessert?”

“Dessert? You’re eating me out of house and home.”

Your laughter rings out over the background noise of people talking, the clutter of plates and cutlery and the soft background music.

“Well Jack, I’m sure you can work our bill off cleaning dishes for Joe in the kitchen.”

“I’d rather take the Date Cookies, thanks.”

“Coming up.”

You collect Jack’s Cookies and Baklava with Walnuts for yourself from Donna and ask her for the total.

“Who’s paying?”

“Jack. And he’s already cracking jokes about me ruining him with my appetite.”

“I’d hate to disappoint him. Tell him it’s 50 dollars.”

“Will do.”

Jack blinks as you tell him.

“Okay. The menu did say prices varied for dessert,” he states and puts a 50- and a 10-dollar bill on the table.

“Jack! You know that was a joke from Donna, right?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “The food was worth it.”

Back home you shrug off your jackets and shoes again. Jack stops for a moment when he registers the now empty hooks. And you take the opportunity to inform him, “For future reference the actual total was about 35 dollars.”

“Was that your idea?”

“Maybe.”

“So, you’re selling me out now?”

“Hey! You said I was expensive,” you protest – smirking.

“Well, I won’t repeat that then.”

“Great. And can we also agree you won’t step into a fight I’m having, again?” Only after you said that, do you realise what you said.

“No.”

“Jack! I’m a trained AND armed police officer. Have been for over a decade.” You remind him, because there’s no backing down now.

“I know. And I know shit can happen to the best trained and most experienced,” he stresses.

“I need you to let me do my job,” you plead.

“I’m not keeping you from doing it. But I won’t stand by when you’re in trouble right in front of me.” That sounds final.

You shake your head. At a loss for words for once, as the doorbell rings.

Both your heads whip around. You zoom in on the tablet a few steps away from the door, showing the camera footage. It’s Mr. Peter with a parcel under his arm. So, step around Jack and open the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Peter.”

“Good evening, Morgan. This was dropped off for you.”

“Thank you and have a good weekend.”

“You too,” he waves goodbye and returns to his house across the street.

Looking down at the package you check the return address. You don’t remember ordering anything. There’s none and it was sent via USPS. That doesn’t bode well. The good thing is – it is light – probably around two pounds. Bombs tend to be heavier. You carry it into the kitchen and carefully slice it open. As you peel the box sides open, you’re not looking at a bomb. You’d almost prefer one. Because neatly folded, with crisp creases and neatly packed in paper – sits a brand-new uniform shirt. Complete with police patches and your nametag. On top lies a handwritten card: “Sorry, about your shirt. Nothing personal.”

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous → Next (coming 4th of June)

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

tag list (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @amacphet

[campfire-chronicles]

Jack! The man throws you out of bed, brings you coffee, uses your improvised gym as it were his own, pays a ridiculous restaurant check and then refuses to stand back from YOUR battles...

[campfire-chronicles]

7.5 · First Thing

“Adler!” the command echoes in the small office. But no one answers.

“Adler, where are you?” comes out just as loud, but again no reaction.

Captain Mason rounds the desk and hammers against the door to the lab. Three seconds later, Micki wrenchesthe door open, mumbling, “Why can’t you idiots handle an intercom?” And nearly walking head first into the Captain, who takes a step back.

“Adler.”

Micki’s head jerks up. He rubs his eyes.

“Captain Mason? What are you doing down here?”

“I’m here to collect the evidence from yesterday’s raid,” there’s some strained patience in the Captain’s voice.

“In person? First thing in the morning?” Shaking his head, Mick follows him into the office. Going over to the overstuffed shelves, he pulls a black container down and puts it on the desk.

“Well, Captain that’s it. Every single useless phone from the raid.”

The Captain takes the forms from the front pocket of the container. “Useless?”

“Wiped. All of them. Because not a soul transported them properly.”

Snorting the Brass signs the forms in two places, handing them to Micki with a, “Sorry to hear it. Send a mail about proper handling to everyone in the department. For next time.”

While the Captain counts the phones, Micki signs the forms as well.

Captain Mason asks him, “So, that’s everything from the raid?”

Mick nods, “Everything tech-wise they confiscated on scene.”

“Hm. Thanks,” the Brass nods and leaves.

masterlist

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Comments and asks are welcome.

[campfire-chronicles]

Captain Mason collects every piece of evidence from the raid.

Or so he thinks.

The thing is, Micki hands him everything collected at the scene.

And there's a difference.

[campfire-chronicles]

7.5 · First Thing

“Adler!” the command echoes in the small office. But no one answers.

“Adler, where are you?” comes out just as loud, but again no reaction.

Captain Mason rounds the desk and hammers against the door to the lab. Three seconds later, Micki wrenchesthe door open, mumbling, “Why can’t you idiots handle an intercom?” And nearly walking head first into the Captain, who takes a step back.

“Adler.”

Micki’s head jerks up. He rubs his eyes.

“Captain Mason? What are you doing down here?”

“I’m here to collect the evidence from yesterday’s raid,” there’s some strained patience in the Captain’s voice.

“In person? First thing in the morning?” Shaking his head, Mick follows him into the office. Going over to the overstuffed shelves, he pulls a black container down and puts it on the desk.

“Well, Captain that’s it. Every single useless phone from the raid.”

The Captain takes the forms from the front pocket of the container. “Useless?”

“Wiped. All of them. Because not a soul transported them properly.”

Snorting the Brass signs the forms in two places, handing them to Micki with a, “Sorry to hear it. Send a mail about proper handling to everyone in the department. For next time.”

While the Captain counts the phones, Micki signs the forms as well.

Captain Mason asks him, “So, that’s everything from the raid?”

Mick nods, “Everything tech-wise they confiscated on scene.”

“Hm. Thanks,” the Brass nods and leaves.

masterlist

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Comments and asks are welcome.

