#chapter excerpt

Pairing: Sergei Kravinoff x Reader | 1 of 3 My mains: Tumblr - Otaku-girl-ao3 | AO3 - Otaku_girl master list | Fics only blog - @otaku-girl-ao3-fics

Summary: Working as a prison nurse was never your goal in life, but helping inmates in one of the most remote penal colonies in Siberia has become something that you both enjoy and excel at. When you find yourself trapped with a new inmate during a riot, things don’t quite go according to plan. Inmate 0864 seems more than willing to help you, but will that help come with a steep price?

Warnings: Full list of warnings on AO3. Dark themes, dubious consent, protective-possessive Kraven.

Kraven the Hunter x Bullet Train | 50 chapters | 180k+ | Sergei x Reader x Tangerine | Explicit

ATJ character masterlist | Baby, I’m Preyin’ masterlist | AO3: Otaku_girl

Summary

Your quiet life in the woods was never as perfect as it seemed. When Sergei leaves on a hunt, promising to return with a surprise, someone from your past arrives instead — and nothing feels safe anymore. Tangerine has changed. Or maybe you have. Everything is unravelling. It’s time to ask: Was your life with Sergei ever truly idyllic?

Pairings: Sergei Kravenoff x Reader x Tangerine Fandoms: Kraven the Hunter (2024), Bullet Train (2022) Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: For the full list of warnings, please check out the fic on AO3. Explicit smut, dark, kidnapping, unhealthy relationships, no use of y/n, long fic (180k+) Fic status: Updated on Fridays and Mondays

Master list: Baby, I’m Preyin’ On You Tonight

Chapter one

It’s easy enough to spot the traps once you know what you are looking for. You don’t like to set them yourself, but you know that it is a good habit, one that you must maintain if you do not wish to forget the hard-earned skill. There’s nothing in the first dozen you check as you slowly circle the perimeter. The river is higher than it should be, but nowhere near the flooding you had seen during spring. You plan to make your way back later with the jumpers if nothing else. You can’t quite bring yourself to change the sheets, even though Sergei’s scent has long since faded from them. 

As you check on the last of the traps, you come across one that has been sprung, a bright splash of crimson across the carpet of leaves warning you before you see the metal teeth clenched tightly together. Whatever was caught is long since gone. Unease stirs in your chest, and you find yourself hesitating. Perhaps it would be best to shorten your route. You are still well within the bounds of where Sergei told you it is safe, where no predators should dare tread. You wonder if his continued absence is making them bolder.

Sergei will be back soon enough and then everything will be fine.

If you return to the dome on quicker feet than when you left, there is no one but you around to see or comment. The laundry can wait another day or two. It might be best to wait, you tell yourself, given how high the river looks. It wouldn’t do to get everything neatly washed and hung up to dry, only to be unable to leave it all outside in the elements. 

You snag your basket from beside the front door, gathering your morning’s humble little harvest to take back in with you. There is always something to do out here; even with nothing but birdsong for company, time feels too precious to waste.

Vegetables neatly washed, you flit about the kitchen as you prepare both lunch and dinner. A simple enough stew in a slow cooker that should be more than enough to last you for several days, should company not arrive unannounced. You spend just long enough to wipe the kitchen table clean before you return to eat your lunch standing over the kitchen counters, a book propped open, a warm patch of early afternoon sunlight streaming in just the right place to make you feel like a contented house cat. 

You clean as you go, tidying behind yourself as has become second nature. Why leave messes behind to gather in your wake? It feels too much like borrowing trouble — or like asking for things to go wrong. 

Time slips through your fingers. Once everything is neat and tidy, you allow yourself to curl up to enjoy a few hours with your latest book. You should shower, or look at preparing one of the unused flower beds ready for more winter crops. There’s always something to do, yet you find yourself feeling lethargic as the sun begins to lower in the sky. The faint sound of birdsong begins to set your teeth on edge; a constant, mocking reminder of Sergei’s absence. You wish that you could tune it out.

You wish he was home.

Flicking lazily through a recipe book — you still haven’t gotten around to trying even a fraction of the recipes yet, though you have dozens upon dozens of dog-eared pages just waiting for you to attempt — the first, resounding notes of a phone going off sound harsh and grating to your ears. It’s not a sound that you hear often out here. It’s enough to set off warning signs in the back of your head.

