#Friedrich harding x you

[etherealily]

ꜱɪʀᴇɴ // ꜰʀɪᴇᴅʀɪᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ

Friedrich Harding + fem!reader.

For @wintrsoul, based on this ask <3

I hope this is what you meant. If it sucks, or is not what you expected, tell me.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You torment his sleep.

(Friends-to-lovers on this blog will always be associated with pebble-throwing.)

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At times, Friedrich would birdwatch.

And, at other times, he would stargaze.

Both during test-sails with his father on a new ship, and both, of course, during different times of day.

Sometimes, the journey would last as long as three days, perhaps even four, just to ensure the ship could hold out against strong currents, and the lights were strong enough for the unforgiving night sea.

And Friedrich could name nearly every sea-bird. And could possibly find his way home with the North Star, if ever.

The best part of all this new knowledge was that he was able to give it to you. He would write you letters, deposit them at every port, and grin, because he knew it was killing you, not being able to write back and give him proper comebacks to whatever tiny insults he'd peppered in as compliments, just to pull your leg.

So, no, to answer the unasked question, he was never surprised when you jumped into his arms and nearly toppled him over on his return, before hitting at his chest for all the things he'd implied about you.

"How dare you call me an owl?"

"They're wise, you know?"

"You spoke of my eyes!"

"The ink must have bled. I'm sure I said 'wise'." A smirk.

"What about calling me—"

"Must we regale the tales of your illiteracy? I know what I wrote, and perhaps you read what you think is true. Come. We could rematch."

He was always better at skipping stones than you were, having had practice since as far as he could remember. But would he tell you? No.

"Did you come across pirates?" You always asked this, and he always answered in the negative.

"If I came across pirates, I would not live to tell the tale.", he scoffs, flicking at your temple. "Use that brain of yours to ask me genuinely valid questions about my time out there in the world."

"Did you see mermaids?"

He chortles. For all your newfound womanly qualities after introduction to society, you're still the same. "Mermaids? They do not exist, never will."

"Oh, please. You're a man of science."

"Precisely my reasoning for choosing not to believe in aquatic women with fish tails that lurk waters and lure men to their deaths with their singing."

"Those are sirens. You are confusing them."

"I apologise for my insubordination. I'm confusing two fish-like female species of underwater monsters.", he scoffs. "Flog me now."

"For the longest time, the world was thought to be flat, by men of science. Flat, can you imagine such a thing! And if you are a man of science, you might not be so quick to dismiss the possibility of forces that we do not understand.", you declare, launching another pebble, that galloped prettily across the lake.

He glares (gazes) at you for a while, before exhaling in contempt. "Adolescence does not agree with you. You've suddenly developed audacity enough to back-talk. With mildly valid points, though, I will admit. And not to mention, your eyes."

"Adolescence does, too, agree with m— what do you mean my eyes?"

Friedrich narrows his own at that moment, before bending down to pretend to meticulously analyse yours. "They've gone all..." A vague gesturing around them. "Wonky."

"Wonky?"

He nods.

"They're prettier, sure, but also wonkier."

If you'd known that would be the last time you'd be seeing him in two years, you'd have focused more on the 'prettier' comment.

"I have news."

"Yes?"

"I am travelling once more, I'm afraid."

"Ooh, will you stay gone for good, this time?", you ask, in faux-hopefulness.

"You are not as hilarious as you think you are. I know you miss me when I am away.", he mutters for only your ears, as he bites his lip in concentration before launching another stone out.

"Do I, now?"

"Oh, yes, you're always yearning so loudly inside that it reverberates across continents, across oceans, and disrupts my otherwise peaceful sleep in my little cabin on my big ships.", he huffs, as though this was anything but hyperbole, as though this is a complaint he's had for years, but has been too afraid to bring up to you.

"So what you say is, I torment your sleep?"

"Like nothing I've ever known before."

A mutual grin.

"How long?" He cannot tell you "two years" without you worrying, he's sure.

"Negligible. The real big news is that I will be renting out."

"No."

"Yes. Mother thinks one can never have too much money, and you know, I quite agree. I'm adding another source of income.", he whispers. A pause. "Do, um, excuse me." He clears his throat for a moment, looking down into the sherry he'd brought outside. "Do... do you approve?"

Another pause.

"How does it matter if I approve?"

"Well, it doesn't, of course, but had you said 'no', it would have fuelled me to go along with it. You know how you are wrong about every single thing in the universe, yes?", he titters.

"Right, of course. And another stream of income will increase your chance of procuring a good marriage, yes? Blind, though she may be, status is what matters.", you declare, snorting at his annoyed nudge.

"She will not be blind, you know. She will see me for the handsome, smart man I am, and... well, let's just say the money will only be an additional incentive for her." A waggle to his brows.

"One day, Friedrich. I shall have the self-confidence you so unjustly possess."

"And one day, you shall beat me at skipping stones.", he whispers, flicking at your temple.

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TWO YEARS LATER.

He's not sure what it was he expected, in all honesty. Perhaps he thought the entire manor would be refurbished and every trace of him would have been swept away with the wind, or perhaps he'd imagined coming home to a haunted house, a desolate shell of what his childhood had been nurtured by. But no. It's the exact same, even brighter than he remembered it.

Thankfully, he has not been forgotten and it shows. The maids greet him the same, the doors open with the same vigour for him. And so, he sits on the couch, before a hurried shuffle is heard, and he's being greeted by a young man, younger than him — your age, he'd wager — with a firm handshake. "Herr Harding, sir, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine, Sebastian Schneider, yes, if I am not mistaken?"

"Quite right, sir. I must thank you for opening up your home to us."

"It is all my family's doing, I'm afraid. They had to ensure the home was in good hands, and I can safely say it is.", he replies, sitting down and pointing around the foyer.

He throws his hands up. "Small talk be damned, sir. You are in the ship business, correct?"

"Yes. And you?"

"Cutlery."

The first thought Friedrich has is that you'd burst out laughing if you'd heard that. 'Pots and pans?!', you'd giggle. Note to self : he has to go calling 'round for you, or he'll lose his mind.

"How long will you be in town, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Six months. Should be plenty time to catch up with my loved ones."

"Oh, that is a relief. I... I am getting married, and I should like to invite you, it is five months from now."

Eurgh. Friedrich hates going to these things. "That is too kind."

"Of course, you may bring anyone you want, and... I suppose it's nearly decided that we require your blessing."

He hates sycophants, but he's only twenty, this Sebastian. A child.

"My friend, Frieda, she lives on the other side of town. Tonight, there is a soirée. You must come, with your intended.", he offers, politely. It's as kind as he can be. If he invites him here, maybe he doesn't need to come to this child's bloody wedding. Besides, he knows you'll love this character, and Frieda would invite you.

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course, of course! She loves art, as do I."

Friedrich fights a scoff. A young couple desperate to fit into high society? Of course they "love art".

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Your eyes follow the pianist's fingers, deftly prancing along the keys, like a deer, or a bunny, or— god, is this what you'd come to? Peak boredom, this was, looking for woodland creatures to use to describe how a musician plays the most overplayed piece in history at a soirée with people you've seen far too much within one year.

There's only one saving grace, and he hasn't arrived yet. Friedrich.

You could never write back, of course. Which port could you send it to? He never stayed in one place for long.

Which is why he is not up-to-date on... the recent developments.

But he'd finally given a definitive date, and that is today.

While Friedrich is not a violent man, his emotions are big. Sadness, when his father passed? Ginormous. Almost swept you away, the wave. And now, his anger may burn you. You're not sure.

He knows that there's only so much mind-numbing mundanity that you can take before you turn to alcohol, so this lack of punctuality is simply the adult equivalent to Friedrich tugging at your hair back when you were six. For laughs. For kicks.

Which is why, no matter how alert you think you are, he can always sneak up on you, use his pinky to move your earring (and the strand of hair covering your ear at the same time) to whisper something absolutely ludicrous to you.

Usually, it is something along the lines of :"Liesel looks particularly scandalous today, does she not? I must have a go.", or "It seems Christoph thinks hats are back in fashion. He would not be wrong, but I think he fails to understand they are for the fairer sex."

Today, it is : "Mermaids aren't real."

"Then the Earth is flat.", you retort.

He rolls his eyes. "Incorrigible. You look breathtaking, though.", he says, offhandedly, still glancing at the painting before you. Mermaids.

"You have not even seen me."

"I never have to."

And then you hug, and he spins you around with such joy, that he's glad this is a closed event, or certain judgemental members of society would have branded the two of you as "improper".

"Why have you changed so much in two years?", you hiss, and he guffaws, shaking his head.

"Me? How about you? All ruffles and patterns, it's like you've lost your... you-ness!", he exclaims.

"Well, you look dashing as well."

"You say this because you have not seen us both. I pale in comparison to you."

"You are nicer tonight.", you remark, before tilting your head to narrow your eyes at his little grin. A small gasp of realisation. "You have news. I do, as well."

A counter-gasp of mockery and amusement. "I do. But first, let's get the devil-liquid away from you, yes?"

He takes the glass of sherry as though he is doing you the greatest favour (he might, in all honesty), before downing it himself. "What was this, your fifth of the night?"

"Actually, that was my second. Though, had you arrived a second later, that would have, in fact, been my fifth.", you mutter, and he chuckles, his eyes racing around the room.

"Right, so my news—"

"Friedrich.", you sigh, shaking your head with a slow, purposely drawn-out gentle punch to his shoulder. "You look so weary. Did you come straight here from the port?"

"Yes, you impatient imbecile. I stopped by my house."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I met, uh... quite an interesting character, my tenant. Ooh, speak of the devil. You'll enjoy this.", he informs, turning you around.

"Herr Harding! Ah, I see you've met my intended!"

Friedrich feels like he could vomit all over the mermaid painting hanging on the bloody wall.

The way your shoulders tense tells him exactly what he was dreading.

"Herr Schneider, I'm glad you could make it.", he grits out, with as much politeness as he could muster while shaking this utensil-mogul's hand. "Your... intended and I have known each other since the ages of five and two. Right?"

"Five and two.", you affirm, biting at the inside of your cheek. God, has it been that long?

A sort of charged silence forms and you're sure that there's nowhere else you would be opposed to teleporting to.

"Ah. Never thought to mention this?", asks Sebastian, lowering his tone as if Friedrich wasn't right there.

"Well, you did not tell me where you had rented, Sebastian, did you?", you mutter, eyes fixed on the painting to your left.

He's quite literally about to vomit. He looks to the painting. His lunch would not look good on it, he decides.

"Beautiful painting.", he manages to spit out, coughing to mask his disgust.

Sebastian clears his throat. "Ah, yes, the mermaid. Please, you have voyaged the sea. Explain to her that they do not exist."

Friedrich is not too keen on helping this Sebastian character out.

"But they do."

Your eyes shoot up, and he's glad they're on him, fixed. "I've seen one."

Sebastian looks at him knowingly, as though they are both doing this to appease you. As though this is all some inside joke.

"A real one?"

"Looked just like you, y'know?"

"You're pulling my leg."

"On the contrary. However, I really must be going. Much to set right in terms of letters from family who have invited me to dinners and such."

You're not sure what happened to Friedrich out there at sea, if he actually did have a traumatic encounter with a mermaid, or perhaps a very devastating business deal, but you're ready for this phase to stop.

You'd like to tell yourself it's because of your engagement, but he's always been the first to keep reminding you that one day you'll be married off, and so it's ludicrous to think that has any effect.

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He hates feeling things on this scale. This sort of wallowing has not happened since he was six, since his father passed, and thankfully it had only been you, seeing it.

Now it was you causing it.

"Regret is not a word in my vocabulary, Frieda.", he chuckles, absentmindedly playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

"It is in your heart, though."

"What is in my heart is ensuring that my business goes well. I have far too many things at stake as of now. I have some French and some Americans fighting for the same deal with me."

"You are in demand, then?"

"That I am."

"In all aspects?"

"Frieda, you have shown the splendour of your matchmaking skills with, uh... Herr Schneider. I do not require your services."

Frieda chuckles. "Friedrich, you have met Schneider. He is not a bad—"

He holds up his hand to silence her. "He is a fine man, determined, business-minded, kind. He goes along with her whimsies when she needs it and also knows when to yank her chain, he— he understands."

There is no response, and Friedrich does not even have to look up to know that Frieda has horror etched on her face.

"Friedrich, I will ask you this once, and once only."

Fuck.

"Do you want her?"

Fuck!

"Who?"

"By God, you do.", whispers Frieda, her brows raised as though he'd just blasphemed. "Friedrich!"

"What? Is it a crime to love the same person since six years old? If so, I apologise that I do not leap from woman to woman, like others my age!", he grunts, standing quite abruptly.

"Friedrich, I know you. You will wallow and wallow and take the pain inwards like liquor!", she hisses.

"So... what? You think I should tell her? You think I require closure?"

"On the contrary! I think you must forget this! Push it out of your head! She is engaged, and besides, you'd kill each other, anyway, as a married couple."

That was true. But that's a death he's willing to die.

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It's been two months. Two months of, as predicted by Frieda, wallowing.

You've thought about writing to him many times, but he is not staying at his own home, though Schneider offered it, no, he is staying at an inn he will not tell you (or Frieda) the name of.

He needs to look out for you. You, an engaged but as of yet unwed young lady cannot be seen being familiar with an unwed, unbetrothed, eligible bachelor like himself.

Cannot. It is social suicide, and forgive him if he doesn't want you dead. Scandal will ruin you, and he doesn't want that.

Unfortunately, christenings are ceremonies that one cannot skip. What has a child done to you? Nothing. You cannot give any excuse that falls short of death. And so, he goes.

He catches your eye from across the room, and nearly turns away to avoid you, but frowns when he sees you turning away first. Wait, he knew how you'd betrayed him by hiding something this important, but what had he done to you? Oh, come on, you can't honestly be angry about the whole mermaid-thing, can you?

He follows after you, clearing his throat to gain your attention. He knows you well enough to know that you crossing your arms is indication that you acknowledge his presence.

"I apologise. I did not say congratulations, at Frieda's gathering."

"Thank you."

A pause. He sighs. He wants to see your smile. "Forks and spoons for the rest of your life?"

"Better than anchors and sails.", you retort.

"You used to love hearing about my voyages.", he huffs, still maintaining the respectable distance required for two eligible, unwed youth. It's the principle.

"I also used to love eating with forks and spoons."

Why were you the exact same, with your witty retorts, but so inexplicably different at the same time? As much as he didn't want to do this, he knows that he cannot bear not being part of your life, and he most definitely cannot bear your apathy. Frieda probably looks on with warning, but she is behind him, her glare on his back, and you are right there, so tangibly perfect in front of him.

"There is a pond outside. We must rematch."

"And what will that achieve? Why must I come down and socialise with the likes of you?", you hiss, painfully. "Go home."

His hand snakes down into his pockets, and he flashes a couple pebbles perfectly suited for throwing out at you. He'd shoved them into his pocket this very morning, with no intention of using them in any way. If someone else had found them, they'd think he were suicidal, wanting to go drown himself like one of your sirens would.

"You're just terrified you'll get beat.", he shrugs, gesturing at the stones in his hand. "Sad, sad, sad, your backbone disappeared out there at finishing school, I take it."

"I will alert the entire town that you're being a prick to a girl three years your junior."

He shrugs once more. "Has age has ruined your skipping arm? Hang on. Is that what it is? Age? That is why you're settling for Spoon Schneider? He is your age, so you think companionship-wise, he's... acceptable?", he calls, and you pretend not to hear him.