[campfire-chronicles]

Warmanjuary – Day 21: Cold Calling

Fandom: Good Omens

Pairing / Character(s): Crowley, original female character

Reader: no reader insert

Rating: General

Tone: Humor / Workplace Satire

➤ Part of the Warmanjuary January fic action

➤ Theme: Stoking the fire (warming up January)

➤ Full masterlist

Warnings: deceptive corporate practices, workplace stress (satirical)

The scene could be mistaken for a beehive at first sight. The constant humming of soft voices underlaid by the clacking of keyboards filled the air. Seemingly everybody worked, at their stations, headsets on their heads and fingers on the keyboards, half smiles on their lips. A logo on the wall stated *Vive Securitas Inc.* in white on a green backdrop under a tree. Cold overhead lights added their shine to that of the winter light flooding through the windows along one wall.

A young woman rubbed her neck, took a breath and sat up. She puts her headset back on and wakes up her screen. A login screen appeared: Username - Sabrina8H, Password -. After the login the menu appeared; the mouse button went to NEXT CALL. Ringing came through the headset.

“Smile, just smile, they can hear that,” Sabrina mumbles to herself.

“Yes?”

Lines of text appeared on her screen under the caption INTRODUCTION.

“Good day, Sir. This is Vive Securitas Inc. My name is Susann. Am I speaking to Mr. Crowley?”

“Why would you need to know that?”

“Because we have an offer for Mr. Crowley personally.”

“And what are you offering him?”

“That I can only discuss with Mr. Crowley, Sir.”

“Hm, well that’s me.”

“Good, thank you Sir.”

She takes a breath and clicks PRESENTATION on her screen.

“I am calling you today to provide security for your family, Sir. Unfortunate events occur every day to hundreds of people. Many of them leave their loved ones with nothing. And that’s where Vive Securitas steps in.”

“So, you’re an insurance company?”

“We provide a number of services. Insurance policies are one of them. We have a long-standing history of clients satisfied by the safety we offer them and their relatives.”

“What do you insure your clients against?”

“Any of the common threats to their standard of living really—Accidents, disability and of course death. When you can no longer provide for your family, Mr. Crowley—we will!”

“Uh, I’m not sure any of those scenarios apply to me, Miss.”

“You don’t have anyone dear to you?”

There’s a pause.

“Well, I do...I think.”

She opened the next tab on her screen BACKGROUND.

“See, everybody has somebody they don’t want to leave hanging. If you don’t mind me asking: How old are you, Sir?”

“Older than you.”

“That’s a little unspecific. Could you give me your year of birth?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Uh, how about your approximate age?”

“I’m legal.”

Susann blinked and locked down on her keyboard before she tilted her head towards the ceiling.

“Well, that’s helpful, Mr. Crowley. Do you have any known health issues?”

“No.”

“Nothing, not even an allergy?”

“That’s correct.”

“Uh, how remarkable. Are you engaging in dangerous hobbies?”

“Dangerous hobbies...Can you give an example?”

“Sure, sky diving, racing other extreme sports?”

“Does fighting Armageddon count?”

“Pff, unless it’s some kind of enactment or stage play with professional stunts, no.”

“Well, then that’s a No.”

“What’s your profession, Mr. Crowley?”

“I serve the Lord of all evil.”

Tap—a red light signalled the call had been muted. Susann started to fake cough into her elbow. While she unmuted the call, she dapped at her eyes with a tissue.

“I can absolutely relate to the feeling, Sir. What’s the corporation’s name behind your boss?”

“Hell.”

“Hell? As in Hell and Sons, Hell Inc., Hell’s SE or SA?”

“No, just plain old hell.”

“Sir, I’m not sure I’m following.”

“You never heard of hell?”

“Not as a corporation. I am sorry Sir. What’s the company’s address?”

“25 Canada Square, London E14 5LQ”

“Good. I will lock this up later, to verify. And you work there under what job title”

“Jack-of-all-trades, I suppose.”

“Are you sure that is the job title on your employment contract?”

“I don’t have an employment contract. I’m more of a freelancer.”

Tap, she muted the call again and took a drink from her water bottle.

Her supervisor came over to her, “Everything all right Sabrina?”

“I think this maybe a hoax call. The answers I’m getting seem strange. Especially when I combine them,” she points at the screen.

He followed the entries with his finger, then shook his head, “That guy can’t be serious! Transfer him to me.”

He put on a headset and started to walk back to his office.

“Hello, Mr. Crowley. This is Thomas Marshall speaking. Please forgive the abrupt transfer, but we need to clarify a few things.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Well, your answers are...unbelievable.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate. I can assure you, they’re all true.”

“Are you a journalist or influencer?”

“No.”

“Mr. Crowley, I highly doubt that your answers are true at all. We understand our calls are perceived as a nuisance by many people. But we are all just trying to do our jobs. There is no reason to waste your Agents time and energy with hoaxes.”

“Well then you and your Agents shouldn’t waste other people’s time and energy by your cold calls, Mr. Marshall.”

Marshall ended the call. He uttered, “Damn it all! I hate these hoax-callers, may they all go to hell. At least it wasn’t a journalist this time.”

Credit:

Line dividers by @cursed-carmine

➤ Previous: Day 20 ☕ Game Night

➤ Next: Day 22 ☕🔍Quiet Danger

[campfire-chronicles]

“What’s your profession, Mr. Crowley?”

“I serve the Lord of all evil.”

Tap—a red light signalled the call had been muted. Susann started to fake cough into her elbow. While she unmuted the call, she dapped at her eyes with a tissue.

“I can absolutely relate to the feeling, Sir.”

[campfire-chronicles]

Good People and the Devil's Work

“By Hecate, what is going on here?” you stare in disbelief at the shops front door that just closed behind the creepy stranger. The odour of lilies he left behind lingers in the air.