Sergei rarely uses the satellite phone. What if something happened? 

You approach Sergei’s desk with a level of care and caution. It’s one of the few parts of the dome you do not regularly clean and tidy. A thin layer of dust coats every surface. There isn’t a trace of paper on the otherwise immaculate dark wood. Sergei had been careful to clean and tidy everything away before he left on his latest hunt. 

The draw isn’t locked. None of them are. You slide the third drawer down open, plucking the satellite phone from within its depths. You are careful to keep it charged despite keeping it neatly out of sight. You never know when Sergei might need to get hold of you.

Slipping back outside, you click to answer the call, knowing it can be only one of two people. 

“Finally! I thought you weren’t going to answer.”

“Dmitri?”

A smile transforms your face, worry melting away as the familiar, melodic voice washes over you. You step further into the clearing, moving seamlessly between planting boxes as you go. You’re careful not to get too close to the line of trees surrounding, knowing that reception can be patchy at best. “How have you been?” 

Deft fingers tug at the neck of your borrowed jumper, pulling it up to cover your mouth as you listen to the familiar, rambling voice on the other end of the phone. When was the last time you spoke to him — a week ago, maybe two? It hasn’t been that long, not really, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Hearing another voice is more jarring than you expected. It’s easier to allow your side of the conversation to fall into questioning hums and little noises of agreement as Dmitri tells you all about what has been happening at The Den since last you spoke.

Inevitably, the conversation turns back towards Sergei. You bite your lip, fingers twisting in the soft fabric as you try to ground yourself. “No, no. He isn’t… here right now.” 

Knowing that Dmitri doesn’t know where Sergei is sends a fresh twinge of worry through you. It’s a good sign, you remind yourself. If he knew Sergei wasn’t here and he still called, this would be a very different kind of call. No news is good news. 

“Do you know if—oh… of course, of course.” You slowly turn in a circle, hand coming up to run through your hair. You tug on a stray strand, the dull throb of pain grounding you before you can begin to spiral. You should be better at this by now. 

“Your birthday? I’m really not sure…” Neat white teeth bite on your lower lip, worrying the flesh until it is tender. It’s sweet that Dmitri is inviting you, even if it is still months away. You glance towards the treeline, and a frown flickers across your brow, furrow settling between your eyes. Something feels off, though you can’t quite put your finger on it. 

It’s impossible to tune Dmitri out as he promises a night to remember. It’s worth the risk of the connection dropping, you decide, as you make your way back towards the dome. You don’t stop scanning the treeline, trying to figure out what it is that is setting your nerves on edge. There is no unexpected movement. Nothing seems out of place. There’s no sound of breaking branches or crunching leaves; just the usual rustling trees and low whoosh of wind. 

You close the door behind you, careful not to make a sound. There is no lock to reassure you, no key to turn. Anything — anyone — out here that could possibly find you wouldn’t be stopped by something as simple as a lock and key.  

“Ask Sergei about it when he next drops in. You know he wouldn’t miss it for your world.” You move towards the kitchen, gaze darting around glass walls, searching for any tiny clue that you can find. Your frown deepens. Maybe you are mistaken? It wouldn’t be the first time that your mind started playing tricks on you. Being alone out here is usually a calming experience, but even Sergei has his moments when the silence gets to be too much and he needs to hear another voice.

You rest a hand on one of the tall bar stools that line the counter, running your finger along the smooth, padded leather. Forcing your gaze away from the windows, you catch sight of a dark-framed photo of Sergei and Dmitri. It must have been taken at Dmitri’s last birthday. You recognise The Den in the background, the shy smile on Dmitir’s lips and the wide, proud smile on Sergei’s as he wraps his arm around his baby brother and holds him close. The two really look nothing alike at first glance. They have similar eyes, though, not in colour — Sergei’s are the brightest, most unsettling shade of blue that you have ever seen, while Dmitri’s are a gemstone green — but in kindness. There is a softness behind their eyes that they so rarely show anyone but each other; it would be easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it. 

“Are you still there? You haven’t been sleeping again, have you. You always have trouble when he’s away,” Dmitri’s voice snaps you back from your musings.

“Hm? No, no, I’m sleeping fine. I haven’t even needed to dip into those sleep gummies you sent back with Sergei — thank you again for those. It’s reassuring to know I’ve got them if I need them.” 