You scoff. He cannot possibly think, after all the opportunities he's had, that this will magically be a joke between the two of you, or break the ice.

He rolls the pebble between his fingers once more, and you shake your head once again. "Go home."

"If I go, I will never return again."

"I highly doubt that."

"You will lose me as a friend."

"Haven't I already?"

He does not reply.

"Friedrich."

"I have tried to avoid you, and it is for a reason."

"Then keep avoiding me, because you clearly do not care for me!"

"WHAT is wrong with you?!", he yells, finally, throwing his hands up. "What is WRONG with you?!"

The entire venue hushes, and he feels like he's just slapped you. He hasn't, he could never, but with how humiliated— and angry — you appear, he might as well have.

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He hears the plop of you tossing a stone into the water before he actually sees you. And then, there's multiple plops, and you come into view, sitting by the lake.

Friedrich's hands hold two glasses of brandy, and he proffers one to you. "I apologise if I offended you."

You do not startle, just find another pebble and throw it as far as you can. A distant plop.

"And if I offended Schneider.", he offers, downing one of the glasses.

"I don't understand! Do I suddenly bore you? Or sicken you?"

Bore him? You? With your talks of mermaids and your inability to let anything just be without getting to the bottom of how it came to be? You are the furthest thing from boring, or sickening, for that matter.

"No. No. You do not."

"Then what is it? Why are you being like this?"

"I would just... I would have thought you'd at least... ask approval, or my opinion or... my blessing, y'know?" This is stupid. You will kill him for suggesting such a thing.

"Asked for your approval?! I'm sorry, correct me if I'm wrong. Do you mean to say that you think you are entitled to making my decisions, and judging them without knowing the whole truth?"

If Friedrich were a smarter man, he'd have read between the lines of that last sentence. But his emotions... Friedrich feels things on a level not quite understood by people who do not know him, and now? He feels shame and defensiveness.

"I ask your approval before everything I do! The tenants, for instance?"

"Yes, everything except leaving for two bloody years on a voyage you didn't even need to go on!"

Oh.

"So this was revenge."

"This was a matter of time."

The sounds of the birds attempt to mitigate the silence.

You stand, and he stupidly thinks you're about to charge at him. But you just snatch the glass from him, before you throw your head back to down the contents.

He places both glasses behind him. Gazes at you. Sighs.

One arm extends gingerly, to pull your head to his chest, and the other one holds one of your hands, fiddling around with your fingers, trying his best to avoid the ring.

Unfortunately, it is unavoidable.

"Please tell me your grandmother left this for you before kicking the bucke— my condolences, by the way.", he mumbles, rambles rather, trying not to recoil at the ring that has just silently declared war against him.

"Well, no, not exactly. This is what he bought me."

"You were betrothed without a ring, then, initially? How urgent was this?" It's rhetorical. You both know your family.

"Are you angry?"

Yes. No? He's not sure. Never will be sure.

"You know me, big emotions, huge. I cannot...", he pauses, taking a shaky breath, "You have grown up.", he says, rubbing your back and falling just short of kissing the top of your head. "I suppose I did not like that I haven't been part of it for two years."

"I'm not sure I want to be betrothed at all."

He pulls away.

"What if it were me? Standing here with... with a ring, made of bloody... pirate gold, with a diamond brought from the depths of a treasure chest out there in the sea, and, and... and kissed by a mermaid? Would you be betrothed to me, then?" His thumb inconspicuously moves from your cheek to your lip.

"Friedrich—"

He knows it's coming. 'I love you like a brother', or, god forbid : "I love Sebastian."

"I'm sorry, that was... I just think that he... I just don't—"

"Approve?", you suggest.

He snorts, rubbing at your elbow. "Yes. Approve. It does not need to mean anything to you, but yes, I do not approve."

"Well, that's fantastic, because I learnt only one thing at finishing school and it is that I love you."

Friedrich's throat goes dry.

He would pinch himself, but it seems he is frozen. "No." He shakes his head. "No, that's not—"

"No?", you scoff. "If you think that is pathetic, I'll remind you that you just offered me a mermaid-kissed, pirate-Aztec-gold engagement ring with, what was it? A diamond from a treasure chest?"

"It is not pathetic."

"Then why did you say 'no'? Do you think this is a joke?"

"I think I am one, yes. All this t—"

"Don't flatter yourself, I haven't loved you for ages and tried to hide it, this is... a recent development.", you grumble, crossing your arms stubbornly. You will not give him the win of thinking you have been yearning all this time, especially when you've seen him do the same since he was, perhaps, fourteen? You weren't sure.

He grins. Adorable.

"Well, not for me. No, I have loved you ever since I was six years old. But for you, it was a long time coming, yes?"

Six? You're not sure if he's still good at reading your face, but you try your best to hide your astonishment.

"One day, Friedrich. I shall have the self-confidence you so unjustly possess."

"One day, you will be Frau Harding and regret your life choices.", he smiles, stupidly, before he kisses you. Now, you have never been kissed before, but this seems like a remarkably lovely one. His lips move soft and steady against yours, yet there was still desperation, passion, and it stirred you so much you moved back, just an inch.

"Don't you dare pull away."

And so you don't. Your elbows rest on his shoulders and your hands hang loosely against the back of his neck as he kisses you, slowly lowering his hat from his head with every movement towards your lips. It falls into the lake. He doesn't care.

"Betrothals fall through all the time. You cannot see yourself as Frau Schneider, you know this." He has not separated himself from your lips, and it does not seem like he can.

"Yes, but—", you cut yourself off with a low laugh as his moustache tickles your neck when he kisses it. "You have to shave this thing off."

"If you vow never to marry Schneider, I will.", he mumbles out against your throat. "You know this."

"I do know this."

"You have known this. Much longer than you've been letting on.", he muses, his forehead against yours as he breathes you in. His thumbs rub against the sides of your corset until you reach into his pockets, causing him to furrow his brows.

"Whoever loses has to break the news to my family.", you declare, rattling a couple of his pebbles around in your palm, nudging his elbow.

"You worry about telling your family? I think you should be more worried about telling your little... flatware financier that the betrothal's off.", he teases, revelling in the eye roll you respond with.

"I miss the days that men would get into sword-fights over us. Would make all this so much easier.", you mutter, sucking on your teeth as you launch one out onto the lake. Seven. Not bad.

"Please, he'd bring a knife, I'd bring an anchor. There can only be one winner, siren, and you know who it is."

"Siren?"

"You cannot possibly think anyone else's voice was haunting me and tormenting my sleep out there in the vast, blue nothingness."

You smile at that, and he's not sure he's ever going to recover. "Really?"

"Yes. The Earth is round, and you are a siren.", he says, kissing softly at your temple before he turns back to the water. He focusses. The last stone.

He could beat your record. No, he really could, easy. But that's the thing. He must make life easier for his future wife, even if it is telling an otherwise lovely gentleman that she will not be marrying him.

So, he makes sure he barely gets to four on his last one.

"Guess the cards just aren't in my favour, siren."

After you have adequately celebrated your win, the two of you sit out there until you have both bird-watched and stargazed.

Oh, the cards are definitely in his favour.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Friedrich Harding x wife!fem!reader

Summary: The letter with the news of your cousin's death comes with something more sinister; a marriage proposal. (7k words)

Genre: SMUT (mdni)

Warnings: age gap (35/22), porn with heavy plot, reader is Anna's younger cousin (no physical descriptions), enemies to lovers, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, arranged marriage, dubious consent in the beginning, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink, manhandling, aftercare

As a child, you remember dreaming of your wedding day, your hand clutching linen sheets, hidden under woolen blankets, cheeks burning, hair a mess, as you laughed with your sisters in the darkness. You would talk of gourmet four-layered cakes, blooming lilies, and of whose lips yours would kiss at the altar.

You can vividly remember how important Anna's wedding day was to your Aunt and Uncle, how much they fussed over their oldest daughter, your Aunt brushing out her blond curls as you and your three sisters watched from the doorway. Anna's marrying the son of a wealthy shipman, your mother had said, explaining all the happy commotion. You couldn't understand why that could possibly matter so much, especially because Anna had told you months earlier that she was madly in love with her future husband. 

That is what seemed so important to you. Love. 

Anna's wedding was beautiful. She looked like an angel in her white-lace gown, the color almost matching the white in the blond of her hair, and she looked up at her husband with so much adoration.

You were always Anna's favorite, perhaps because you only had six years difference in age, so she insisted you be her flower girl (even if you had just turned fourteen and many of your younger sisters sobbed for such an important role). 

Anna had kissed your hairline in the halls of the cathedral, squeezing your hand in hers as she promised someone would love you as Friedrich did her. Her words, albeit reassuring, must have confused your young mind because all during the ceremony, your gaze was stuck on her future husband and on the way he cupped her cheek so delicately as he kissed her.

A new, unfamiliar, feeling blossomed up in your stomach. 

However, as soon as the happy couple was wed, they'd sailed away, leaving you heartbroken and without hearing from Anna, apart from the occasional birthday letter, for eight years: eight long years, four of those you spent in America, working as a governess.

You hadn't married as your family wished. You had no interest in any man once you'd made up your mind you would only marry for love for there was no man you did love. So your father had sent you away to make money instead. As the oldest daughter in a family of only girls, that was your duty and you never once resented your role or that Anna's love set unfulfilled expectations for you. 

Not until you received news of her death, along with a marriage proposal. 

Friedrich Harding wanted to marry you? 

You'd almost burned the letter in fear it was some sick trick, but the more you stared at the cursive and read his words, the more the memories from the one time you had seen him came to mind, and with them the burning in your stomach you still do not understand even in adulthood. 

He gave no explanation, just that he needed another wife, that Anna loved you the most, and that he wanted you on the next ship to Germany as soon as possible. 

You read the letter again and again. How could he ask you to make such an important decision so quickly? How could you marry Anna's husband? Your poor, innocently sweet, beautiful cousin, who was now dead. Grief washed over you.

How could you take her life? Replace her?

You had wept yourself to sleep that evening and still, you had quit your job, sent a letter to your parents, and taken the first ship out—not exactly understanding why you had.

~ * ~

"Aunt Y/n!" you hear the small shrill cry of a girl as you lift the hem of your dress and gently press your boot into the gravel. The sky is bleak and cloudy, convenient for a graveyard. You strain a smile, making a small huff as a small girl wraps her arms around your knees. "Oh, you did come! Papa promised you would." 

Your hug envelops the small girl's back, your hand skimming her long blond curls, which remind you so much of Anna's. Your lip trembles. "I am here, darling," you murmur, holding her close. You lift your head and look up from behind your bonnet, the black lace ribbon digging into the skin of your neck. You see a person in the distance, a man who is reluctantly closing the doors to what you assume is the mausoleum. 

Bile rises in your throat but you hold it in as you stroke Clara's head. 

"Is that your Papa?" you ask her hesitantly. 

Clara nods, turning her head and holding you even closer at the distant sound of thunder. "Mhm. He is just saying goodnight to Mama and Louise. He brings them flowers every day." 

You nod solemnly, watching Friedrich approach and Clara moves to your side, her small hands still clutching the skirt of your dress. You press your palm over your stomach, suddenly wishing your corset was ten times looser than it is as you hold your breath.  

Once Friedrich is closer, Clara runs to him and he doesn't hesitate to pick her up. Her small black dress bunches up around her ankles, her legs against his hip, as she hangs from his neck, nuzzling her head under his chin. Friedrich looks at you and you inhale, shame burning in your cheeks at the way his gaze lingers over you. 

It is as if he looks past you.

"Herr Harding," you greet, moving closer, but pause when you realize the motion is clearly unwanted. 

Friedrich clears his throat, no hint of a smile on his face. "Thank you for coming so quickly," he pauses and looks to the side, adjusting his hold on Clara. Your journey had taken around three months, which is hardly quick, but you simply nod, unable to find your words. "I see that Sylvester informed you where you could find us upon your arrival."

He looks at his coach, where the man who had driven you stands by the door and tilts his hat. You turn and meet his gaze, your eyebrows scrunching up in confusion and you turn to Friedrich and shake your head.

"Actually, Herr Harding, I did not know you nor Clara would be here. I- well, I wanted to visit my cousin." You leave a solemn pause before continuing. "Sylvester kindly recommended the ride upon my request. Please, do not be cross with him. I told him I would have walked anyway—" 

"Walked? This late? And unaccompanied?" Friedrich sounds horrified. Clara, hearing his tone, hides herself further into his neck, her tiny hands clutching at the collar of his fur coat. He smoothes a hand up her back and sends you a disapproving look. "I am pleased Sylvester offered his services. I will not have my bride out alone at this time of night. It is simply inappropriate." 

You tense, sensing his irritation with you already. As punishment for your foolishness, you assume, he has you take Slyvester's coach home, alone, while he and Clara are in the other just behind yours. 

He had explained it was too painful for him to open the mausoleum again, but promised you could visit Anna another time. You try your hardest not to cry so soon as you sit in the coach, your body jostling around as the wheels travel across the cobblestone. You hold onto hope that the situation will improve. It had only been half a year since Anna and Louise's death. 

You knew to give Friedrich time. 

Your wedding day approached quicker than you had wished, your family sending their approval for a small ceremony with only you, Friedrich, and God. They couldn't make the journey so soon, and Friedrich didn't care to listen to your request to have, at least, your mother with you. So the ceremony happened in his local church, with only Clara (upon her insistance which Friedrich did not deny) and the priest as witnesses. 

As a simple courtesy, and what you liked to think was an apology, Friedrich had left a gorgeous white satin dress in your bedroom as the morning of the wedding approached. Next to the dress lay a veil, the same one Anna had worn. 

You felt like an imposter, staring at yourself in the mirror, the intricate lace of the accessory covering your face and shoulders. The dress was new. You assumed Friedrich didn't want you in Anna's dress. The veil was tradition, naturally it would be passed on. As Anna's cousin, it was only fair. 

You adjust the puffed sleeves near your shoulders as your mind wanders. Friedrich clouds your mind involuntarily, images of his lips on yours and his hands squeezing your hips. You remember Anna's whispering, all those years ago, about what happened on a woman's wedding night, and you can't help but feel warm. Guilt gnaws at your stomach, realizing you're fantasizing about Anna's husband. You shut your eyes but you can still picture Friedrich's hands; those long, strong fingers threading themselves in your hair as he kisses you and tells you he loves you.

Your eyes snap open as you stare at your reflection. Because he must love you? Or want to love you? Why else would he have asked you to marry him? 

Your corset feels tight once again, the wedding dress feels itchy, and your heels hurt as you stand at the altar listening to the priest's questions. Your future husband's face is concealed and blurred behind your veil but you can imagine his sharp blue eyes piercing through you. 

"On behalf of God, you may kiss the bride."

Slowly, Friedrich's hand lifts your veil over your head, wisps of hair fall into your face and he pushes them away as his thumb presses against the apple of your cheek, for only a moment. You lift your arms, hesitant to touch him, and you barely have the chance because as soon as his lips press against yours, he's dropping the veil over you again and pulling himself away, his breath shaky.

Your vision goes blurry again and you aren't sure if it's from the veil or the tears that threaten to fall down your cheeks. Your stomach is in knots as you convince yourself that it is a mistake. That he hadn't meant to kiss you so coldly. That he still wants you here and that he'll hold you in his arms tonight like a husband is supposed to. 