“Jack’s version of a war declaration I believe.” Crowley shrugs his shoulders, sounding nonchalant.

“That is...,” Aziraphale’s hands go to his throat reaching for a bow tie, that’s not there. “Entirely possible. But I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion just yet. If it is indeed that would be...very unfortunate.”

“For him,” Crowley adds, rubbing his hands in glee.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into my mess. I’ll leave.” You turn towards the stairs.

Aziraphale, who has locked the door with his right hand, while making a small motion with his other, interrupts, “My Dear, I offered you shelter. It is Mr. Donovan’s business methods that are the issue here, not you.”

“But I led him here,” you protest.

“And you leaving will not change him having taken offence at our interference.” His eyes are pleading you to see his point.

You shake your head, “I can’t stay. If I leave, Jack will concentrate on me, again.”

“Or he may very well not. He’s a proud man and we affronted him. My bookshop is a safe space.”

Huffing you count off this morning’s events, “He sent his goon in here, the energy is all messed up and what is this?” You point to the parcel near the backdoor.

“This is another one of Jack’s little intimidation tactics,” Crowley answers and promptly goes over and picks it up.

With Aziraphale momentarily distracted you head up the spiral staircase.

Upstairs, you push open the door to the guest room and stand there a moment. The room feels half a degree off-kilter, each sound and smell faintly wrong. The bed is a heap of tangled sheets, discarded clothes on the floor and the desk is a disaster of scribbled notes, herb bags, plates and empty mugs. A sticky ring stains the wood where you left last night’s herbal tea.

You kneel and place the backpack on the bed. Starting by folding shirts with mechanical precision, stacking clean ones to the left, dirty to the right. Since bending down is difficult with Henry’s body wrapped around you, you take hold of him to set him down. His length shifts against your ribs, tightening slightly.

You look down at him, “Seriously? You can’t be that hungry!”

He hisses back.

“Ugh! You just had two mice literally yesterday. That’s enough food for three days. At least.”

Henry tremors.

“You’re impossible today! Fine. I’ll get you a nice rat on the way home.”

Now, the damn snake retracts his head.

“I don’t care what Crowley promised you! We’re leaving!”

There’s a loud knock from the open door.

“I promised Henry I’d take care of his food. Since Aziraphale extended sanctuary to the mice living in here,” Crowley states. He’s already holding out an arm to take Henry. And Henry is winding his way over to him extending his body half way across the space between you. Traitor.

“Where on earth did you get a mouse for him on such short notice?”

“Actually, I have a fish for him, like I promised,” he manages to make that sound like a perfectly normal thing. Just having a fish handy for feeding your serpent.

“What are you? A hobby miracle worker?” You can feel your eyebrows stopping just short of your hairline.

And Crowley? Gives you a half smile and a, “On occasion.” Before taking over Henry and disappearing back down with him.

You sling the door shut with a vengeance and, instead of packing, grab a pillow from the bed. You sink down onto it cross-legged. The urge to scream into it is strong, but you swallow it down. All your nerves are jangled strings—Henry’s nonsense, Aziraphale’s gentle insistence, Crowley’s snide competence, the stranger’s probing.

You close your eyes. Breathe in. Hold. Out. Hold. You count: four, four, four, four. After five minutes, your heartbeat has slowed, your shoulders dropped. You do not feel proud, only washed out and slightly ashamed. The memory of Aziraphale, face pale and hands fluttering to his throat for a bow tie that wasn’t there, stings you worse than the threat itself. Time to face the music.

The quiet voice of Aziraphale drifts up the stairs carried by a weak breeze smelling of sea salt, rain and sunshine. There’s magic in it, but a type you’ve never encountered before. The atmosphere shifts, the shop vibrates as if hit by a small earthquake and then the bookshop suddenly feels right again.

When you hit the last step, Aziraphale turns to you. He’s properly dressed again, complete with his bow tie and jacket. In fact, he looks ready for a royal visit, absolutely immaculate.

“Ugh, Mr. Fell?”

“It’s still Aziraphale, my Dear.”

“Aziraphale, I’m so sorry. About this morning. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“Oh, thank you for the apology. It’s quite alright. This morning none of us were at your best.”

“I have to go home though.”

“You are still more than welcome to stay. I would worry about you out there alone.”

“But I have to check on the cottage and one of my clients may need me.”

“Then we’ll drive by and check it out.”

Crowley’s voice behind you makes you jump. You didn’t hear the back door open or close.

You nod, “Let’s see what we find and go from there.”

You don’t even remember grabbing your battered duffel or stuffing your arms into your coat, but the next thing you know, you’re on the Soho sidewalk. Aziraphale opens the backdoor for you and after you’ve climbed in Crowley hands you Henry from the driver seat. The passenger door closes and the Bentley rumbles to life.

Only to stop a few minutes later beside a bakery window in a side street. There are no parking spaces, so the car just sits in the middle of the road. Crowley jumps out without any explanation. And the cars behind you are starting to honk. In answer the Bentley plays “Don’t Stop Me Now” on full blast. While causing a minor traffic jam in the morning rush hour. You bury your face in your hands and Aziraphale fidgets in his seat.

It takes Crowley several antagonising minutes to return with hot bacon rolls and coffee for everyone. He hands them over, with the words, “Keep the seats clean, will you.”

“Crowley, was this necessary?”

“Humans get grumpy when you don’t feed them. And your witch hasn’t had breakfast yet.”

Aziraphale huffs and bites daintily into his bacon roll. The half an hour drive is spent silently eating and sipping coffee to a number of Queens songs.

At your home the snow on the ground is melted and has left dirty puddles on the ground. On the roof, the rail beams and the Ivy there’s still snow, now joined by small icicles. The image of the two-story cottage is unchanged. The windows boarded up, the paint peeling and the Ivy slowly swallowing the whole structure.