Soft fingertips meet the cold glass picture frame as you trace the line of Sergei’s jaw. You miss him. The low ache of loneliness seems almost sharper, more persistent, now that you can hear Dmitri speaking. Now that you have been reminded of what you are missing out on. It’s been months since you last saw him in person, since you were last at The Den. You never would have guessed just how much you would miss some things more than others.

“I’m fine. Really, Dmit— Dima,” you correct yourself, rolling your eyes fondly as he corrects you. “If that changes, I will call. I promise.”

Your eyes linger on the treeline outside, scanning for any sign of something amiss. Nothing. Biting your lip, you add, “And I’ll remind Sergei to call you when he’s back.”

Late afternoon gives way to early evening. Leisurely reading gives way to evening routines. Firewood is stacked neatly in a shed not far from the dome; it’s a simple enough task to fetch enough to last overnight. You don’t need the fire technically, the solar panels in the day heating your little home efficiently along with the bright rays of sun themselves and underfloor heating keeps the room feeling cosy. 

Leftovers are packed neatly away in sealed containers, half going into the freezer once they have cooled, the other half slipping neatly into the fridge. It never hurts to have extra on hand, just in case. 

You stand in the kitchen as you pick at your stew, gaze drifting back to the framed photograph over, and over, and over again. Missing Sergei is like a physical ache. It’s as if a part of you is missing, one that you aren’t even aware of until you are reminded in startling clarity of its absence. It’s impossible not to think of him in every little thing that you do, and yet, somehow, your call with Dmitri is enough to make your thoughts linger. 

Cleaning up behind yourself doesn’t take long. Everything is washed, dried and put away neatly in place. You linger by the back door, eyes falling to the impressive tub in the centre of the decking. It’s big enough to hold you and Sergei both with a little room to spare; he likes to spend his evenings relaxing in there, the water too hot for you to touch, much less bathe in. 

You enjoy watching him relax, muscles unwinding, unblinking gaze fixed on his domain below. You live for that little grateful twitch at the corners of his lips when you do well and bring what he needs before he thinks to ask. Something to drink, a snack, and the latest stack of reports he has been reading through. Some nights, he will send you back inside, the weather too cold for you to linger, or his work too pressing. But some nights he will invite you to climb in with him, to rest with your back to his chest and feel the deep rumble of his voice as he explains the star-strewn sky to you.

It seems a waste to use it without him. To fill the tub just for yourself. Your gaze lingers on the starry sky; there is no moon tonight, only the tiniest sliver that can barely be seen in the sky. It’s enough to make you hurry through the last of your responsibilities so that you can make the most of your night. 

Fire flickering away merrily, kitchen cleaned, food packed and stored away, you reluctantly remove Sergei’s jumper and linger by the full hamper. Hands clenching around the soft fabric, you pull it to your face, inhaling deeply. You can almost imagine you can smell him still lingering on the fabric, the sharp, fresh scent of pine, the deep coppery twang that always seems to cling to his skin, and beneath it all, the undeniable musk that is Sergei. You add your dress to the hamper, keeping the jumper clutched against your chest. 

One more night can’t hurt.

You can’t face getting into bed. Just a little longer, you think, snagging your discarded book from where you had neatly tidied it away to your shelf. Little trinkets from Sergei’s travels cover the dark wood expanse: books and pens, a delicate hairpin he brought you back from Japan, a smooth piece of Lapis Lazuli from Chile, a hand-carved little lion Sergei made for you himself while he was visiting Kenya. You snag the tiny dark leather notebook from the edge of your shelf, flicking past pages and pages of neat little lines until you reach your most recent one. You trace across the row of little dark marks, counting off the lines one after the other. You add another. Fifteen. Fifteen days since you last saw Sergei. 

He will be back. Soon. He promised.

You don’t allow yourself to linger. Moving across the heated floor feels good on your bare feet, no trace of chill to be found. You settle yourself on the floor in front of the flickering fireplace, a thick, dark green rug the colour of fresh leaves beneath you, the soft, sturdy presence of the leather sofa behind your back. You tug mounds of furs and scatter cushions down from the sofa to pile around you, creating your own little warm nest between the furniture and the fireplace, with nothing by the night sky able to see you. You still aren’t used to the glass walls of the dome, knowing that anyone could see inside. Not that there is anyone to see inside, not for hundreds of miles, or so Sergei has assured you. You daren’t venture past the safety of the perimeter of your home. Not without Sergei by your side. 