"Go upstairs," Friedrich demands calmly, hanging his hat near the front door. He reaches for a cigar in his pocket and mutters for Clara to go with her governess. 

He doesn't look your way but you listen to his request anyway, creeping up the stairs like a ghost; all dressed in white. You enter the main bedchamber and sit on the end of the bed, simply waiting. 

You aren't sure what to do as you wait for him to join you. For him to bed you like you had been taught to expect on your wedding night. But the sky soon grows darker and the door doesn't open. You hear no movement from out in the hall, no indication that Friedrich is near, and you don't even realize you have fallen asleep until you hear the birds chirp from outside and at the first indication of morning, you rip off your veil and throw it at the vanity in the corner.

You don't bother to remove your wedding dress as you hurry down the stairs, hands gliding down the mahogany railing, anger and hurt coursing through your veins. You search around the house, finally finding Friedrich in his study, sitting on his armchair while he has his breakfast.

You don't think as you storm inside. "You did not join me," you state, your voice strained as you stand in front of him. 

Friedrich lifts his gaze, mustache twitching when he sees you still in your dress. He doesn't look pleased but he doesn't answer and that only hurts more. 

"Ah, so you have nothing to say?!" you hiss angrily, walking closer to him. This time, he stands and you pause in your advancing. 

"Why should I have joined you?" Friedrich asks calmly.

You look horrified. "Because I am your wife!?" 

Friedrich chuckles darkly, shaking his head as he runs a hand over his jaw. "You are not my wife, Y/n. Anna is my wife. In every way that matters to me, she is my wife." He stares at you, his expression hard and unforgiven, and your heart shatters.

"I- I do not understand," you whisper, your eyes becoming glossy. You show him your wedding ring as if that proves something. "Then what is this? What does this mean, Friedrich?" 

Your gaze drops to his hand as you finish the question and you see that he hadn't removed his previous ring. His ring from his marriage with Anna.

He had taken off yours as soon as he had gotten home.

You lift your eyes to lock onto his, your eyes stormy with hurt and fury—which only worsens once he continues, "On paper, you are Frau Harding now. Which means, you will take care of my estate, you will help care for Clara as a mother would, and you will keep up appearances for the sake of my business and our families, but we shall never consummate the marriage. We shall never share a bed, do you understand me?"

Every word he speaks hurts you and you suddenly feel so humiliated. How could you have been so foolish? You clench your hands into the skirt of your wedding dress, the tears finally slipping down your cheeks. Your head hurts. All your efforts to have love have just led you into a loveless marriage, with a man who was never yours to love.

You turn your head away, his words sinking in as you frantically wipe at your tears, desperately erasing them from existence. You look up at him and see he hasn't moved, his expression still unreadable and his stance tense. 

"As you wish. Then I shall never be yours, and I shall hate you till my last breath," you spit, your voice unwavering.

~ * ~

Being Frau Harding proved much easier than you imagined. Clara is a sweet girl and she's an obedient child who learns quickly. The servants are friendly and the estate is grand. And your husband, although he does not spare you a second glance, isn't cruel. He doesn't lay a hand on you nor does he force you into his bed whenever he feels like it, which you learned from some of your high society friends is worse than a man who won't kiss you. 

You are incredibly lonely, all alone in the huge house, but you've learned to live with the feeling. Friedrich is away on business most days, which mostly leaves you and Clara on your own. 

Once more, on a sunny afternoon, you find yourself sitting on the carpet in her playroom, your dresses, the black color replaced by light pastel creams, splayed across your legs as she shows you the new porcelain dolls Friedrich had bought for her from his latest travels. He'd return in the early hours of the morning.

"This one looks like Mama," Clara says and brushes the blond hair of one of her dolls, framing the doll's pale skin, andhumming happily. 

You smile. "Ah, yes, well, she looks like you." You pretend to move around the little china tea set Clara loves so much, pouring some invisible tea for her. Memories of Anna's face cloud your mind, causing a familiar gnawing in your chest.

"Tell me more about Mama," Clara whispers and crawls over to you. She climbs into your lap, not caring when the skirts of your dresses become cumbersome as you chuckle. Clara tucks herself into your arms, still holding her doll. Lately, she's been asking you to tell stories about you and Anna as children, and as much as the memories cause an undeniable hurt, you always indulge her.

Just as you finish the story, one of Clara's favorites, you hear the creak of the playroom door closing and you turn your head. You see the faint remnants of smoke from Friedrich's cigar where he had been standing and your stomach twists.

"May we climb up an apple tree, like you and Mama did?" Clara asks innocently. 

You look at her again, a faint crease in your eyebrows. You aren't sure if you have any apple trees to climb in the gardens, but you don't want to deny Clara something that may make her feel closer to her mother so you simply nod. You stand and hold out your hand. 

"Well, go on, go find Edith and ask her for your coat. There is a slight chill outside." You squeeze Clara's hand and watch her hurry out to find one of the maids.  

You sigh, holding a hand over your stomach to calm your nerves. Just as you walk out into the hall to find your shawl and shoes, you see Friedrich standing in the opposite doorway. His gaze is hard and you gasp, "Oh!" 

"I pray Clara is mistaken when she tells me you plan to take her climbing," he says, holding his cigar between his index and middle finger, pressing it to his lips momentarily. He looks at you with what you can only describe is pure disdain. You feel nauseous.

"I was simply taking her outside, for some fresh air," you say, keeping your distance from him. 

"Without my permission?"

Your jaw tightens and you narrow your gaze. "My apologies, I did not realize I had to ask your permission to take my child out into my gardens." Your tone is curt and harsh. Friedrich narrows his eyes in return. 

"Do not take that tone with me," he states firmly. You almost wish he'd scream at you. Instead, he's always so controlled and restrained. It's almost more infuriating than if he would lose his temper. It is as if he is unfeeling. "Clara is not your child." 

Hurt swarms your chest. You know she is not yours, but the reminder hurts after all the months you spent with her. "Oh? Is she not? Then what, pray, is my role here, dear husband? This is what you asked of me. To care for your daughter. It isn't like I will have any children of my own, now is it?" you retort, venom in your words and Friedrich's jaw clenches.

"No. Because that would require a husband willing to touch me." 

"Stop," Friedrich growls, looking away and taking an inhale of his cigar. "Stop acting like a petulant child for once, Y/n." 

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Oh! I am the one being childish?"

"Neither you nor Clara are to go outside at this hour. It is cold and dangerous and ladies do not climb trees. It is unbecoming."

"It is September! And hardly—"

Clara runs up, pulling on her father's trousers. "Can Y/n and I play in the gardens?" You stare at her, then your gaze flickers to Friedrich. He twirls his hand in Clara's ringlets, careful not to mess them up too much, and smiles at her with a softness he's never awarded to you.

"No. It is dangerous. Plus, you need to finish your French studies, Schatzi (Treasure)," he explains plainly and you juststand there, unable to speak up even when a look of disappointment crosses her features. She just nods, listening to her father. Once Edith takes her upstairs to her room, you glare at Friedrich. 

"You cannot keep her locked up in here! She's a little girl who craves adventure!" 

Friedrich looks more and more agitated. "You are a horrible influence on her. She needs stability, routine, not vapid stories that will put foolish ideas into her little head!" 

"Vapid? I was telling her of how Anna and I—"

"She does not need to hear stories that will make her sad—" Friedrich says sternly. 

You walk closer, clenching your hand in your dress. You're much closer to him now. "Make her, or you, sad?" you challenge and that seems to be the last straw for him because he slams his palm into the doorframe, causing you to flinch as ashes from his cigar fall. Friedrich lets out a shaky exhale and glares at you.

His eyes flicker from your face and then downwards for a moment and something burns inside them that you haven't seen from him in the months you've lived here. You open your mouth to make another comment but decide against it when shuts his eyes, his lip trembling with hurt. He doesn't speak either and instead, he leaves you standing alone in the hall.

~ * ~

Rain drums against the window as you lace up your boots. Clara stands by the door, looking outside as she watches the sky turn orange and pink. She turns to look at you and smiles, but there is also a hint of hesitation behind her icy-blueeyes. "Will Papa be angry with us?" She asks you, her voice small. 

You smile at her, putting on your coat and bonnet. You kneel and adjust the buttons on her coat as you wink. "That is the fun of it, pumpkin," you pause and think, plus he's an arrogant prick so who cares.

Clara nods and she looks outside at the rain and mud. She grins. "Okay."

All her worries seemed to melt away as soon as the raindrops hit her bonnet with a soft splat. She's a giggling mess as you lead her further into the gardens, the damp grass wetting her shoes. You take her small hands in yours as you dance in the rain. 

"Mama would not have allowed this," she says breathlessly, grinning as she dances with you happily and kicks more mud with her shoes. "But, I am glad we can do this. I am glad you are here," Clara adds in a whisper and happiness spreads inside your chest. You laugh and laugh and twirl so hard your expensive bonnet falls into the mud, rain drenching your hair as it continues to pour over you. 

Thunder claps, the rain falling harder and harder, and eventually, the sky turns dark, chasing you both back inside the house as you slam the grand front door, leaning against it and laughing.

You drop your wet fur coat onto the carpet as Clara does the same. The little girl keeps giggling. You kneel next to her to undo her shoes and run your hands over her arms to warm her up. Clara wipes at the soaked fabric of her dress, holding it up as it drips, and she keeps giggling. 

However, the sound of someone clearing their throat startles you both. 

Clara tenses. She drops her dress, turning around to stare at her father. "Papa," she whispers. Your heart is pounding as you stay on your knees, dropping your hand from Clara's arms. Your wet dress is clinging to your corset, the cream color of your dress turning half-translucent from the water. You don't dare look up at your husband as you bite down on your lip, tasting blood in your mouth. 

He wasn't supposed to be home until tomorrow.

"Edith," Friedrich's voice cuts the tension as he calls over the maid. He doesn't sound more angry than he usually does and Clara's hand finds yours, squeezing. You hear the faint sound of Edith entering the hall and then Friedrich continues, his voice unemotional. "Bring Clara upstairs. Run her a warm bath, clean her up, and then put her to bed, thank you. It is past her bedtime." 

"Y/n," Clara whispers your name as her shoes, coat, and then herself, are hurried upstairs without a word. You keep your head low as goosebumps explode across your exposed skin. Your wet hair sticks to your cheeks and you realize you've left your bonnet outside and the curls in your hair have flattened. Your dress, the one you assume must have been Anna's dress is ruined—the expensive satin completely covered in sticky mud.

"Stand up," Friedrich demands, his voice strained. You do as he says, holding your breath. You hesitate to look up at him, but when you do you feel heat rush up to flame your cheeks. Your husband doesn't look upset, not in the same way you have seen him look before. Instead of contempt, his eyes are dark and intense with a feeling you can't quite discern. His gaze drops to the collar of your dress, where the sleeves hang and expose more of the skin of your collarbone.

"I can explain," you whisper, knowing that whilst he truly hadn't been cruel to you up to now, your behavior tonight was unacceptable and warranted any punishment he deemed suitable. 

Friedrich stalks closer, his jaw clenched. You back away a little, gasping as your back presses against the wood of the door again. "Please. I am sorry," you mutter, hands and body shaking. You aren't sure if it's out of fear or from how cold you are. "Please do not be angry," your voice trembles. Friedrich is still walking closer and what's worse is he hasn't said a word. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for a blow of any kind. He would be in the right to scream at you—strike you even. You had deliberately disobeyed him. None come. Instead, you feel his hand on your cheek, gently caressing your cold skin and you tense. This is the first time he's touched you since your wedding.

"You're shaking," Friedrich points out, looking over your frame. His eyes meet yours. "Do I scare you?" 

Your stomach twists at his words and your eyes snap open. You're breathing heavily now and his touch feels so foreign on your skin. You don't quite know what to do. "N-no–" you whisper. It's the truth, he's never scared you. What you're feeling now feels completely different than fear. It's a feeling you don't quite understand. You feel the dampness between your thighs, something that only happens when you are around him. 

Friedrich quirks a small smile, the first one you've seen directed at you. His hand slides down from your cheek and trails down your arm until his fingers curl around your wrist quite tightly. "Come. You will catch a cold," he says, pulling you closer and down the hallway into an open door. 

You don't move at first, eyes wide, but when he looks back at you and sends you a nod, you follow him into the parlor. "Friedrich, I- I must go upstairs. I need to clean up, please. What are you doing?" 

He leads you into the room, gently guiding you into his armchair. Your dress soaks the fabric and you feel out of place and cold. You watch him as he kneels by the fire, beginning to make it for you. To warm you up. You've never seen him make his own fire, the servants have always done that but he doesn't call them in. Plus, it seems like he knows what he's doing. The flame sparks and warmth slowly spreads across your skin. 

Once the fire is going, your husband turns to you. You're still shivering, but the warmth helps. Friedrich is still down on his knees, looking up at you with an unreadable expression.

"Is it working?" he asks, kneeling closer.

You feel dizzy and you whisper, straining a smile. "Ah, the fire? Yes, it is working. Thank you, Friedrich." You can barely focus on his question as his fingers start delicately unlacing your boots. He's being so intimate. You open your mouth to question him, but he speaks before you do. 

"No. Not that. Your little outbursts," Your husband chuckles, smiling. His hand slides up your calf now and hooks into your stocking, peeling the drenched fabric from your skin. You gasp, shifting against the chair and sitting up.

You open your mouth to protest but he does the same with your other leg. The flames from the fire cast a glow on his features as he sends you a warning look not to question him and your stomach burns. 

"My outbursts?"

"You think I have not realized how hard you try for my attention? How you do anything for even a sliver of my time. Have I been neglecting you, hm? Is that it? Do you crave me that much, Mein Liebling (my darling)?" His voice is sharp, almost mocking. 

Your eyebrows crease and your lip trembles. "You know what you have done. You have kept me, chained to you forever, without so much as the solace of your liking. I am an accessory, not a wife—you have said as much—nothing more so please, Friedrich, do not mock me." 

Friedrich looks up, his gaze dark, and he hums. Then, he lifts your skirt and disappears underneath the fabric. You sit up, your skin shivering as you feel his lips slowly inching up your thigh but you cannot see him. Fear strikes you. "Friedrich? What is—What are you—oh—" 

He's still underneath your skirt and he hooks his hand under your undergarment, his palm splayed upon your hips as you slouch in the armchair. 

Your face is burning warm and you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand, as he pulls down your undergarments and exposes you. You squeeze your thighs instinctively, attempting to hide yourself from his gaze. You wish to kick him away, but something inside you stops you. Almost like a desire you do not understand. Friedrich clicks his tongue, pushing them apart as he continues to kiss your inner thighs, near your most intimate place. 

"S-stop—" you whine behind your hand. A burst of unfamiliar sensations explode in your stomach. It feels good, but you're also scared of what this means. Friedrich continues for a moment until he feels you shaking and then he emerges from underneath your skirt. He pushes the fabric down, his hair is a little messy and his face is flushed. He wets his lips.

"It is alright, let me," he tries convincing you, gliding his hand up your legs and bunching up your skirt near your waist. You whimper, knowing he can see you bare and needy for him. You can see him now, see what he wants to do, and your fear eases a little. Your mind is spinning as you begin to understand. He wants to take you.

What had changed?

You shake your head, scrambling to sit up, and frantically push your skirt down. "You shall not touch me. I am not your wife," you say, your voice shaking. He has no right to touch you after what he had said and done.