When you make your way over to the house your footprints are the only ones in the mud. You reach for the wards you left behind. There’s a faint echo of foreign energy that touched them. But they don’t seem to have been affected.

Scanning the grounds for any notes or others signs of disturbance you see that the flag on your post-box is down. So, no mail or messages from clients. You touch a hand to the door and find nothing out of order. Everything is as it should be. Opening the door, you step inside followed by Aziraphale and Crowley.

“I’ll grab a few more things,” you announce over your shoulder, heading to your bedroom.

After stuffing fresh clothes for three more days into a large shopping bag, you head into your workroom. There you find Crowley watering your plants. Watering your plants very carefully with a spray can. You don’t own a spray can. Not knowing what to say, you settle on, “Uhg, Crowley? Thanks for watering them.”

He nods and leaves the room.

You stock up on basic spell supplies and a few rarer ones – just in case. By the time you’ve stored everything securely and make it back to the living area you find Aziraphale absent and Crowley just setting down the spray can.

“Where’s Aziraphale?”

“He’s waiting in the car. Let’s go.”

The drive back through the London traffic is uneventful. Until the Bentley rolls up to the bookshop. At midmorning the streets of Soho are busy, as usual. But there is tension in the air. Heads turn towards the Bentley, people whisper and while the sidewalk across the shop is packed, the side on which the shop itself sits, is devoid of foot traffic. The lone old beggar on the side of the building is the only person in the direct vicinity. At least the figure looks like a beggar at a glance. There’s no sign, hat or bowl in sight though. And you’ve never seen vagrant here before.

As you extract yourself from the car you notice a second tramp across the street. This one is younger and while there’s a guitar case beside him, there’s neither a guitar to be seen nor is the case open so passersby could drop money into it. You shake off the feeling of unease, gather up your backpack and secure Henry around your middle. Turning and taking a step towards the shop you nearly collide with Aziraphale.

He’s stopped in front of the door, keys in the lock, hand on the doorhandle. You crane your head and balance on your toes to look over his shoulder. There’s a note taped to the middle of the bookshop’s door.

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous · → Next (coming 2nd of June around 7 pm CET)

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Comments and asks are welcome.

tags: @rayraywillis

[campfire-chronicles]

[hexenratte]

Almost There

I can see the finish line. 🐍✨

The last two chapters of this series are written. It’s strange how one little fic about an idealistic witch turned into a whole ten-chapter series.

This was the first series I ever found the courage to write. And every person who liked, commented on, or reblogged a chapter helped make the next one happen. A special thank you goes to the blogs who reblogged chapters — sometimes even more than one. 💛

Right now I have “ein lachendes und ein weinendes Auge” — part of me is happy I finished it, and part of me is sad we’re almost through. 🥹

Most of all, I hope my series ending will be more satisfying for you than the Good Omens finale. 😇😈

I’m still not entirely sure what comes next, so if there’s something you’d like to see from me next, let me know.

But first, you still get Chapter 9: “Reclaiming and Restoration” next week. 📖🕯️

[campfire-chronicles]

Where do we go from here?

So far every chapter in this series has explored something different on purpose 👀

🩺 Professional Performance → mutual support

🍕 Coming Down & Priorities → domestic fluff / off-duty intimacy

⚡ Heated Discussions & Break in Protocol → conflict & arguments

🚔 Hard to Swallow → case work / medical chaos

So now I’m curious:

What are you most looking forward to in the series?

Case work / investigations

Domestic fluff & off-duty time

Conflict & arguments

Mutual support / caretaking

Physical intimacy

Action & tactical situations

Other

Voting ended onMay 25

Feel free to elaborate in the tags, comments or DM’s 👀

I’m genuinely curious what people are looking forward to.

masterlist

[campfire-chronicles]

Results are in 👀

Thank you everyone who took part in the poll!

And while voting is over, comments and DMs are still very welcome.

The strongest contenders ended up being: 🏡 domestic fluff / off-duty time ⚡ conflict & arguments 🤝 mutual support / caretaking

Which honestly tracks very well for this series 😅

Thankfully our two professionals have the next 24 hours off together — and the end of Priorities just handed them even more material for conflict.

Also, the response to that chapter has me back at the drawing board for future plans again 👀

[campfire-chronicles]

Where do we go from here?

So far every chapter in this series has explored something different on purpose 👀

🩺 Professional Performance → mutual support

🍕 Coming Down & Priorities → domestic fluff / off-duty intimacy

⚡ Heated Discussions & Break in Protocol → conflict & arguments

🚔 Hard to Swallow → case work / medical chaos

So now I’m curious:

What are you most looking forward to in the series?

Case work / investigations

Domestic fluff & off-duty time

Conflict & arguments

Mutual support / caretaking

Physical intimacy

Action & tactical situations

Other

Voting ended onMay 25

Feel free to elaborate in the tags, comments or DM’s 👀

I’m genuinely curious what people are looking forward to.

masterlist

[campfire-chronicles]

Last chance to vote on the future chaos level of this series 👀

[campfire-chronicles]

Where do we go from here?

So far every chapter in this series has explored something different on purpose 👀

🩺 Professional Performance → mutual support

🍕 Coming Down & Priorities → domestic fluff / off-duty intimacy

⚡ Heated Discussions & Break in Protocol → conflict & arguments

🚔 Hard to Swallow → case work / medical chaos

So now I’m curious:

What are you most looking forward to in the series?

Case work / investigations

Domestic fluff & off-duty time

Conflict & arguments

Mutual support / caretaking

Physical intimacy

Action & tactical situations

Other

Voting ended onMay 25

Feel free to elaborate in the tags, comments or DM’s 👀

I’m genuinely curious what people are looking forward to.

masterlist

[campfire-chronicles]

Still curious where people want this series to go next 👀

The answers so far are honestly really interesting.