The furs feel soft against your bare skin. Lying back amongst them, you press the balled up fabric of Sergei’s jumper to your face, rubbing it against your cheeks slowly. You can almost convince yourself that it is his knuckles trailing gently across your skin, his warmth seeping into you, deep and calming, as the fire crackles and burns. You can almost convince yourself you can hear the low rumble of his voice as he points out the brightest stars in the night sky, naming each and every one for you as you curl up in his arms and allow yourself to drift.

Your eyelids begin to grow heavy. You turn your head towards his jumper, allowing the fabric to pillow beneath your cheek. You keep your gaze locked on the stars, tracing the constellations. You feel yourself beginning to drift. The last thing that you see between heavy blinks is the distinct outline of Leo lighting up the night sky as sleep finally takes you.

Today was just another day without Sergei. Perhaps tomorrow he will return. All you can do is wait.

Ink and Shadow

Raven slipped into her usual seat, the classroom already humming with low morning chatter. Students murmured sleepily to one another, some finishing the last bites of toast they’d smuggled from breakfast, others flipping open textbooks with resigned sighs. A few had already given up entirely, bunching their dress robes into makeshift pillows in preparation for the inevitable.

She set down her books and inhaled slowly, praying the Earl Grey would finally kick in and drag her fully into consciousness.

Ominis tilted his head toward her, wand gliding over the embossed cover of his textbook. “Morning.”

She stretched, rubbing the last traces of sleep from her eyes. “Good morning,” she murmured, however the words drifted out with a faint, unintentional lilt, almost sung more than spoken.

Ominis paused, tilting his head slightly and raising an eyebrow, “…was that a pitch?”

“What? No. I’m just tired.” Shit.

“Mm,” he hummed unconvinced.

Before either could say more, Professor Binns drifted straight through the blackboard, chalk dust blooming like a cloud around him. Conversations died instantly. Robe-pillows were adjusted. Someone groaned quietly.

Binns launched into his lecture, his monotone droning about the Goblin Rebellions with all the enthusiasm of a dying candle. Within minutes, half the class was slumped over their desks. A Hufflepuff two rows up snored softly.

Raven tried to focus, scribbling music notes in her journal. It lasted perhaps a minute before something nudged her elbow. She glanced at Ominis, whose expression looked perfectly neutral, tapped at a piece of folded parchment next to her. Even though she wasn’t worried the professor would notice, she still unfolded it beneath the desk.

So, when am I helping you and Sebastian register for your household charms?

Raven’s breath caught and felt her face go hot. Wide eyed, she stared at Ominis, who had the biggest smirk curling around his mouth.

Sebastian must’ve told him, she thought. Hell, he probably already figured it out himself.

She tried to think of something witty to write back, however, Binns’ voice was already dissolving into background noise making her eyelids heavy. But then her mind crept somewhere warmer.

Suddenly she wasn’t in History of Magic at all.

The image wasn’t sharp, more like a memory she hadn’t lived yet, but the feeling of it made her chest tighten. She saw Professor Fig at her side, their arms linked walking down an aisle. Not some grand cathedral… just a quiet, sun-lit path lined with faces she trusted.

Just the thought of having someone to give her away, someone who cared enough to stand beside her in a moment like that, hit her harder than the vision itself. Fig wasn’t her father. But in that hazy-formed glimpse of a future, he was the one steady presence she could imagine offering her hand to someone she… loved. Oh, stop, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm.

Then the vision deepened. A white, simple lace dress, with no blasted corset digging into her ribs. A veil trailing behind her. A bouquet trembling slightly in her hands, though she couldn’t tell if it was nerves or anticipation.

And at the end of the aisle… stood Sebastian patiently waiting. His curls tamed (mostly), his smile soft in a way he never showed anyone else. His eyes never left hers, not even to blink. He reached out a hand, and her heart thudded so hard she felt it in her throat.

What were wizarding weddings even like? Did it matter? The feeling was the same, terrifying and beautiful. She blinked hard, shoving the image away before it could root itself any deeper. Thank goodness Ominis couldn’t see the color blooming across her face.