Friedrich chuckles, his hand still splayed on your thighs. "But, you are, aren't you? My wife. Now, I am only doing what you want so let me show you what a good wife does with her husband." 

He grabs your ankle and lifts your leg onto the arm of the armchair, opening you up and you gasp. However, his lips find your slick hole, kissing and licking like a starved man.

He's rough and clearly a little angry. You tremble, tears in your eyes as you focus on the new sensations. You're whispering his name, your voice hoarse as you let out small whimpers. "I have been good to you," Friedrich grunts, tasting you some more and he moans into your folds. "I have kept my distance, I have let you stay pure, but you consistently disobey me. You put my daughter in danger and why? For my attention?" 

Your legs shake and you push up your skirt, finding his hair to hold onto as his tongue explores inside you in ways you didn't even know were possible. Tear stains fall down your cheeks as you accidentally tug on his hair harder than you'd meant to, whimpering. Your leg falls from the arm of the armchair and Friedrich leans back on his heels. 

"Stop being so damn difficult," he reprimands and lifts you up into his arms. You gasp. He's surprisingly strong and it doesn't take long for him to practically throw you onto the maroon, plush, loveseat near the window. 

The rain still hits the window and you gasp again, choking on a sob as Friedrich reaches behind you and with a grunt, half-rips your dress and corset. The materials fall over your shoulder, exposing your breasts to the cool air. You look up through teary eyelashes at your husband and your stomach twists in anticipation. Friedrich's blue eyes are dark and he licks his lips once more. 

He stands and begins to undress as your chest heaves. You sit uncomfortably on the loveseat, half hanging on the end, simply waiting for Friedrich to touch you again. Your mind screams at you that you should be scared, but you aren't. You're almost excited.

His hands are back on you, tearing more of the dress as his hands grip your hips and pull you flush against him. "I shall buy you a new one," he whispers in your ear as the dress, which was already covered in mud, falls from you—torn and ruined. Friedrich promises this as if he has noticed this dress was one of your favorite dresses. As if he's noticed you would wear it more than the others.

Which is impossible. Friedrich doesn't notice you.

You feel something hard press against your core and you gasp, hands grasping the cushions as you look down between your naked bodies. Friedrich looks different than you do between his legs and it looks hard and angry. You whimper, hand grasping for something more to hold than some cushions. You try moving away, but Friedrich's hands tighten on your hips as he keeps you close. 

His lips attach to your nipple, causing a small cry from your mouth that he quickly muffles with his lips. Your eyes widen as he kisses you, one of his hands leaving your hip to rest against your cheek, his thumb pressing under your chin. You melt into his kiss, your mind going fuzzy as he finally gives you what you've been craving all these months. Friedrich grins against your lips, positioning your hips as he begins to press inside you. 

You gasp, pulling your mouth away. "Shh, little dove," Friedrich's voice in your ear causes you to freeze and you realize his movement has paused as well. "It will not hurt you much. Your body is made for this. It will open up for me."

You're breathing heavily and anticipating some horrible pain. When you feel him fill you up, your body moving against the loveseat with the thrust, a tear escapes your eyes from the sting and the intrusion. Your skin bursts with goosebumps and Friedrich's hand caresses your cheek, his lips kissing your neck. 

You feel him slide out and you can breathe again, until he thrusts back in a little harder and you squeeze your eyes shut as you let out a small whimper. Tears threaten to spill from the pain but when Friedrich's hand comes to the back of your head against the cushions, holding you as he leans in and lets you cry into his shoulder. "Only a little while longer," he coos, his hips not faltering his movements as he groans into your hair, pulling on the strands. 

The pain slowly subsides, turning into pleasure, as his movements continue. You lose track of time and place as Friedrich makes love to you, kissing and biting your skin as he whispers mocking praises in your ear. As his thrusts become less rhythmic, you clench around him as his words become more pointed. 

"You're nothing like her. You don't act like her, nor do you feel like her," he mutters in your ear and your stomach twists as he compares you to Anna. "But, I cannot resist you either. Look at you, taking me so well. You are so beautiful. I am going to make sure you carry my child. Isn't that what you wanted, mm? To be mine?" Friedrich groans and you feel something inside you snap as warmth explodes in your stomach and a strange liquid fills you up, the substance smeared across your thighs.

Your body feels heavy as you let your head rest on the plush cushions. You blink, your eyes are unfocused and tired, and you barely register Friedrich shifting around and pulling out of you until he's leaning over you, his hand gently tapping your cheek. Your eyes flitter open and he's smiling.

A real smile. 

"Come. Up. You need rest," he says and drapes a woolen quilt over your naked, sweat-shimmering form and then lifts you into his arms once more. He's half-dressed again, just in case he runs into any servants, but you only fully come to when you feel a warm cloth pressed in between your legs, wiping away the white liquid and streaks of blood. Exhausted, you whimper and then some time must have passed because you feel the bed dip and strong arms pull you in against him. 

You blink, eyes tired, but you no longer feel sticky on the inside of your thighs. "Friedrich?" you mutter into the darkness as the figure next to you turns out the oil lamp. 

"I am here," he whispers, his hand playing with your hair. You can't see him in the darkness but his voice doesn't have the anger or firmness it always does. Instead, he sounds almost guilty. 

You let out a shaky breath. "Please do not be upset with me," you whisper, lips dry as you lean your head against his shoulder. You're savoring his presence, almost afraid he'll disappear. "I am sorry. I shall try harder to be like Anna. Please, I promise I shall try. I do not like it when we argue. I do not like it when you are away. I am lonely—" Your confessions are interrupted by shifting and then you feel Friedrich's nose press against yours and his warm breath fans over your lips. 

"You do not need to change anything. It is all my fault. I have been selfish and weak. I have been so consumed in my grief I have ignored what was right in front of me. Sleep now, all will be well. I am here with you, and I shall be here when you wake," Friedrich says it like a promise and he seals his words with a gentle kiss on your lips. And when the morning light shines into the room, you're both still tangled under the sheets; skin to skin. 

~ * ~

"Papa!" Clara shrieks, jumping into his arms as he steps down from his Coach, removing his tall hat. He grins at his daughter and scoops her up in his arms, resting her a little more uncomfortably on his hip. She’s grown up quite a bit since the last time he did this.

You walk down the steps, your movements slow, as you cradle your son in your arms. When Friedrich looks up and sees you, his smile only widens and he drops Clara onto her feet again as he walks over and hesitates by his son, instead cupping your cheek. 

"Good evening, my dove," he whispers. 

It had taken weeks for you to trust Friedrich's change in behavior. After all he had gone from distant and cold, to loving and warm in the span of mere hours.

Friedrich had explained everything that morning: how he'd rushed into a marriage, forced by his business and family, when he wasn't ready to move on, and how your presence—so similar and yet so different from Anna—had only made things worse.

He had apologized profusely for neglecting you for months, but what truly earned his place in your bed was his patience. He did not force you to forgive him, instead, he waited until you eventually did. 

Not long after your forgiveness everything had changed for the better when the doctors told you were expecting a child. Friedrich was over the moon. He was turned upside down, becoming nothing like the husband you had known for the last few months, instead, he was present and doting and it was as if he'd finally decided to court you. 

To love you. 

"I am sorry I was away when it happened," Friedrich whispers, gently moving the blanket that covers little Friedrich's face as the sleeping baby simply rests against your breast. Friedrich's hand moves up to push away some curls from your forehead. After all, it has only been two weeks since little Friedrich's birth and you were still exhausted. "Why you insist on nursing him when we have help for that, I do not understand."

You send your husband a pointed look. "He is mine. I will care for him." 

Friedrich smile simply grows and he cups his hand around your nape, pulling you in gently and kissing your hairline. He feels Clara's hand pulling on his tailcoat and he lifts her up into his arms again. "Do you like your brother, Schatzi (Treasure)?"

Clara hums and hides her face in his neck again, causing a low chuckle from his chest. You smile at her and then look back down at your son. He's so beautiful. You lift your gaze and see a look in Friedrich's eyes. One that isn't happy nor sad. Your stomach twists and you catch his gaze. "Are you okay?" you whisper, your voice low. 

Friedrich looks at you and for the first time since you'd fist met him all those months ago at the graveyard, he looks right through you. You inhale. You know where his mind is. Anna and Louise. You hold your breath, afraid you'll lose him again, but that cloudy look in his eyes soon disappears after a moment and a soft smile curls his lips. He leans in and kisses you, keeping your son hidden and safe between both your chests as Clara's feet sway against your dress and she rests her head against his shoulder. 

"I am. I will be, Mein Liebling (my darling)," your husband promises and leans his forehead onto yours and after a breath he says,

"I love you."

~ 🤍 ~

^ this is how I imagined the dresses reader wears (left: during the graveyard but in all black. middle: wedding dress. right: her favorite dress)

[hederasgarden]

Eternal Devotion (1/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader  Word Count: 3.9K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Heavy angst and grief, period typical sexism, creepy things, mildly dubious consent, sexual content, vampirism and all the warnings that come with that (I’m diverging from canon a bit in regards to feeding). This is my attempt at Gothic Romance. A/N:  The reader has always been Friedrich's wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @caught-reading for their help with this fic.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her. -Hozier

The room is dim with the curtains drawn tight, allowing only a sliver of daylight to creep through the gap. In the distance, the soft hum of morning activity rises from the rest of the house, the gentle chatter of your two daughters layered over the quiet rustling of the servants preparing for the day ahead. You should rise and follow the rhythm of the world outside this room, but you cannot. 

Friedrich has been gone nearly six months. It feels like a lifetime. The days stretch endlessly, and each one feels like an affront, a reminder that the world refuses to stop turning. How are you supposed to go on living? You know if you had died, Friedrich would have climbed into the casket beside you and his grief would have blotted out the sun.

But there was no casket for him. No body left to bury. He was swallowed by the sea, lost while fulfilling a promise you made, helping Ellen return to Thomas.

Your daughters do not yet grasp the finality of it. No matter how many times you tell them, they speak of their father like he is simply away at work, perhaps, or out on some important errand. And each morning they act as if he’s come to tuck them into bed, kiss their cheeks, and say their prayers like he did before. They look up at you with soft eyes, the very same as his and you must relive the pain of it again and again when you remind them their father is gone.

Sometimes, you wish you could believe your own dreams, the ones where Friedrich slips back into bed beside you. Yet even in those fleeting moments of illusion, something is wrong. The warmth you long for is absent. His touch is colder, harder, his presence not the way it used to be. When his lips meet your skin, it stings, sharp and unfamiliar, and the truth rises within you, pushing against the comfort of the dream. 

It’s not him. And it never will be. Now and forevermore, each morning you will wake to find the sheets beside you cold. Empty.

Everyone told you the grief would abate with time but these past few weeks have drained you more thoroughly than any that came before. Each morning, it feels as though your very blood has turned to sand, your bones to lead. Even the simple act of turning onto your back, to stare up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, takes more effort than you can summon. 

You remain in bed until the door creaks open, and the light sound of footsteps follows. Kerstin’s voice is no more than a whisper as she brushes your shoulder.

“Frau Harding. Your parents have arrived for breakfast. Your father wishes for you to join them.”

The sight of your maid’s pale, worried face is enough to rouse you. You let her dress and prepare you for the day. Although she’s done this a thousand times, there’s something about the way her hands hover over the buttons of your gown, the hesitation before each movement, that makes you feel like a stranger in your own skin. You see how she and the other servants watch you now. Even when they pretend to be absorbed in their tasks, their glances are sharp, laden with worry. They fear you’ll descend into the same madness as Ellen, but it is only your grief, so vast and deep, that’s reshaping you in ways you can’t even recognize. 

When you enter the dining room, your daughters rush to you. You hold them close, inhaling the familiar scent of their hair. Your mother greets you next, reaching out to cup your face in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. There is a deep sadness in her eyes and she glances over at your father with a look halfway between pleading and resignation.

“Come, you must eat,” she encourages, guiding you to sit beside her.

Your father, sitting at the head of the table, offers no such tenderness. His presence is a commanding weight in the room and the deep set of his brow lets you know this is not merely a social visit. You glance at your mother who stares at the hands in her lap and your fingers curl around the richly upholstered arm of the dining room chair. Whatever he has come to say will not be good, you realize. 

“The children are finished with their breakfast,” he announces sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a command. With a quick flick of his fingers, he gestures to the governess. “Take them to the parlor. Their mother and I have matters to discuss.”

Once they are gone, your father doesn’t wait long to speak again. “It has been six months,” he begins, his gaze unwavering. “Long enough. You must remarry, and soon.” 

You blink, momentarily stunned. Six months? Six months since Friedrich was swallowed by the sea, leaving nothing but an empty, aching space behind. Six months in which you have not even been able to make sense of the grief that clings to you like a second skin. How could he even think of you remarrying so soon?

“But… Father, I…” you begin, the words faltering in your throat.

He doesn’t let you finish, his voice growing sterner. “You must think of the future, not just of your own sorrow. The children need stability, and you need a husband. You cannot manage alone, not with the wealth you inherited from your late husband.”

You shake your head, even as you know there is a kernel of truth to his words. The vast estate, the shipyard, and the assets Friedrich once managed all fall on you now. It is a burden you are not prepared to shoulder and one you have steadily ignored these past months. But even beyond all that, the thought of remarrying, of taking another man into your life is something you can’t even entertain.

"I cannot… not yet," you whisper, barely above a breath. And in the pit of your chest, a deeper thought rises unbidden: Not ever.

“I understand your reluctance,” he says firmly. “But even now, men circle you like vultures. They want your husband’s wealth and his business. We must act swiftly and secure the right match — for you, for the children, for our family’s future.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to pass. Your hands move to straighten the cutlery in front of you, anything to occupy them, anything to hold off the flood of emotion threatening to spill over.

And then, almost without thinking, you speak. “You never say his name.”

Your father’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Friedrich,” you whisper. “It is always my husband or your son-in-law. You do not… you do not say his name.”

There is a long pause before your father clears his throat, dismissing the uncomfortable silence. “We cannot afford to linger on sentiment,” he says. “Sentiment will not feed the children or keep the business afloat. We need to think practically.”

You stare at him, hearing nothing more than the absence of your husband's name in his voice, the not-so-subtle command that you too must move on, move past this grief, and return to the world of the living. 

“You cannot make me do this.”

"Perhaps not," your father concedes, exhaling sharply. "But your husband has many cousins who would think nothing of reclaiming control over the business." He pauses, taking a deliberate sip of his water, his eyes never leaving yours. "Men who would see no value in a widow and her daughters when they have families of their own.”

His words have their desired effect, leaving you feeling small and powerless. Your shoulders slump, the strength in you draining away as your head hangs, heavy with the crushing knowledge of what awaits.

“Now, your mother has already arranged for you and the girls to have new clothes made for your return to society," he continues, his tone cool and businesslike. "We will host a small, intimate gathering. I will invite a few prospective suitors—men I consider promising options. You may, of course, choose which one you wish to pursue."

“How kind you are to offer me a say,” you murmur, the words bitter in your mouth.  

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I know grief has stolen your good sense but you will watch your tongue when you speak to me,” your father warns. 

A surge of emotion rises within you, sharp and unwelcome, forcing its way up your throat. The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and unrestrained. “You would not speak to me this way if Friedrich were here.”

Your father shakes his head, rising from his seat to tower over you. “He is not here, my girl. He will never be here again. You are alone in a world that is unkind to women such as yourself.”