[campfire-chronicles]

Between Always & Never

Jack Abbot – Series Masterlist

You ask Dr. Abbot out on Valentines Day. Because even a No means at least you tried. And you promised yourself, you'd always try.

Start here: Chapter One - 🔥Expectations (MDNI)

📅 Posting Schedule

New chapters post every two weeks on Thursdays.

🏷️ Series Tag

All content related to this series will be tagged: #Between Always and Never

📚 Masterlist

Tone Guide: 🤍 fluff | 🌩️ emotional intensity | ☕ slice of life | 🖤 darker themes

Chapter One - 🔥🌩️Expectations

You ask Dr. Abbot out on Valentines Day. Because even a no means you tried. And you promised yourself you’d always try.

Chapter Two - ☕Professional Performance

One Valentines Day shift, a couple of newlyweds at PTMC and the sudden realisation: “This will never be us.”

Chapter Three - 🤍 Coming Down

Beer and pizza on the roof leads to an invitation you don’t turn down — and a night in Jack’s home.

Chapter Four - 🌩️🔥Heated Discussions

In the morning you tempt Jack into a different workout. Then the discussion turns serious fast.

Chapter Five - 🌩️ 🖤Break In Protocol

The raid doesn’t go as planned. And the consequences follow you all the way to PTMC — and Jack.

Chapter Six - ☕🌩️Hard To Swallow

Everybody is testing you today — and your new relationship is no exception. Because Jack has priorities.

Chapter Seven - 🤍☕ Priorities

What starts as a quiet day off turns into a reminder that some things don’t stay outside the front door.

Updates & Bonus Content

If you’d like to be tagged for new chapters, let me know and I’ll add you to the list.

Between updates, I’ll also be sharing:

Background intel

Deleted scens

Visual material and series graphics

Occasional polls and reader input posts

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

[campfire-chronicles]

Made a few updates to the masterlist because this series is getting long 👀

And since we’re heading into the next stretch of chapters, you also get a say in: “Where do we go from here?”

[campfire-chronicles]

Priorities

Pairing / Character(s): Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader

What starts as a quiet day off turns into a reminder that some things don’t stay outside the front door.

warnings: racism, police procedural nonsense

So, that’s what you get for insisting on your side of the bed. You wake up half hanging over the edge of it. Your left leg already touching the floor. The cold wood floor. Thanks Jack. During the night he must have scooted over and pushed you to the side further and further.

Well, since half of your body is already cold, you pad downstairs to use the bathroom. Blinking against the onslaught of midday sunshine you check the clock in the hallway. It shows 11:30 am. Great! You consider your options and shuffle back upstairs. Getting back into bed on the side Jack has vacated. It takes a while until you’ve warmed up enough to fall asleep again.

Next, you wake to the smell of coffee. You blink, rub your face and find a coffee mug beside you on the nightstand. Turning to the other side you find Jack leaning against the headboard reading ‘I’ll teach you how to be rich’. Why would he read that? Your copy sits on your nightstand, but why would Jack...Your eyes search for the book, which isn’t where you left it.

“Jack, why are you reading my book?”

“It looked interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Partially.”

“Thanks for the coffee.” You lean over to take your water bottle from beside the bed. Only to remember Jack took over your side.

“Would you pass me the water, please?”

“Sure. Morning by the way.” He hands you the bottle.

“Morning,” you drink half the water down and notice Jack’s already wearing his prosthetic.

“Did I push you out of bed?”

“Yeah, do you tend to do that?” you’re more curious than angry. He could have warned you.

“No... Not...it’s been years since I’ve done that. Sorry,” his voice is quiet.

“Okay. So, workout before lunch?” You feel awake enough now to get through your HIT routine.

“Sounds good.”

After throwing on your workout clothes you head down to the basement, Jack in tow. The improvised home gym is an ice-box as there’s no heat down here. So, in winter you had motivation to actually move with minute breaks and during summer you get to enjoy the more moderate temperatures. The equipment is a mix made by opportunities. The newest piece being your rowing machine from the last Black Friday shopping at Dick’s Sporting Goods. And the oldest the weight bench your grandfather had dragged in with you after the old boxing club closed. Though the half dozen weights you snagged during the last update in the academy might be older.

“You need anything, Jack?”

“You’ve got a balance board around here by chance?”

“Well, I use the hardwood plank with the pole underneath.” You point to where the two pieces lean beside the self-made jump box.

He nods, “That works.”

After snatching two waters from the box in the corner and putting one beside Jack, you head over to your rowing machine and set the timer for your HIT training. Jack has located the jumping rope and put your thick gym mat in front of the impromptu balance board. You sync your phone with the speakers and start your training playlist.

During your eight minutes warm-up you keep an eye on Jack. He stands on the balance board with a tennis ball and throws it against the wall at varying angles. After a minute he lifts one leg, another minute and he switches to the other leg. He uses the board throughout his routine, with planks, squats, side-planks and side-steps.

In the 3-minute intervals you’re busy concentrating on your breathing and motions. During the minute intermissions, you watch Jack. And when he catches you doing it, he smirks at you. By the time you’re sweat soaked and in cool down, he has switched to stretches.

“Looked like the board worked.”

“Yeah, it was intriguing. The one I have at home is round. So, it behaves differently.”

“30 minutes on a balance board. Wow, you really put those core muscles to work.”

“I have to. Couldn’t do 12 hour-non-stop-shifts otherwise.”

“Ugh, I never thought about that. So, quick shower then lunch?”

“You know a good place around here?”

“Pitaland, it’s a 20-minute walk.”

Jack nods, “And this time I’m paying.”

40 minutes later you both walk through the door of Pitaland. The small Lebanese café and shop combination greets you with the smells of freshly baked pitas and garlic. Most of the seats are taken by dinner guests. Since it’s Saturday most of the customers are either families or couples.