Her fountain pen trembled slightly trying to take notes, though the fantasy shattered completely when Professor Binns abruptly shifted tone, well, as much as a ghost could.

“Class… we will now relocate to the Entrance Hall to examine the historical displays relevant to your essays. Please remain with your assigned desk partners.”

Chairs scraped. Students groaned. Someone muttered, “Thank Merlin.”

Raven and Ominis gathered their things and headed out with the rest of the class. The Entrance Hall was bright and echoing. Too bright, Raven squinted from the glare. They moved from display to display, Ominis listening intently as she read aloud the descriptions about a Goblin Artefact,

“…the horn was used during the 1612 Goblin Rebellion, to rally troops and annoy witches and wizards—” Just then a rush of wings swept overhead. And an owl landed neatly next to them, holding a sealed letter with Professor Fig’s wax stamp. Quickly, Raven opened it,

The Third Trial is ready. Please meet me in the Map Chamber during lunch. And yes, Mr. Sallow may accompany you. - E. Fig

Her heart thudded once, hard. ‘Bout goddamn time, she thought.

Getting to his feet, Dante grinned at the oncoming frosts. They pulled up short, body language turning from eager to wary. Points for using those singular brain cells. 

“You know, I lived here in New York City for the better part of two years, but I never did go to Rockefeller Plaza and do the ice skating thing. Wanted to, but was always too busy getting wasted or killing Scroogey demons who wanted to ruin Christmas.” His grin widened and he adjusted his stance, shoving his power down towards his feet and, more importantly, his boots. “I mean, you jerks even kept me away this year! So, I think it's past time for me to prove I could've been an Olympic ice skater, and it's demonkind's fault I don't have a dozen gold medals in my closet.” He struck a pose as the music in his head started to play, chasing away the fear that had been plaguing him the whole fight, then began to sway and clap along as he hummed, “Doh-doh-doh, doh-doh-doh, doh-doh… Man, if I had a speaker, this would be perfect! But we can just pretend there's an epic soundtrack to this fight.” 

~*~*~*~

Monday and Tuesday, I tried to second-draft Chapter 12 (the second dream sequence). Thought I'd add some foreshadowing for the next dream. But to foreshadow it, I needed to know what happens in it, right? Before I knew it, I'd written the entire next dream sequence and done absolutely nothing for Chapter 12.

Today I planned to write Chapter 21, but when I sat down I wrote something completely unrelated instead. It's good and I'll definitely add it to the story later, but like... this is not what I was trying to do today. 😅

Anyway, I'm sharing a piece of it because I usually like to post something for the holiday, and it doesn't seem like I'm getting a full chapter posted today.

Happy New Year!

A scene from chapter sixteen of my upcoming Dramione fic, The Curious Nature of All Things Dark and Lovely.

In which things start to heat up 🫡 (really, I’m being quite generous with this one, do enjoy).

The moment Hermione’s lips touched his, Draco went still. She could feel his confusion, his hesitation in the way his body stiffened, and she had a brief moment of doubt, wondering if perhaps she’d made a mistake. But despite this uncertainty, her body seemed to have a mind of its own, and as her mouth parted, her hands twisting in his shirt to pull him closer, it was like something awakened in him.

A low sound escaped his throat, and Hermione gasped as one of his hands encircled her waist, the other tangling in her hair. His mouth was warm and demanding as it opened against hers, and she could barely think as he pressed her back against the mattress, climbing onto it himself. Every place his hands touched made her feel as though it were on fire— the sliver of skin at her navel that peeked out from beneath her blouse; her collarbone; her jaw. She let go of his shirt and let her fingers drift up to tug at the back of his hair, holding onto him for dear life as he met her with the same level of urgency, like this might be the only chance they had.

No, this kiss was different than before. Desperate. Frantic. All-consuming.

“Granger,” Draco breathed against her lips, and Hermione felt like she might die if he didn’t kiss her like this forever.

This ^ is the first line of Chapter 14 of the Shrike btw.

YEPPOS ANOTEHR EXCERPT WHILE I SPIN MY HEAD WRITING THIS CHAPTER

Happy birthday, @xxlord-plebxx <3

Excerpt below the cut :D as with the last one released, this time there's no extended cut on Ko-fi-- a full course treat for everyone ;D