The pity in his eyes is more than you can bear. The dam breaks, and the first wave of tears crashes down, unbidden and unstoppable. A  flood that drags you under. You sink back into the chair, helpless as wracking sobs tear through you, a deep, raw ache flooding every part of your being.

Distantly, you hear your mother’s voice chastising your father. Her arms slip around you, pulling you close. She whispers gentle reassurances, her shushing echoing the soothing words you’ve said a hundred times to your own girls, but it feels empty now, a hollow repetition that cannot shield you from the brutal reality.

Friedrich is gone. And with him, any hope you once held of finding happiness.

–

When you step into your father’s parlor, the weight of every gaze in the room settles on you like a tangible thing. The faces that turn toward you are mostly unfamiliar, offering you that sad, understanding smile you’ve grown so weary of. It is a smile that means nothing at all in light of their presence here. Each one of them is complicit in your father’s schemes.

“You look lovely,” your father says. He presses his lips to your cheek in an exaggerated gesture of affection, more a farce than any real expression of love. “The blue truly suits you,” he adds, his eyes dropping to take in your fine silk dress. 

It’s the latest fashion from Paris, or so you’re told. Once, a dress like this would have delighted you—Friedrich always took such joy in bringing you the finest, most exquisite silks and fabrics from his travels. But now, the dress feels all wrong, too tight and too revealing, exposing more of your shoulder and décolletage than you’re comfortable with. 

You smile at your father. Even though it barely touches your lips it doesn’t seem to bother him. He simply sweeps you further into the room, his hand on your arm guiding you forward as he begins the task of making introductions. It’s a performance, and you are trapped at the center of it. But you do as your father and society demand, falling into the practiced motions of politeness. 

You engage in small talk, offering the kind of perfunctory responses that are expected of you, feigning interest in whatever these men have to say. Some ask after your children, while others offer their condolences for your loss. But behind their kindness lies a predatory sort of interest. It is all you can do to nod, offering your own strained smile as you stand there wondering how much longer you can keep up this charade.

When your father finally leaves you for a moment you close your eyes, exhaling. 

“Oh, dearest girl.” 

The unexpected voice makes you flinch. You turn, meeting a familiar pair of brown eyes of Herr Gothrim. Of all your father’s friends, he is the one you think might understand your plight the best. He lost his wife to the plague that swept the city nearly a year ago.

“It is shameful what your father is doing. Forcing you from your mourning period so soon.” He shakes his head. “Though, I confess, had I daughter like you I might be convinced to do the same.” He steps closer, his voice quieting. “You are the talk of the city and beyond.”

“They desire Friedrich’s wealth,” you reply. “Nothing more.”

Herr Gothrim stares at you for a moment before he speaks again, his words laden with something that makes your skin crawl.

“Do not sell yourself short. You are young. Beautiful. You might still bear your future husband a son or two.”

Friedrich had wanted a son. You knew that long before you ever married him. He had spoken of it often, longing to see his name carried on but he never once made you feel like an instrument to secure his legacy. More than that he loved your daughter fiercely, completely. And though it might have been a sin, he loved you even more.  

“I fear you will not have the luxury of time, my dear,” Herr Gothrim warns. “Your father will push forward with his plans, and if you do not make a choice, one will be made for you. Perhaps a familiar one would be best.”

His eyes briefly flick over his shoulder, and you follow his gaze. It rests on his son, Pieter. The sight of him makes a sharp, uncomfortable feeling bubbling up from within. Once, he had petitioned your father for your hand and before Friedrich had made his offer, Pieter had been the one your father had entertained as a potential suitor. 

To your dismay, Pieter seems to take your attention as an invitation, crossing the room to join the two of you. He greets you with an overly familiar kiss to your cheek that lingers, brushing against the corner of your lips. When he pulls away his hand remains on your elbow, tethering you to him. 

“Frau Harding, you look well,” he says brightly. “Or should it be Fräulein now?”

His boldness stuns you but before you can gather your thoughts, he continues, oblivious to the discomfort in your silence. “I must confess, I was both surprised and pleased to receive your father’s invitation. And to see you again after so long. I am eager for a second chance to win your hand.”

It is only the thought of your daughters and the need to ensure their future is safe that keeps grief from sharpening your tongue. You force your eyes downward, focusing on a speck of dust on his lapels to avoid looking at his face. “My father was pleased you accepted his invitation. He has always been fond of you,” you reply hollowly.

Pieter smiles, seemingly unaware of how your voice thins and your words fall flat and meaningless. 

“You look cold,” he observes. “Come, you should warm yourself by the fire as we reacquaint ourselves. My import business has grown greatly since we last spoke.”

His touch feels possessive, demanding even yet you are helpless to do anything more than follow him. You catch your father’s eyes when you pass him. He looks pleased and it turns your stomach. 

Pieter keeps you by his side for the rest of the evening, his words a constant hum around you. Whether he’s wholly unaware of your discomfort or willfully blind to it, you can’t decide. His conversation is a relentless stream of boasts about his business, his wealth, and his success, as though he expects you to be impressed, to be eager for his attention. Each time you try to excuse yourself, your attempts are dismissed with a smile and an insistent push to stay.

It isn’t until your mother comes to collect you at the end of the night that you are finally freed from his hold. You follow her away from the gathering and into the waiting carriage, Pieter’s gaze lingering on you. 

You’re so exhausted on the ride home that the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets and the rocking of the carriage nearly lulls you into sleep. You find your daughters are already in bed when you arrive at the house. Though you loathe to disturb their peaceful slumber, you find yourself drawn to them, compelled to check on them before you can rest. You make your way down the dark hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet the only sound betraying your presence.

When you crack open the door to their room, a cool rush of air greets you, sending a shiver through you. You find their window unlatched, the curtains fluttering in the autumn breeze that has slipped in. Startled, you step further into the room, a wave of panic rising in your chest. You move quickly to reach the window and quietly shut it again. 

Once it is secured, you turn to your girls. The sight of them, peaceful and safe in their beds, eases some of the tension in your chest. Your youngest clutches a slip of fabric in her hands, her tiny face relaxed in sleep. There is something about the cloth she holds that gives you pause. You kneel beside her, gently prying it from her grasp. At the sight of the familiar handkerchief and your own needlework, worn and fraying with time, your breath stutters in your throat. 

It was one of the first gifts you ever gave Friedrich, back when he was still courting you. You had made him dozens more over the years, but still, he carried it with him, even as it began to unravel at the edges. You always assumed it was lost with him and to find it here, tucked in your daughter’s hands, feels like both a balm and a wound.

Fingers trembling, you press the fabric to your face and close your eyes. For a brief moment, you swear you can still smell Friedrich’s cologne, faint but unmistakable. You linger in that moment until your daughter shifts in her sleep and you're brought back to reality. Carefully, you tuck the handkerchief into her tiny hands and kiss her forehead before retreating from the room.

–

Your dreams are restless, an amalgam of fractured images and disjointed sensations. Pieter’s dark, unblinking eyes merge with the black fabric of your mourning gown, and then, without warning, the scene shifts, plunging you into the vast, endless depths of the sea that claimed Friedrich. 

The cold water envelops you, and you gasp for air, but the water rushes in, drowning your cries. In your panic, you thrash wildly, desperate for escape. Just as you feel yourself slipping into the abyss, strong hands seize you, pulling you upward. Your eyes snap open, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The water recedes, and in its place, Friedrich’s face fills your vision.

“I am here, I am here, my love,” he murmurs softly, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand rests lightly on your chest, guiding your breath to match his steady rhythm, coaxing the frantic pace of your heart to slow.  

You stare at him as the world crystallizes around you. Then, you surge forward, your lips crashing into his with a desperation that consumes you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching him tightly like he might vanish if you let go. The kiss is a lifeline and you cling to it with a need so raw it aches.

“Friedrich,” you gasp, reveling in the familiar tickle of his mustache and his strong hands on your body.  

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if this is real, if he’s truly here, or if your grief has finally unraveled, conjuring him from the depths of the ocean to haunt you. But then, as his lips press urgently against yours and the solid weight of him fills your arms, you decide you don’t care. It doesn’t matter if he is a ghost, risen from the sea’s cold embrace. Nor does it matter that death has leached the color from his cheeks and the warmth from his hands. All that matters is that he’s here.

“My love,” you cry. 

“I am here,” he promises, trailing his lips down the side of your throat until his mouth seals over the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. 

He lingers there, the sting of his kiss euphoric. You bury your fingers in his thick curls, tugging gently and he all but growls against your skin. With his mouth still on you, his fingers tug at your nightgown, baring your body to his eager hands. They slip between your parted thighs, finding your wet heat, and stealing it away as they work you to the peak of pleasure. Friedrich groans and the pain in your neck flares, sharp and sudden.

When he pulls away, a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, leaving you breathless and spent. You stare up at him as your vision shifts, the world taking on a hazy hue. In the dim light, his blue eyes are dark, almost silvery, and something deep within you recoils, an instinctive fear that you can’t quite name. But then, he blinks, and just as quickly the shadow fades. The warmth of his gaze returns, and those same familiar blue eyes, the ones you’ve loved for so long, look down at you with tenderness.

Your fingers hover over his face, longing to touch him again. But a painful realization stops you. 

"You are not real.” The words leave you in a rush. 

“Does it matter if I am?" he asks. "Does this not bring you peace, my love?"

You shake your head, the pain of his absence still raw in your chest. You can’t resist the pull of him, the need to feel close again, even if only in this fleeting moment. Without thinking, you draw him down to kiss you, and the taste of him is sharp, unexpectedly coppery.

"It is a horrible thought," you murmur, breaking the kiss, "but I wish I would not wake when morning comes. I want to stay here with you. In this dream."

A deep frown forms between his brows, and his hand finds your cheek, his touch colder than it should be. His mouth parts slightly, and his teeth, white and sharp, glimmer faintly against his pale lips. 

“You do not wish to find a new husband? To live?” he questions. 

"I wish only for you," you say, voice trembling but sure. "And for our girls."

“My dearest wife,” he whispers, kissing you sweetly. “I will never leave you. I cannot.”

A soft moan slips from you, unbidden, the sound encouraging him to kiss you deeper. His lips move with a possessive tenderness that fills the hollow spaces inside you. “Nor would I ever let you go," he promises. “We are bound even in death.”

Part 2

[gingerteafairy]

𝑬𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑪𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

"Selfish, profane, or sinful—what does it matter? This passion consumes me, and I welcome it. She has my heart entirely, and she may do with it as she pleases. Haunt me if that is her wish. I ask only to feel her presence."

tags n warnings: smut/mdni. friedrich harding x reader, wife!fem!reader, obsession, ghost!reader, ghost sex, heavy angst, vampirism, language, death, blood, devotion, praise kink, fingering, oral, piv. word count: 5k

@ikkyfics thank you for making me post this and not hiding it on my virtual shelf, you deserve the world <3 masterlist

Friedrich Harding’s anguished cries tore through the air, echoing across the desolate countryside. The sound was primal, raw—a lament that seemed to pierce even the heavens. Strong hands gripped his arms, restraining him as he thrashed against them, desperate to reach the coffin that housed his beloved wife. His wife. The one who had once been his anchor in a chaotic world. But those who truly knew Friedrich understood a deeper truth—his devotion to her paled in comparison to his adoration for you. For you, he had defied every societal expectation, every unwritten rule. Now, his world lay shattered before him.

Despite the lingering fear of the plague that had claimed her, he yearned to hold her one last time, to press her lifeless form against his chest and plead for the impossible.

“Friedrich, stop this madness!” Sievers barked, his voice tinged with both command and desperation as he struggled to contain the grieving man. Harding’s fists swung wildly, his face twisted in despair. The crowd watched in stunned silence, their expressions a mixture of pity and disdain. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes from the spectacle, while fathers stood grim-faced, their silence betraying their discomfort. Children whispered questions to their parents, too young to grasp the depth of the tragedy unfolding before them.

“Release me! I command you to release me!” Friedrich roared, his voice a storm of grief, his blue eyes brimming with tears that fell freely down his face.

“Friedrich, enough!” Hutter pleaded, his grip tightening as he tried to restrain his friend. “This will not bring her back! You must—”

“No!” Harding’s voice cracked as he wrenched free from their grasp, his tear-streaked face contorted in anguish as he turned to Thomas. “She was everything, Thomas! Everything I had. God help me, what am I to do now? What is left of me? Damnation! Damnation upon this cruel fate!”

He collapsed to the ground, his body trembling as he crawled toward the coffin, his shaking hands reaching for the cold wood that separated him from her. But Thomas intervened, pulling him back into a firm embrace.

“Friedrich,” Thomas murmured, his voice soft yet insistent, “you must find strength. Look at me. Look at me.”

Thomas cupped Friedrich’s face, his hands rough and calloused, yet gentle as they held the face of a man utterly undone. The dark hollows under Harding’s eyes spoke of sleepless nights, of relentless grief that gnawed at his very soul.

“I can’t, Thomas,” Friedrich whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “She was my life. How can I go on living when my heart is buried with her?”

“Friedrich,” Sievers began, stepping forward cautiously, “I did not know your wife well, but I am certain she would have wanted you to find happiness again. Life does not end here. One day, you may find love again—”

The doctor’s words were cut short by a vicious punch that sent him stumbling backward. In a flash, Friedrich was upon him, gripping his collar with a ferocity that belied his weakened state.

“Curse you, Sievers,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with fury. “How dare you speak of love to a man who no longer has a heart? Insolent doctor! You know nothing of my torment.”

Thomas and the others rushed forward, pulling Friedrich away as he sagged against them, his strength finally failing. His body, ravaged by exhaustion and starvation, could fight no longer.

By the time they returned to his estate, Friedrich was a shadow of himself. He sat in silence, his eyes empty, his face devoid of the fire that had once animated it. He stared into the void as though nothing in the world could reach him now. Even if the earth had split open before him, he would not have flinched. He was a man as dead as his wife, his soul entombed alongside hers.

"Promise me you'll be well," Thomas pleaded as he stepped down from the carriage, his voice wavering as he struggled to maintain his composure. His eyes, heavy with worry, searched his friend’s hollowed face. "Promise me you'll eat, care for yourself. Do not fade away, Friedrich."

Harding did not respond. He merely turned, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of his grief, and walked toward the door of his home. There was only one solace left to him—the fragile hope of seeing you in his dreams. To escape into a world where you were still alive: radiant, healthy, untouched by the horrors of the plague. There, you would be free, unburdened by the cruel fate that had stolen you away.

Later, cradling a glass of brandy in trembling hands, Friedrich lay upon his bed. The liquor did little to dull the sharp edges of his sorrow. His body shook with silent sobs as he closed his eyes, desperate to summon even the faintest memory of you—your touch, your voice, a fleeting whisper of your essence.

A scream tore through the silence.

He woke with a jolt, his sweat-soaked hair clinging to his brow, his breath hitching in panic. The room spun around him, and then he saw you.

You stood beside the bed, bathed in pale moonlight that streamed through the window. The white gown he had chosen for your burial clung to your form, pristine and ethereal. You were unblemished, untouched by disease, impossibly beautiful—more luminous than you had ever been in life. To him, you were divine, a vision too perfect to be real.

For a moment, he was paralyzed. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Fear and longing warred within him. If he moved, if he dared to reach for you, would you vanish? Was this some cruel trick of his shattered mind?

"My heart," you whispered, the words ghosting across the room.

Before he could react, you faded into the shadows, dissolving into the night as though you had never been there.