Donna notices you and stops. She frowns and heads over to you. “Hi Morgan, we don’t have an order from you?”

You smile at her. “Evening Donna, no you don’t. We’d like to eat here.” You point your thumb at Jack behind you.

“Ah, of course. Just take your corner seat. You need menus?”

“One for Jack, please. And two Lemonades.”

She nods and turns to him, “Good evening and welcome to Pitaland, Jack.”

“Good evening, Donna. And thank you.”

Smiling she heads back behind the counter. You lead the way over to the small corner table besides the kitchen doors across from the entrance marked “reserved”. While you take the seat facing the room, Jack takes the stool beside you and slides it closer.

“You’re a regular here.”

“My entire life. My grandparents met here. We were here every Saturday for dinner until I graduated. And then depending on my shifts for breakfast instead.”

“Wow, how long has this place been around?”

“My parents opened their first shop over 50 years ago,” Donna volunteers and puts down the drinks before handing Jack a menu.

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to your food then.”

“Thank you, Donna.”

“You’re welcome.” And she’s on her way to the next guest.

“Any favourites?” Jack points to the menu.

“At least half of the dishes on there.”

He chuckles, “Not particularly helpful.”

“The Pies are really good. Though today I’m going with a Sandwich.”

“Hm.” It takes him five minutes and when he looks up to order, you wave at Joe through the kitchen window. Because Donna is busy at the register with takeout orders and evening shoppers. He pokes his head out of the kitchen, “What do you need, Morgan?”

“One large Gyro Sandwich and...” you look at Jack.

“The Grilled Halloumi Cheese and a Lamb Pie, please,” he adds.

“Ready in ten,” Joe replies and the kitchen door closes.

Jack shakes his head.

“What?”

“Nothing really. You’re just so....at home here.”

A customer’s loud and angry voice from the counter catches your attention and you push your chair back, making eye contact with Donna. Her expression is one of strained patience and her next words are pitched, so you can understand her over the clatter coming from the kitchen, “Sir, this is exactly what you ordered. I’m sorry if that’s not what you expected. We can make you something else but that will take about 15 minutes. Or you can just leave.”

You get off your chair, walk over and position yourself three feet behind the stranger. Most of the other patrons are regulars and make room for you quietly.

“I’m not eating flatbread! I’m not a damn Arab!” the man spits back.

“Well, Sir whatever you are, you are leaving now,” you inform the guy.

As he pivots to you, you step between him and the register, pointing to the door with your open hand.

He gasps.

“The other guests would like to enjoy THEIR food in peace and the customers behind you would like to get served. So, leave, NOW,” you nod towards the door and take a step into his space.

His mouth opens and closes. His face is beet red. Then he huffs and storms out. You return to your table, where Jack’s still sitting.

“Some people,” Jack huffs.

“...don’t know what they’re getting themselves into.” you add.

“True. He did not see that coming.”

“How’s the Lemonade?”

“You already know it’s good.”

“It’s freshly squeezed so of course it is,” you tease him.

His stomach grumbles and you check your watch.

With a – “Time to feed you.” – You head to the kitchen doors and open one side.

“Joe? You ready?”

That gains you an offended look and two plates stuffed into your hands. It’s Jack’s order. After delivering it you return for your own. Most of the food gets demolished before the two of you slow down to genuinely savor the taste. In your case: fresh bread, tomatoes, gyros and feta cheese. Jack leans back and pushes his empty plate away.

“Ready for dessert?”

“Dessert? You’re eating me out of house and home.”

Your laughter rings out over the background noise of people talking, the clutter of plates and cutlery and the soft background music.

“Well Jack, I’m sure you can work our bill off cleaning dishes for Joe in the kitchen.”

“I’d rather take the Date Cookies, thanks.”

“Coming up.”

You collect Jack’s Cookies and Baklava with Walnuts for yourself from Donna and ask her for the total.

“Who’s paying?”

“Jack. And he’s already cracking jokes about me ruining him with my appetite.”

“I’d hate to disappoint him. Tell him it’s 50 dollars.”

“Will do.”

Jack blinks as you tell him.

“Okay. The menu did say prices varied for dessert,” he states and puts a 50- and a 10-dollar bill on the table.

“Jack! You know that was a joke from Donna, right?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “The food was worth it.”

Back home you shrug off your jackets and shoes again. Jack stops for a moment when he registers the now empty hooks. And you take the opportunity to inform him, “For future reference the actual total was about 35 dollars.”

“Was that your idea?”

“Maybe.”

“So, you’re selling me out now?”

“Hey! You said I was expensive,” you protest – smirking.

“Well, I won’t repeat that then.”

“Great. And can we also agree you won’t step into a fight I’m having, again?” Only after you said that, do you realise what you said.

“No.”

“Jack! I’m a trained AND armed police officer. Have been for over a decade.” You remind him, because there’s no backing down now.

“I know. And I know shit can happen to the best trained and most experienced,” he stresses.

“I need you to let me do my job,” you plead.

“I’m not keeping you from doing it. But I won’t stand by when you’re in trouble right in front of me.” That sounds final.

You shake your head. At a loss for words for once, as the doorbell rings.

Both your heads whip around. You zoom in on the tablet a few steps away from the door, showing the camera footage. It’s Mr. Peter with a parcel under his arm. So, step around Jack and open the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Peter.”

“Good evening, Morgan. This was dropped off for you.”

“Thank you and have a good weekend.”

“You too,” he waves goodbye and returns to his house across the street.

Looking down at the package you check the return address. You don’t remember ordering anything. There’s none and it was sent via USPS. That doesn’t bode well. The good thing is – it is light – probably around two pounds. Bombs tend to be heavier. You carry it into the kitchen and carefully slice it open. As you peel the box sides open, you’re not looking at a bomb. You’d almost prefer one. Because neatly folded, with crisp creases and neatly packed in paper – sits a brand-new uniform shirt. Complete with police patches and your nametag. On top lies a handwritten card: “Sorry, about your shirt. Nothing personal.”

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous → Next (coming 4th of June)

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

tag list (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @amacphet

[campfire-chronicles]

“Was that your idea?”

“Maybe.”

“So, you’re selling me out now?”

“Hey! You said I was expensive.”

[campfire-chronicles]

Where do we go from here?

So far every chapter in this series has explored something different on purpose 👀

🩺 Professional Performance → mutual support

🍕 Coming Down & Priorities → domestic fluff / off-duty intimacy

⚡ Heated Discussions & Break in Protocol → conflict & arguments

🚔 Hard to Swallow → case work / medical chaos

So now I’m curious:

What are you most looking forward to in the series?

Case work / investigations

Domestic fluff & off-duty time

Conflict & arguments

Mutual support / caretaking

Physical intimacy

Action & tactical situations

Other

Voting ended onMay 25

Feel free to elaborate in the tags, comments or DM’s 👀

I’m genuinely curious what people are looking forward to.

masterlist

[campfire-chronicles]

Priorities

Pairing / Character(s): Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader

What starts as a quiet day off turns into a reminder that some things don’t stay outside the front door.

warnings: racism, police procedural nonsense

So, that’s what you get for insisting on your side of the bed. You wake up half hanging over the edge of it. Your left leg already touching the floor. The cold wood floor. Thanks Jack. During the night he must have scooted over and pushed you to the side further and further.

Well, since half of your body is already cold, you pad downstairs to use the bathroom. Blinking against the onslaught of midday sunshine you check the clock in the hallway. It shows 11:30 am. Great! You consider your options and shuffle back upstairs. Getting back into bed on the side Jack has vacated. It takes a while until you’ve warmed up enough to fall asleep again.

Next, you wake to the smell of coffee. You blink, rub your face and find a coffee mug beside you on the nightstand. Turning to the other side you find Jack leaning against the headboard reading ‘I’ll teach you how to be rich’. Why would he read that? Your copy sits on your nightstand, but why would Jack...Your eyes search for the book, which isn’t where you left it.

“Jack, why are you reading my book?”

“It looked interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Partially.”

“Thanks for the coffee.” You lean over to take your water bottle from beside the bed. Only to remember Jack took over your side.

“Would you pass me the water, please?”

“Sure. Morning by the way.” He hands you the bottle.

“Morning,” you drink half the water down and notice Jack’s already wearing his prosthetic.

“Did I push you out of bed?”

“Yeah, do you tend to do that?” you’re more curious than angry. He could have warned you.

“No... Not...it’s been years since I’ve done that. Sorry,” his voice is quiet.

“Okay. So, workout before lunch?” You feel awake enough now to get through your HIT routine.

“Sounds good.”

After throwing on your workout clothes you head down to the basement, Jack in tow. The improvised home gym is an ice-box as there’s no heat down here. So, in winter you had motivation to actually move with minute breaks and during summer you get to enjoy the more moderate temperatures. The equipment is a mix made by opportunities. The newest piece being your rowing machine from the last Black Friday shopping at Dick’s Sporting Goods. And the oldest the weight bench your grandfather had dragged in with you after the old boxing club closed. Though the half dozen weights you snagged during the last update in the academy might be older.

“You need anything, Jack?”

“You’ve got a balance board around here by chance?”

“Well, I use the hardwood plank with the pole underneath.” You point to where the two pieces lean beside the self-made jump box.

He nods, “That works.”

After snatching two waters from the box in the corner and putting one beside Jack, you head over to your rowing machine and set the timer for your HIT training. Jack has located the jumping rope and put your thick gym mat in front of the impromptu balance board. You sync your phone with the speakers and start your training playlist.

During your eight minutes warm-up you keep an eye on Jack. He stands on the balance board with a tennis ball and throws it against the wall at varying angles. After a minute he lifts one leg, another minute and he switches to the other leg. He uses the board throughout his routine, with planks, squats, side-planks and side-steps.

In the 3-minute intervals you’re busy concentrating on your breathing and motions. During the minute intermissions, you watch Jack. And when he catches you doing it, he smirks at you. By the time you’re sweat soaked and in cool down, he has switched to stretches.

“Looked like the board worked.”

“Yeah, it was intriguing. The one I have at home is round. So, it behaves differently.”

“30 minutes on a balance board. Wow, you really put those core muscles to work.”

“I have to. Couldn’t do 12 hour-non-stop-shifts otherwise.”

“Ugh, I never thought about that. So, quick shower then lunch?”

“You know a good place around here?”

“Pitaland, it’s a 20-minute walk.”

Jack nods, “And this time I’m paying.”

40 minutes later you both walk through the door of Pitaland. The small Lebanese café and shop combination greets you with the smells of freshly baked pitas and garlic. Most of the seats are taken by dinner guests. Since it’s Saturday most of the customers are either families or couples.

Donna notices you and stops. She frowns and heads over to you. “Hi Morgan, we don’t have an order from you?”

You smile at her. “Evening Donna, no you don’t. We’d like to eat here.” You point your thumb at Jack behind you.

“Ah, of course. Just take your corner seat. You need menus?”

“One for Jack, please. And two Lemonades.”

She nods and turns to him, “Good evening and welcome to Pitaland, Jack.”

“Good evening, Donna. And thank you.”

Smiling she heads back behind the counter. You lead the way over to the small corner table besides the kitchen doors across from the entrance marked “reserved”. While you take the seat facing the room, Jack takes the stool beside you and slides it closer.

“You’re a regular here.”

“My entire life. My grandparents met here. We were here every Saturday for dinner until I graduated. And then depending on my shifts for breakfast instead.”