Friedrich collapsed onto the mattress, his body wracked with uncontrollable tremors. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as a guttural, muffled scream tore from his throat, buried into the pillow to escape the ears of the empty house. The pain was unbearable, clawing at his soul, leaving him raw and broken.

The next morning, he awoke to frantic knocking at the door. The sun was high, its rays spilling harshly through the curtains, though it brought no warmth to the bleakness inside him. Disheveled and barely able to stand, Friedrich stumbled toward the door.

Thomas stood there, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide with dread.

"Friedrich. This is... it’s terrible," Thomas choked out, his voice trembling as his fingers combed through his disordered hair.

"What has happened, Thomas?" Friedrich demanded, though his voice was hoarse and distant, his mind still clouded by the haunting vision of you.

"Sievers," Thomas whispered, his hand instinctively covering his mouth as if to trap the horrifying words before they could escape.

"What about Sievers? Speak plainly!" Friedrich snapped, irritation flaring as the ache in his head throbbed from the brandy. "Thomas, what is it?"

Thomas hesitated, his voice low and filled with a grim finality. "Sievers is dead. He was found this morning... his chest torn open. His heart—" Thomas paused, his voice cracking. "His heart was removed."

The words struck Friedrich like a physical blow. He stumbled back, collapsing into the armchair behind him. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his temples. Memories of the night before flooded his mind, your whisper echoing like a ghostly refrain.

“My heart.”

It couldn’t be real. It was madness, surely. Yet the coincidence was too stark, too chilling to dismiss. His thoughts spiraled. Could it have been you? No. Impossible. And yet... Sievers had spoken of finding another, dared to suggest that love could replace the irreplaceable. Perhaps this was divine retribution—or something darker.

"Friedrich! Friedrich!" Thomas’s urgent voice pulled him from his reverie. The friend’s hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him gently as if to rouse him from the stupor.

Friedrich’s eyes cleared, a strange light igniting within them. He rose abruptly, pacing with a frenetic energy that had been absent for days.

"Call Von Franz," he muttered, his voice low but commanding.

"What?" Thomas blinked, taken aback by the unexpected request.

"Von Franz," Friedrich repeated, his tone sharper, almost desperate. "Summon him at once. That lunatic priest may know something—or I may be mad to even consider it. But summon him, Thomas!"

Without waiting for a reply, Friedrich strode toward his room, his steps hurried and unsteady. He needed to prepare. If there was even the faintest chance that Von Franz held the answers to this nightmare, Friedrich would face him. Hatred or no, he would endure anything to uncover the truth.

He stared at himself in the mirror, his hollow eyes scanning the face that no longer felt like his own. With deliberate precision, he splashed cold water on his face, the droplets clinging to his skin as if they could wash away his torment. A smile curled on his lips, unnatural, strained—then erupted into a jagged, manic laugh. His reflection in the mirror mocked him, a fractured visage of sanity, twisted by grief.

"Ah, my love," he murmured, his voice trembling as his fingers brushed the surface of the mirror, tracing a line over his own reflection. "You change me, even in death." His hand fell to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his coat as though he could rip his own heart out. "My heart… It belongs to you, always."

With newfound resolve, Friedrich shed his clothes, stepping into a bath as if it were a sacred rite. The water lapped at his skin, cleansing not only his body but the remnants of his despair. He emerged renewed, obsessed, his every movement deliberate as he trimmed his beard and dressed himself in his finest attire. His appearance was immaculate, a mirror of the man he had been on his wedding day.

When Von Franz arrived at the residence, the pastor, startled by Friedrich’s transformation, dropped his glass of wine. The shards scattered across the floor, but Von Franz’s gaze remained fixed on the man before him, his face pale as though he were staring at a ghost.

"By night, I sought him whom my soul loves," the pastor recited, his voice trembling with unease. "I sought him, but I found him not. I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the squares; I will seek him whom my soul loves. I sought him, but I found him not."

The verses fell from Von Franz’s lips as if they were a prophecy, words carried by something beyond him. Friedrich stood still, each syllable piercing him like a dagger, his jaw tightening as the pastor's voice resonated deep within his chest.

"I must tell you something," Friedrich began, his voice low, commanding the attention of both Von Franz and Thomas. They moved cautiously toward the table where candles flickered, casting restless shadows in the dimly lit room. The once-bustling household was eerily quiet, the absence of servants amplifying the oppressive atmosphere.

Von Franz broke the silence, his voice a mix of awe and warning. "Your devotion echoes through eternity, Herr Friedrich." He studied the man before him, a shadow of the grieving figure from the day before, now alight with a dangerous fervor. "But it is selfish."

"Let it be," Friedrich replied sharply, striking the table with his fist before withdrawing his hand to retrieve a cigar from his coat. Lighting it with a flick of his lighter, he took a slow drag, the smoke curling around him as he spoke again. His tone softened, but his determination was unyielding. "Selfish, profane, or sinful—what does it matter? This passion consumes me, and I welcome it. She has my heart entirely, and she may do with it as she pleases. Haunt me if that is her wish. I ask only to feel her presence."

Von Franz’s voice grew urgent, his hands pressing against the table as though he could anchor himself to reality. "This is perilous, Herr Friedrich. You toy with forces beyond comprehension. Death is the final vow—'til death do you part.' To defy it…"

Friedrich interrupted with a bitter laugh, his eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair. "Something as absurd as death cannot separate me from my beloved." He exhaled a stream of smoke, his head tilting back as he closed his eyes. The faintest sensation brushed against his chest—soft, velvety, unmistakable. His breath hitched. "Ah, my love… Do you approve of my words?"

Von Franz stumbled backward, his wide eyes fixed on Friedrich as the air around him grew thick and heavy. He reached for Thomas, pulling the young man close as they both watched in horror.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.” Your haunting voice tantalized Von Franz and Thoma’s ears, but delighted your beloved ones, hearing every word slipping from your icy and dry lips, rough against the warm soft cheek of him. 

From the shifting shadows, your form began to materialize. Von Franz’s voice faltered, barely audible. "Impressive…" he muttered, though his face betrayed the terror rising within him.

Thomas’s mouth fell open, his voice shaking. "This… this cannot be real."

His words trailed off as your ethereal hands appeared, their ghostly outline pressing gently against Friedrich’s chest. His head fell back further, his body convulsing with an eerie ecstasy.

Von Franz’s composure broke entirely. He yanked Thomas’s arm, dragging him toward the door. "We must leave. Now!" he hissed, his voice frantic. "If you wish to keep your heart beating in your chest, boy, then we must flee this place!"

Friedrich's grin turned wickedly amused as he closed the space between you intentionally this time. “Oh, my love. Be careful what you wish for.”

“I never play when it comes to what I want,” he muttered, swallowing hard as your fingers curled slightly into the fabric before reaching his arms. “And I want you, my muse.”

As he spoke, his eyes darkened, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before he regained control. “You have something I've been searching for and found in you” he continued, as if sensing his sudden vulnerability. He placed his hand on your waist with a delicate yet firm grip, guiding you into a slow, intimate dance across the room. “Something to wish for. You made me feel something…”

His movements were measured and graceful, leading you effortlessly as if he already knew every step of the dance. “Something?”

“Passion.”

Your hand seemed to tremble. For the first time, you felt like your words ran away from your thoughts. Something unexpected in your movement as you gently lifted back up. “You're not sure of what you're saying, Friedrich. I don't…”

"If you don't want this," Friedrich cut, swallowing hard, navigating the labyrinth of his own courage, "then why does your body say otherwise?"

"I’ve learned not to trust what my body says," you replied, but your wrist didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned in, your fingers brushing the stray strands from his face with a tenderness that belied your words.

"Then listen to mine," Friedrich urged, stepping closer, pressing your hand against his chest. His heart raced beneath your touch, a frantic rhythm betraying the calm he tried to maintain.

There was something about Friedrich Harding—a tempestuous allure that made falling for him feel as deep as the ocean and as electrifying as the crackle of thunder before a storm.

His fingers lingered at the small of your back, pulling you closer to him, the heat of his touch sending an unspoken message straight to your heart. “You’re my wife, my woman, the only one I love. God spare me from my own sinful behavior through this sick pleasure.” 

“Would love be a pleasure?” you asked, your voice soft as your eyes locked with his. He studied your face for a moment before speaking.

“Perhaps the worst of them,” he admitted, turning his attention back to the fire’s flickering light. “I’ve avoided love at all costs since the last time I fell. And then you came along—wild, untamed, like the very flames in this hearth. I knew getting close to you wouldn’t end well for my… redemption.”

“Redemption?” you echoed.

“Indeed,” he murmured, leaning toward you, supported by his arm. “But it seems I’ve never learned to control myself when it comes to love. Lust, perhaps, but passion—grand, classic, all-consuming passion—never. You're my everything.” 

His voice, low and velvet-soft, broke the silence. "Make me yours again, my love.” he murmured, his lips grazing your ear. 

"You’d have the world at your feet... but I'm afraid I only offer darkness." Your voice came out faint, clinging to him, the warmth of his body anchoring you. 

"You don't have to offer anything but yourself," he replied, his voice trembling slightly, but full of resolve. "And I choose you.”

With his fierce determination, his hands tightened on your waist with a strong reverence, crushing you against him as he angled his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with your own. 

He poured every ounce of his feelings into that kiss, the way you had consumed his thoughts and dreams.

His hands roamed over your back, mapping out the curves and contours of your body in that gown, committing every dip and swell to memory. He slid one hand up to tangle in your hair, gripping the locks and tilting your head back to give him better access to the sensitive skin of your neck. 

His heart raced, pounding against his ribs like a drum as he lost himself in the taste and feel of you, the softness of your cold lips and the heat of his tongue.

“Touch me, Friedrich.” You whispered panting as your lungs felt the breathing of life again, curling your fingers on his neckline. “Feel my heart. Even when I'm dead, it beats for you. Strong and hard for I love you more than everything to overcome death itself.”

He pressed his hand against your chest, squeezing painfully the soft flesh on his palm, feeling the frantic pounding of your heart beneath his palm, the way it raced and leapt at his touch. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, a sudden, overwhelming emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

"God," he whispered, his voice breaking on a sob, "I love you too. I love you so much it hurts. You're everything to me, everything I've ever wanted and everything I know I don't deserve."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours once more, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought to regain control over his emotions. He could feel the tears slipping down his cheeks, but he didn't care, not with your arms wrapped around him, holding him close.

“Make love with me, Friedrich.” you begged as the cold tears fell, cupping his strong face in your hands. “Take me the way only you know how. Make me feel alive, let your blood boil in my veins as you make me yours because I can't stand any other night without you, Friedrich.”

His heart leapt at your desperate plea, covering your hand with his own, turning his head to press a fervent kiss to her palm before tangling their fingers together. “I love you so much it feels like I can't breathe or sleep without you, I need you to survive.” 

He took your face in his hands and slightly pulled your hair back so his nose could longer on your neck, breathing in your essence that remained intact even among the light aroma of earth and ashes with the lilies placed with you in the coffin.

“You're my everything.” He shivered, sobbing, biting your flesh, sinking his teeth, leaving his strong mark, his saliva mixing with his tears that fell every time he realized that you were there with him. “Everything.”

He captured your lips in another searing kiss, hands sliding down to grip your thighs, hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you towards the house, to the known love nest. 

He laid you down gently on the bed, his body covering yours, his hips nestled between your spread thighs. He looked down at you, taking in the sight of your locks splayed out across the mattress, skin glowing in the dim light of his bedroom.

Slowly, reverently, he slid his hands under the hem of your gown, pushing it up and over her head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He drank in the sight of you, his gaze roaming over the swell of her breasts, the hardened peaks of her nipples straining on the cold air of the night.

He leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the soft, sensitive skin, his tongue flicking out to taste you as he gripped on your breast as his anchor, pushing him back to reality, his thumbs brushing over the nipples, drawing a gasp from your lips.

“Please, Friedrich. I need you, I'm begging, please.” You sobbed, choking on your own passion as you desperately searched his face in your hand, nipping the bottom lip as you tied him with your thighs. 

"Then you shall have it, my queen," he whispered before closing the distance, his kiss deep and unyielding, as though sealing a pact written in the shadows of the room.

He held you tighter, his hand now resting firmly on your waist, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles. The words you had spoken hung between you, a weight neither of you could ignore. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, everything felt like it was balancing on the edge of a dangerous precipice.

He slid his hand up your thigh, cupping the heat of your sex. He groaned at the feel of you, already so wet and ready for him, his fingers slipping easily between your folds.

“How is it possible?” He demanded, light headed with the feeling of his beloved intimate again, he could search in all the places, he couldn't find the one who pleased him this way. 

“You're giving me life, Friedrich.” You whispered, arching your back at the travel your husband is. Loving, intense, belonging. 

He slid a finger inside you, then two, pumping them slowly, letting you adjust to the new-old sensation. “God, how I missed you.” he groaned, curling them just so, rubbing against that special spot deep inside that made you see stars. “Missed your touch, missed your laugh, your moans, your cunt. The way you moan my name, oh… everything, yeah, keep moaning for me. Please, darling. Say my name just once more, can you?”

“Oh, Friedrich.” You moaned, curling your toes as your heart beated and you felt your pleasure slip on his knuckles with your peak. 

He leaned down, pressing a soft, tender kiss to your stomach. He looked up at you, his blue eyes blazing with love and desire and a fierce, unbreakable connection. 

“Say you want me to claim you, to fill you, to make you a part of me in every way possible.” he demanded miserably, panting on your stomach, digging his fingers on your hips. “Say my name, tell me I'm not out of my senses and you are here with me. Say you need my sex deep as you crave life again as my seed overflows on your delicious inside.” 

“I want you, please. I want everything more than anything in this world or next. Fill me.” you whimpered, forking your hands on his locks, pressing him against you, grinding your arousal on his chest. 

He sighs, running his hands down your thighs, as well as his face that camped on your core, inhaling the essence and feeling an immense desire to cry at the touch of his tongue on your sensitive nerve, taking in every note of your taste.

He sank there, never wanting to leave, he just wanted to please you with his entire being, to adore you, swirling his tongue in the exact places you loved, because Friedrich knew you like the back of his hand, you were an open book to him, he deciphered all your secrets and dreams.

Everything you loved, his tongue in your canal, at the entrance, swirling on your clit and taking it all in to suck the little spot and leave a soft kiss.

“Frid, Frid, my love.” you called, sensing your approaching orgasm, you patted his head, his answers delayed by his fixation on your cunt. 

He swallowed the remaining taste, lifting his face lazily and meeting your eyes. “I love your taste.” he whispered, settling himself between your thighs, the hard, thick length of his cock pressing against your slit. “but I love being inside you even more.”

With that, he thrust forward, sheathing himself inside you. He groaned at the feel of your pussy so tight and perfect around him, it was made just for him, to wrap the way he wanted. 

Then, he began to move, his hips rocking against you in a steady, sensual rhythm, foreheads together to hear every moan, purr and whimper from you. He kept his thrusts slow and deep, wanting to savor every moment, every inch of you. 

His hands slid up your sides, cupping the soft, supple curves of your breasts, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he lost himself in the feel of you. He knew he would never get enough of this, of you, of the way you made him feel alive. 

“You're my life, darling.” He panted, deepening the sway of his hips, capturing your lips. “If it's necessary to be dead to be with you everyday like this, I'd sell my soul for just a moment. Take everything you need. Take everything from me.”