“Wow, how long has this place been around?”

“My parents opened their first shop over 50 years ago,” Donna volunteers and puts down the drinks before handing Jack a menu.

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to your food then.”

“Thank you, Donna.”

“You’re welcome.” And she’s on her way to the next guest.

“Any favourites?” Jack points to the menu.

“At least half of the dishes on there.”

He chuckles, “Not particularly helpful.”

“The Pies are really good. Though today I’m going with a Sandwich.”

“Hm.” It takes him five minutes and when he looks up to order, you wave at Joe through the kitchen window. Because Donna is busy at the register with takeout orders and evening shoppers. He pokes his head out of the kitchen, “What do you need, Morgan?”

“One large Gyro Sandwich and...” you look at Jack.

“The Grilled Halloumi Cheese and a Lamb Pie, please,” he adds.

“Ready in ten,” Joe replies and the kitchen door closes.

Jack shakes his head.

“What?”

“Nothing really. You’re just so....at home here.”

A customer’s loud and angry voice from the counter catches your attention and you push your chair back, making eye contact with Donna. Her expression is one of strained patience and her next words are pitched, so you can understand her over the clatter coming from the kitchen, “Sir, this is exactly what you ordered. I’m sorry if that’s not what you expected. We can make you something else but that will take about 15 minutes. Or you can just leave.”

You get off your chair, walk over and position yourself three feet behind the stranger. Most of the other patrons are regulars and make room for you quietly.

“I’m not eating flatbread! I’m not a damn Arab!” the man spits back.

“Well, Sir whatever you are, you are leaving now,” you inform the guy.

As he pivots to you, you step between him and the register, pointing to the door with your open hand.

He gasps.

“The other guests would like to enjoy THEIR food in peace and the customers behind you would like to get served. So, leave, NOW,” you nod towards the door and take a step into his space.

His mouth opens and closes. His face is beet red. Then he huffs and storms out. You return to your table, where Jack’s still sitting.

“Some people,” Jack huffs.

“...don’t know what they’re getting themselves into.” you add.

“True. He did not see that coming.”

“How’s the Lemonade?”

“You already know it’s good.”

“It’s freshly squeezed so of course it is,” you tease him.

His stomach grumbles and you check your watch.

With a – “Time to feed you.” – You head to the kitchen doors and open one side.

“Joe? You ready?”

That gains you an offended look and two plates stuffed into your hands. It’s Jack’s order. After delivering it you return for your own. Most of the food gets demolished before the two of you slow down to genuinely savor the taste. In your case: fresh bread, tomatoes, gyros and feta cheese. Jack leans back and pushes his empty plate away.

“Ready for dessert?”

“Dessert? You’re eating me out of house and home.”

Your laughter rings out over the background noise of people talking, the clutter of plates and cutlery and the soft background music.

“Well Jack, I’m sure you can work our bill off cleaning dishes for Joe in the kitchen.”

“I’d rather take the Date Cookies, thanks.”

“Coming up.”

You collect Jack’s Cookies and Baklava with Walnuts for yourself from Donna and ask her for the total.

“Who’s paying?”

“Jack. And he’s already cracking jokes about me ruining him with my appetite.”

“I’d hate to disappoint him. Tell him it’s 50 dollars.”

“Will do.”

Jack blinks as you tell him.

“Okay. The menu did say prices varied for dessert,” he states and puts a 50- and a 10-dollar bill on the table.

“Jack! You know that was a joke from Donna, right?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “The food was worth it.”

Back home you shrug off your jackets and shoes again. Jack stops for a moment when he registers the now empty hooks. And you take the opportunity to inform him, “For future reference the actual total was about 35 dollars.”

“Was that your idea?”

“Maybe.”

“So, you’re selling me out now?”

“Hey! You said I was expensive,” you protest – smirking.

“Well, I won’t repeat that then.”

“Great. And can we also agree you won’t step into a fight I’m having, again?” Only after you said that, do you realise what you said.

“No.”

“Jack! I’m a trained AND armed police officer. Have been for over a decade.” You remind him, because there’s no backing down now.

“I know. And I know shit can happen to the best trained and most experienced,” he stresses.

“I need you to let me do my job,” you plead.

“I’m not keeping you from doing it. But I won’t stand by when you’re in trouble right in front of me.” That sounds final.

You shake your head. At a loss for words for once, as the doorbell rings.

Both your heads whip around. You zoom in on the tablet a few steps away from the door, showing the camera footage. It’s Mr. Peter with a parcel under his arm. So, step around Jack and open the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Peter.”

“Good evening, Morgan. This was dropped off for you.”

“Thank you and have a good weekend.”

“You too,” he waves goodbye and returns to his house across the street.

Looking down at the package you check the return address. You don’t remember ordering anything. There’s none and it was sent via USPS. That doesn’t bode well. The good thing is – it is light – probably around two pounds. Bombs tend to be heavier. You carry it into the kitchen and carefully slice it open. As you peel the box sides open, you’re not looking at a bomb. You’d almost prefer one. Because neatly folded, with crisp creases and neatly packed in paper – sits a brand-new uniform shirt. Complete with police patches and your nametag. On top lies a handwritten card: “Sorry, about your shirt. Nothing personal.”

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous → Next (coming 4th of June)

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

tag list (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @amacphet

[campfire-chronicles]

Priorities

5:15 am

Robby: Shen's out sick Jack: find someone Robby: you're not coming??? Jack: no Robby: what's wrong? Jack: busy Robby: since when??? You practicaly live in the ED! Jack: I don't Robby: your track record disagres Robby: do not tell me rumors about you and that cop are true Jack: I'm not Robby: ? Jack: go find someone to cover for Shen Robby: we're gonna talk about this Jack: roof tomorrow Robby: you bet

Series Masterlist

Next chapter — “Priorities” — goes live Thursday, May 21st.