“As you wish, my love.” You whimpered, your moans becoming even higher as you craved your teeth on his neck on his pulsing point as a thin amount of blood flowed to your mouth. “Oh, God. You taste so good. Oh, fuck. You… Darling, uhmm…”

“Fuck, take it. Take more. Take every drop of me, love.” He begged, nuzzling his nose on your neck to mark you as you licked the remaining blood salty with his sweat. “Come on my cock while you suck me with your pretty cunt and your teeth. Take my soul.”

He could feel you starting to tremble, your body tensing and tightening as your climax approached. He doubled his efforts, his thrusts growing harder and faster, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he drove into you.

"Come for me, my heart," he urged, his voice a low, desperate growl, licking your bloody face. "Come on my cock, my queen. Let me feel you, all of you, now and forever.”

“Frid. AH!” The sound of your scream, raw and filled with ecstasy, pushed him over the edge. He groans,  burying himself to the hilt inside you as his own release overtook him.

"Fuck," he roared, his voice echoing off the walls of the bedroom. "I'm coming, fuck, I'm coming so hard! Take it, darling."

He pulsed and throbbed inside you, spilling his hot seed deep into your womb as he held you tight, crushing you against his chest. He could feel every clench and flutter of her walls around him, milking him for every last drop as you rode out the aftershocks.

He could feel his body growing weak, prolonging that orgasm as he gave the last thrusts, his eyes turning blank and the grip loosening. 

"Frid... Frid, my love." You cried out, watching him smile weakly, his eyes nearly fading. Desperate, you stood up and slapped his face gently against your chest. "Frid. Friedrich. Friedrich, answer me!" you sobbed, cradling his nearly lifeless body in your arms, your tears falling heavily.

"It will be over soon..." he whispered, his hands weakly resting on your back, pulling you closer. "Soon I’ll... be with you... my love... Eat my heart, and you can live with our daughters."

"How? What do you mean, my Frid?" You shouted, gasping, as life slowly drained from him.

"Wasn’t that how you... came to me? By eating Sievers' heart?" He coughed and gasped for air, his lungs sinking from the lack of oxygen. "That's what Von Franz thinks... he knows about it. You trusted him before me... I didn’t believe in you..." 

"No..." You trembled, your eyes wavering as you turned his face towards yours, gazing into his pale blue eyes, already touched by death. "It wasn’t like that, Frid. You brought me back. Your love brought me here. I manifested because of you. I can fix it. I know I can, we can live forever."

You bite your wrist, but nothing came, your blood was dry. You tried to rip your ribcage to get your heart and make him eat, but you weren't strong enough.“No… no…” you gasped

“I've always admired you. You always did your best to make me live comfortably, made me feel a king, love.” He gave a soft laugh, his body moving slightly with it. "I'm glad... I could do something… I'll love you forever" he murmured, finally succumbing to eternal peace.

“And I'll love you always, Frid.” You sobbed, holding his lifeless body in your arms, rocking back and forth as you sang a soft lullaby, the weight of your sorrow deepening, while your body slowly disintegrated, returning to dust and slipping back into your coffin.

In honor of Friedrich's love, Thomas crafted a grand coffin, large enough for both of you. They carefully prepared his body and placed it comfortably in the wooden vessel, where your hands were intertwined with his, bound together for eternity.

[cherrys-muses]

𓍯 ִֶָ FEBRUARY EIGHTH; side b — strangers - ethel cain | f. harding x r

w; r is anna’s sister — but i do not describe physical attributes, slight unrequited love (not wholly), grief, doesn’t necessarily follow ‘nosferatu’ plot — besides the funeral of anna and the children. an; first work for friedrich!!! i am ABSOLUTELY awful at writing period pieces, so please forgive me if i actually butchered this :(

mixtape here!

The tears that had fallen down your flushed cheeks almost felt frozen against your skin. The funeral was just a sickening reminder of what once was, was now gone. 

Your sister had been one of your best friends in some of the darkest times of the span of your life, helping you cross paths with obstacles and holding your hand to reassure you she’d never let go. 

And once you’d found out you were going to be an aunt to two beautiful girls, you were elated — buy little dresses and shoes for both. 

Anna had won at life in every aspect. 

Including Friedrich. 

A man whom you’d spotted one morning while you’d gone for a walk. A man who’d caught your attention by how beautiful he was to you — sad blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin. 

You’d never hold anger for Anna for finding someone who loved her just as much as she deserved — even if you longed for that feeling. Even if you longed for who was showing her that love. 

Now grief is heavy in your chest. There’s something missing — and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think someone had stolen your heart. 

The Priest’s voice slowly fades out into silence, a ringing in your ear replacing the prayer. 

Please forgive me, Lord. You manage a small prayer in your mind, yet you have yet to blink away a blurry vision of the caskets being led away and towards their final resting place. 

Your chin quivers slightly, eyebrows pinching together in what could only be described as anguish from anyone who looks at you. You can feel the eyes of Ellen who looks drained and tired. 

You can’t manage to meet the eyes of anyone else. 

Once the Priest has closed the book in his hand, your feet are quick to walk away, not wanting to be there any longer than what you had to. 

A shuddering breath leaves your parted lips, a slight stumble in your steps. It seems like a never ending path towards the carriage. A gloved hand quickly reaches out towards the door, making you stop in your steps. 

“I need to make sure you get home safely.” 

Your eyes drift over towards Friedrich. His blue eyes pop out more from his bloodshot, teary eyes. Snow dusts the shoulders of his jacket and hat. 

Shaking your head, you look away quickly. “No. I will be fine.”

“This is not a negotiation.” 

Clenching your jaw, the door opens and his hand lands on your back to help you inside. Sitting down on the left side, he steps inside and sits in front of you. Once he shuts the door, the sounds of the horses trotting are muffled as the carriage begins to move. 

The weight of his heavy stare remains on you the remainder of the way, the nauseous feeling almost dizzying. It makes you bite down on your tongue slightly as your eyes remain on the bare trees as you pass. 

The inside of your home is warm. It was small, even if you could afford a bigger home, you had no one to share that with. A small one was just as good. 

Your back straightens when the door closes and you glance over at Friedrich who looks around the home. You look away and pull at your gloves. “I am home now,” You place them on the table along with your jacket. “You can leave.” 

It’s silent for a moment. Then you hear a small sigh. “Why are you trying to dismiss me? I am trying…” He trails off. You remain with your back towards him, picking at the skin around your nails. You flinch when his hand suddenly wraps around your bicep, turning you towards him. 

You look mortified, he notices. At that, he frowns and tilts his head when you look away, trying to follow your line of sight. “Why are you practically avoiding me? You can’t even look at me!” 

“Because looking at you makes me sick!” You finally snap, looking at him finally. Even if there was no reason to raise your voice, there also wasn’t much to push you over the edge at the moment. “I can not bear to look at you without…” You trail off, your chin quivering once again. 

Your hands lift to cover your face, a sob escaping once again causing your shoulders to shake and knees to buckle. 

Friedrich’s hands are quick to capture your sides, his own knees falling with you to the ground. Shaking your head, your hands push at his arms. “No. No,” Your voice cracks and wavers. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me!” 

He allows you to push at his arms, yet he never relents. Once your clawing and desperate attempts to push his arms away, your own arms fall slowly against your side, your cheek pressed against his chest as you continue to cry. 

His hand lifts and holds the back of your head, a small furrow to his brows as his own eyes begin to water once again. Pushing your head back with his hand, you look up at him with a shuddering chest. His head tilts as he looks at you, eyeing the loose strands of hair that stick to your cheeks. 

Lips pulled into a frown, he pushes those strands away gently. Your brows pinch together and your eyes slowly close as your head turns. His thumb presses into the corner of your mouth — a gentle, soft press. 

In another timeline, this would’ve been what you wanted — the feeling of his breath against your cheek and the nudge of his nose against yours as his lips brush over your bottom lip. 

Shaking your head, you turn it quickly and feel as his nose presses into your cheekbone now. “No. I can not do this to my sister,” You whisper. “I can not do it to you or myself,” Your voice quivers. 

“You are only hurting, Friedrich.” 

“And so are you.” He whispers. Your head turns slowly, resting your forehead against his, nudging the tip of your nose against his softly. 

“I won’t do this,” You shake your head. “I…I love you. I always have. But if I allow myself what I’ve always wanted, I’m betraying Anna. I will not allow myself to give in to you.” 

His chin quivers this time, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he stares at you quietly. Hand lifting slowly, you place it over his as your cheek leans into his rough palm slightly. 

His lips are shaky and the small laugh he lets out is more like a puff of air. “Can I stay just this one night?” He whispers. 

Staring at him quietly, your mind renders you speechless for a moment. If you say yes would you still be betraying your sister? Would that be giving in to something selfish? 

Turning your head, your lips press against his palm softly before pulling away. 

Anna. Forgive me. 

“You can stay.” 

𓍯 ִֶָ tags; @ali-r3n — @marchsfreakshow — @sstar-ggirl — @pretty-little-mind33 — @love-quinn

𓍯 ִֶָ thank you for reading! comments, reblogs, & feedback are welcome & greatly appreciated!

[pascaloverx]

MINE

SNEAK PEEK

Summary: You are a journalist working for a modest newspaper, and for several years, you have been in a relationship with Friedrich Harding—a man of inherited wealth who is now embarking on a new venture in real estate renovations. One day, you are assigned to cover the story of a man known as Count Orlok, just as Friedrich is hired to renovate the Count's mansion.

Author's Note: This fanfic takes place in the Nosferatu universe but with several changes. First, it is set in the modern world. Second, instead of the reader being involved with Thomas Hutter, she is with Friedrich Harding. I’m not sure if I will continue the fanfic, so if you enjoy it, please interact and leave a comment. If not, my apologies.

AO3 LINK one

PREVIEW

A heavy rain reminds you of the night you lost your parents in a terrible car accident. Rainy nights bring back the loneliness that settled in your heart since their passing. You remember begging, on the night after their death, for someone—anyone—to come and keep you company. Someone you would have by your side, no matter what. At times, you recall kneeling by your bed, feeling the wind grow stronger and stronger. Since then, from time to time, a creature visits you in your dreams. You never see it entirely, but you hear it murmur, growling as it whispers your name, appearing only as a shadow behind the curtain.

"Darling!" Friedrich calls from the first floor of the house you share. You stand on the balcony of the master bedroom on the second floor.

"I have incredible news," he says, rushing up the stairs excitedly.

"My love, be careful! The last time you climbed these stairs in such a hurry, you spent two months in a cast," you say, moving toward him. But he is so thrilled that he lifts you off the ground, spinning you in the air.

"I've secured a once-in-a-lifetime work opportunity. This could change everything!" he exclaims, pressing several kisses to your face. You smile, happy for him, while waiting for the right moment to share your own news.

"I'm so happy for you that I almost feel bad for saying this now, but—I’ve been offered the chance to interview a Count. The catch is, it's outside the country. I told my boss I needed to discuss it with you first," you say as he gently sets you down.

"The renovation I'm about to start is also abroad," Friedrich murmurs, cradling your face tenderly. "It seems fate has already decided for us, doesn't it?"

"And what if we are sent to different countries?" you ask, worry creeping into your voice at the thought of being apart for so long.

Friedrich smiles, his gaze warm and reassuring. "I would travel the whole world just to see you," he says before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

For a brief moment, everything feels perfect—until a voice, deep and distinct, murmurs in the distance: "Come to me, sweet creature, come to me." The words slither through the air like an unseen presence pressing against your skin.

You tense, glancing around. "Darling, did you hear that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Friedrich chuckles softly, leaning closer. "I can only hear my heart pounding for you," he murmurs near your ear. His breath is warm, grounding—but the sensation of another presence remains. The whispering fades, yet something unseen lingers, watching, waiting.

"You are a fool," you say, shaking off the unease as you playfully swat his arm. It is only then that you truly notice his attire—an old-fashioned ensemble, carefully tailored, complete with a hat that makes him look like he stepped out of another era. Your brows furrow. "And what exactly is this outfit?"

He turns slightly, adjusting the fabric with an air of pride. "The client wants us to dress like this when we visit his estate for the renovation," he explains, flashing a charming grin.

"You are quite the sight for sore eyes," you say, stepping closer and pulling him into a lingering kiss.

Friedrich laughs softly. "It’s amusing, really, that we’re both going to work for a Count." He pauses for a moment, as if trying to recall something. "Actually, my client has the strangest name… sounds like a clock, wait—"

"Orlok?" you interject, the name slipping from your lips before you even realize it.

Friedrich snaps his fingers. "Yes! That’s it—Count Orlok. Strange name, isn't it?"

A cold shiver runs through you. The name feels eerily familiar, as if it had been whispered to you in a dream. You glance toward the window, where the heavy rain distorts the world beyond. For a fleeting moment, you swear you see a shadow shifting behind the curtain—tall, gaunt, and unnervingly still. Friedrich, unaware of your unease, chuckles. "I suppose it adds to the mystery. Who knows what kind of man he is?"

You try to force a smile, though your mind lingers on the voice from earlier. "Come to me, sweet creature, come to me."

"The strangest thing is that we are both going to work for him," you say, shivering slightly as Friedrich's lips trail along your neck.

"All I hear is that I'll be with my beloved—traveling, working, and stealing every possible moment together," he murmurs before capturing your lips in another kiss.

In one swift motion, he lifts you into his arms, making you laugh softly before carrying you to the bedroom. Later, as you lie entwined in Friedrich's arms, sleep slowly claims you. But in the depths of your slumber, something else stirs.

"In the darkness, we meet again, my sweet creature," a voice—inhuman, neither fully man nor beast—echoes through the void.

"Who are you?" you ask, but your breath falters. The air is thick, heavy, suffocating, as if your lungs refuse to obey.

A shadow, faceless and towering, lifts its clawed hands toward you. Every instinct screams at you to run, to scream—but instead, you step forward, drawn by something far beyond fear.

"Come to me," it commands, and before you can resist, its grip closes around your throat. The claws nearly pierce your skin, and a sharp pain spreads across your neck as you feel the warm trickle of blood.

Then, the creature moves closer, its presence overwhelming. Cold lips press against your skin, and an unnatural stillness fills the air. A shiver runs through your spine as you feel sharp teeth sinking into your flesh, puncturing the delicate skin of your throat. The sensation is excruciatingly real—so vivid that you can feel the slow pull as your blood is drained.

A wave of agony crashes over you, unbearable and all-consuming. The pain burns through your veins, twisting deep into your core until— you jolt awake, gasping. Your hand flies to your neck, your pulse racing beneath your trembling fingers. The pain lingers, phantom yet undeniable. The room is dark, silent except for Friedrich’s steady breathing beside you.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Hi Della, I am gonna be shameless and ask for a Friedrich Harding angst to fluff. LIKE LEGIT ANGST. Please make me tear up or bawl my eyes out. idc. I need to feel something. Maybe she fell first but he fell harder type of trope??? Maybe Harding believed Anna is it for him but in reality it’s the reader whom he really wants? HSHSHHAHAHA I AM BABBLING AT THIS POINT BUT I HOPE YOU GET WHAT I MEAN. 😭

The Wrong Name In The Dark ♡ : A Friedrich Harding Fan Fiction.

pairing : Friedrich Harding x female!reader

summary : A hauntingly poetic tale of unspoken love, aching devotion, and soul-deep yearning, where shadows of the past threaten to eclipse a heart that has waited too long to be seen. In the quiet ruins of heartbreak, love finds its voice—and redemption.

warnings : Intense emotional angst, Themes of unrequited love and emotional neglect, Mentions of crying, grief, and internalized heartbreak, A scene with mistaken identity/intimacy, Begging, emotional vulnerability, and desperate confessions, Heavy gothic imagery and melancholy tone, Mentions of blood/curse (Nosferatu themes), Redemption arc and emotional healing. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. This is a drabble, i.e, an extremely short fiction.

word count : 1k

main master list <3

della's note : Tally, I swear I didn’t mean to fall headfirst into Period Piece Aaron Taylor-Johnson brain rot, but here we are 💀 I originally dodged the movie 'cause I’m a certified horror wimp, but your request made me brave—and now I’m emotionally destroyed and weirdly grateful?? I had so much fun writing this (read: sobbing into my keyboard), hope you like it!! Sorry it’s short, blame Friedrich’s brooding. I really hope you like it though <3. Oh and btw, this is split into 7 parts of grief prioritizing the moments instead of dialogues. OH AND BTW, I AM HONOURED TO WRITE THIS!! Your fan fictions are my sole happiness!

banners : @uzmacchiato and @roseschoices

I. THE NAME THAT WASN’T YOURS

You learned to live with shadows.

They curled around your ankles like smoke, crept into the lining of your soul, and whispered lullabies of silence. And he—Friedrich Harding—was the storm inside the silence. A man cloaked in enigma, all stern bone structure and unspoken tragedies, the very embodiment of winter itself.

You loved him in secret.

Loved him in the way the moon loves the tide—always pulling, never reaching.

You watched him turn his gaze toward Anna with the weight of something ancient, something cruel. She was light. The kind of light that blinds. You, on the other hand, were the soft candle left burning in the church long after the choir stopped singing.

You were not her.

And he—he never looked at you the way he looked at Anna.

Until he did.

But by then… it was far too late.

── .✦

II. THE FALL

There was a night—the night it all split open.

He was feverish, haunted. Nosferatu’s curse bled from his skin like ink. You found him crumpled in the cathedral ruins, whispering her name like a prayer—Anna, Anna, Anna—as if it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing into ash.

You knelt beside him, hands trembling, heart breaking.

“Friedrich,” you whispered. But he didn’t hear you.

Only her name passed through those cracked lips.

You should have left him there. But love makes masochists of us all.

So you stayed. You wrapped your arms around his broken body, even as the night swallowed you both. And when he reached for you in his delirium, mistaking your warmth for hers, and kissed you—God—you let him.

Because you were nothing if not loyal to your own destruction.

── .✦

III. THE AFTERMATH

He didn’t speak to you for days after that night. Not a glance, not a word. Just that tortured silence of his.

But you saw it.

The change.

He looked at Anna like she was the sun. But he looked at you like you were the stars—distant, yes, but constant. Always there. Always waiting.

And still… he said nothing.

You cried in the chapel one evening, when you thought no one could see. The pews were empty. The sky outside was bleeding.

But he saw.

He always saw.

── .✦

IV. THE TURNING

When Anna left—when she chose another—you expected to find Friedrich broken.

Instead, you found him quiet.

A dangerous kind of quiet.

He came to you that night, soaked in rain, cloak dragging behind him like a shroud. You didn’t move from your place at the window, didn’t flinch when he dropped to his knees before you, head bowed like a penitent.

“Say something,” he rasped. “Please. Anything.”

You blinked. “Why? So you can hear my voice and pretend it’s hers again?”

He flinched. Good. Let it hurt.

“I was blind,” he whispered. “And worse—I was a coward.”

You didn’t respond.

He crawled closer, his forehead resting against your thigh now. “I see you now,” he murmured. “Not as a shadow to her flame. You were always the fire. I was too much of a fool to notice until I burned.”

You pushed him away, stood up. The silence between you was almost holy.

“I needed you to love me first,” you said softly. “Not when she was gone. Not when I was convenient.”

“I didn’t fall in love with you because you were there,” he choked. “I fell because you never left—even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Your eyes filled with tears.

“You still don’t,” you whispered.

── .✦

V. THE BEGGING

“I’ll earn it,” he swore. “Even if I must worship the earth you walk on, follow in your shadow, crawl through the dust just to be near you.”

You turned away, heart in your throat.

“Please,” he begged. Begged. “Say you hate me. Curse me. Slap me. Just—don’t walk away.”

You spun around, eyes blazing.

“I do hate you,” you spat. “For all the nights I spent praying you’d see me. For the times you called her name while holding me. For breaking something in me that I didn’t even know could break.”

Friedrich’s face crumbled. “Then hate me. But let me love you now. Let me stay.”

You stepped forward. He reached for you like a dying man reaching for God.

And finally—finally—you let him touch you.

── .✦

VI. THE REDEMPTION

He did what he promised.

He worshipped you.

He touched you like you were made of stars, loved you with the ache of a man who almost lost his soul. He never said her name again. Only yours. Again and again, like a rosary.

You weren’t second choice.

You were the last choice.

The only one.

The final chapter in a book written in blood, silence, and yearning.

And when he kissed you again—not in delirium, not in grief, but in truth—the ache inside you softened into something tender, something eternal.

── .✦

VII. THE END

He no longer lived in the shadows.

He lived in you.

And for the first time in forever… you weren’t alone.

You were chosen.

You were seen.

You were loved.

And as he held your face, whispering, “I was always yours. I was just too blind to see it,” you wept—not for what was lost.

But for what was finally, finally found.

[larainbloom]

So I could not stop myself from making a few Nosferatu bots as I fear I am in love with the film but rather than making several posts for them I wanted to put them out in one go because I know you guys come to my account for primarily Harry Styles content. Either way I present: The Nosferatu Collection

Thomas Hutter: in which Thomas is your loving and devoted new husband who would do anything for you.

Friedrich Harding: in which you're making dinner with your husband.

Count Orlok: in which he comes to you in a dream.

Young Count Orlok: in which you're Orlok's arranged bride. (This idea comes purely from the one line where the nuns mention he was dark sorcerer in life and a piece of fan art that I saw a while ago imagining what he would've looked like young. I don't remember who it was but I will come back and add that if I find it again so you guys can see the vision too)

If yall have ANY requests for these characters, let me know man, I love them all so much I'd be happy to make them. The obsession is real, I have a tiny merch collection going. My mom got me the cutest shirt from Vera's Eye Candy as an early Valentine and I'm so obsessed with it.

My requests are open to any and all! I make bots for others but primarily Harry so feel free to submit for any of them or submit more than one if you’d like! My inbox is wide open to all for everything from requests to just chatting 💖

(Now that these guys are out here I should update my masterlist cause not gonna lie, I don't even know when the last time I did that was)

[marchsfreakshow]

DUCKIE!!! BABE!!! i did not forget to send you a request for friedrich. i just simply could not come up with one </3

BUT, maybe something a lil angsty and a lil self-indulging :p!!!!

A Hand On Your Shoulder

Angst

CHERRY MY LOVE. ohh he's the definition of pretty when you cry. Like..lookit him! Augh. Ok this is gonna be so ooc but I can def try for u 🫶

A walk in the snowy cemetery was all you needed. Mourning a family member, lost in the blacks of your clothes. The soft crunch of the crisp snow under your boots.

Lost to your thoughts, you accidentally bumped into someone. "Oh! Excuse me sir, I do apologise.." You took a glance up at the man you bumped into, seeing him close to tears. He looked like he didn't even care that you walked into him by accident.

"ah, it, um... it's fine, I apologise.." he uttered, shaking his head, waving you off. My...those were the prettiest blue eyes you'd ever seen. Over come with grief. You made eye contact and he noticed your concern for him, despite being a stranger.

"Sir? Are you okay?" You asked quietly, taking a step towards him. The man hesitated. His pain was fresh in his heart, still grieving and unable to find a way to speak it. "Please, take your time. I think company of a stranger is much needed right now.."

After a few seconds of mulling it over, the stranger nodded. He started nattering about the tale of the Hutters. It intrigued you, especially since your relative had lost their life to that plague that suddenly cursed the land.

The story was long, repetitive at times but you two had started walking together. Away from his family's grave, down a few paths. Your hand resting on his arm to help support you. Once the tale had been told, you just stared at up the man, shock, a new wave of grief hitting you. "Oh sir..oh I am, truly, sorry for the losses you have experienced. That..is ghastly. No one should have to go through that." Were the first words to escape your lips.

The two of you continued to walk.

He simply didn't say anything back, but kept you close to him. Like you giving his heart to him was all he needed. Not like it was his wife..but it something.

[otaku-girl-ao3-fics]

Aaron Taylor-Johnson characters fic masterlist | Otaku_girl

My main master list | My main blog: @otaku-girl-ao3 | My fics only blog: @otaku-girl-ao3-fics | All of my work AO3: Otaku-girl

Requests: open / closed If it's an ATJ character, I'll consider it~ Just drop an ask to my main: @otaku-girl-ao3

Key

⭐ - slash 🌟 - het 💫 - multi ✨ - gender neutral 🌠 - none 💕 - author’s favourite 🥰 - most popular

Currently working on:

Bullet Train x Kraven the Hunter crossover, Baby I'm Preyin' On You Tonight - 2025

30 days, 30 fics - 30 days of Kraven, Bullet Train, The Fall Guy and 28 Years Later fics. - June 2025

Bullet Train

Multi-chapter

✩ Baby, I'm Preyin' On You Tonight | Sergei x F!Reader x Tangerine | Explicit | 50 chapters, WIP | 🌟💫 ⭐💕 ✩ I just wanna see you (be brave) | Tangerine x Ladybug x Lemon | Explicit | 67.5k  | 💫💕 🥰 ✩ She Said | Tangerine x Reader | Explicit | 16.2k | 🌟

✩ Baby, it’s cold outside | Tangerine x F!Reader x Ladybug | Explicit | 26k+ | 💫 ✩ Breathe | Tangerine x domme F!Reader | Explicit | 8.55+ | 🌟 ✩ Touched (for the very first time) | Tan x Bug | Explicit | 7.8k  | ⭐ ✩ Oil on water | Tangerine x Ladybug x Lemon | Explicit |6.9k  | 💫 ✩ A certain satisfaction (in a little bit of pain) | Tangerine x Lemon | Explicit |11.7k  | ⭐

Series

✩ Call me (Yours) | Tangerine x f!Domme Reader | Explicit | 24k+ | 🌟

Oneshots

✩ Hold (me) | Tangerine x domme F!Reader | Mature | 4.3k | 🌟 ✩ Understanding| Lemon & Ladybug | Teen | 4k  | 🌠 ✩ Devotion | Tangerine x Ladybug | Mature | 300  | ⭐ ✩ Tease me (please me) | Tangerine x F!Reader | Explicit | 300 | 🌟 ✩ Made for this | Ladybug x Tangerine | Explicit | 200  | ⭐ ✩ Takin’ care of business | Gen | Teen | 4.6k | 🌠 ✩ A moment in time | Tangerine x Ladybug | Explicit | 900  | ⭐ ✩ Baby, I can explain— | Tangerine x F!Reader | Teen | 3.4k | 🌟 ✩ You say it best | Tan x Ladybug x Lemon | Explicit | 1.2k+ | 💫 ✩ Honey, I don’t wanna know | Tan x Ladybug | Explicit | 2.2k | ⭐ ✩ You don’t have to say | Tangerine x Ladybug | Explicit | 2.5k | ⭐ ✩ Late night surprise | Tangerine x Ladybug | Explicit | 3k  | ⭐

Headcanons

✩ How Bullet Train and Kraven could be the same universe 🌠

Kraven the Hunter

Series

✩ Pet or prey | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit | 22.8k+ | Trilogy | 🌟

Multi-chapter

✩ Baby, I'm Preyin' On You Tonight | Sergei x F!Reader x Tangerine | Explicit | 50 chapters, WIP | 🌟💫 ⭐💕 ✩ Prisoner 0864 | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit | 16k | 🌟 ✩ First time | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit | 48.2k | 🌟🥰 ✩ (Give me one more) Night with you | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit | 17.5k | complete | 🌟

Oneshots

✩ Night hunt | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit |11.7k | 🌟💕 ✩ No pampered pets | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit |15.8k | 🌟 ✩ Mine (all mine) | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 7.3k | ⭐ ✩ Caught in the hunt | Sergei x Reader | Teen | 300 | 🌟 ✩ Sweet dreams | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 2k | ⭐ ✩ (Ask me to) Stay | Sergei x Dmitri | Mature | 6.5k | ⭐ ✩ Just say (I am yours) | Dmitri x Reader ~ Sergei x Reader | Mature | 3k | 🌟 ✩ (Take it) Easy | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 5.1k | ⭐ ✩ Price tag | Dmitri x Reader ~ Nikolai x Reader | Explicit | 4k | 🌟 ✩ Friday night | Sergei x Reader x Dmitri | Teen | 3.5k  | 💫 ✩ Hunt | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 4.8k | ⭐

Headcanons

✩ Aftercare with Sergei | Sergei x You |✨ ✩ Soft!Dom, Dark!Soft and Daddy Sergei | Sergei x You ✨ ✩ Sergei & Reader love languages | Sergei x Reader (First Time universe) ✨ ✩ How Bullet Train and Kraven could be the same universe 🌠 ✩ Dmitri (and brother Sergei) HCs 🌠 ✩ Dmitri HCs part 2 🌠

Nosferatu

Oneshots

✩ Doctor’s orders | Friedrich Harding x F!Reader | Explicit | 2k+🌟 💕🥰

Multi-chapter

✩ (This could be) Perfection | Friedrich Harding x F!Reader | Explicit | work in progress🌟 ✩ Parting gift | Friedrich Harding x F!Reader x Thomas Hutter | Explicit | 19.5k | 💫

The Fall Guy

Oneshots

✩ Post-it Notes and Promises | Tom Ryder x Reader | T | 10.4k 🌟 ✩ Assistance | Tom Ryder x Reader | M | 3.4k 🌟

My mains: Tumblr - Otaku-girl-ao3 | AO3 - Otaku_girl

[etherealily]

ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ // ꜰʀɪᴇᴅʀɪᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ

Friedrich Harding + fem!reader. Based on this ask <3

My other fics, if you have the time.

Note : Haven't done physics since high school, don't be smart alecks in the comments. Also, I somehow wrote pure love? No angst? Ew.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You're a modern marvel, and he's a futuristic businessman looking to invest.

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"Women are not common in this line of work."

His tongue's close to the mouth of his cigar, and he wonders for a moment if that may accidentally send off the wrong message. Entice you, perhaps. Seduce you. Inadvertently offend you.

"But not unwelcome?" A tilt to your lips. A sip of your wine, and his eyes reluctantly follow the drops down your throat as you gulp.

"Not at all." He's not sure how to do business with a woman, truly. He's trying to be respectful, but he's lost. Did that smirk mean you wanted his business or wanted him? Or both? Or neither?

"You are... a feminist, then, I take it?"

"A feminist? What a novel word. Is it French?"

"It is, indeed. Fourier penned it down first. Means someone who believed women and men can belong in the same opportunities, if I am not mistaken."

"But they do not."

"Come again?"

"You would not be able to imagine a man in the art of child-rearing and a woman sweating in a factory, now could you? Well, unless there is something gone terribly wrong in their lives. A loss of their spouses, perhaps, leading to him to raise or her to provide."

"And this is your segue into saying something has gone terribly wrong with the deal?"

He smirks. Beautiful. "Precisely. Your father and my father had been in business decades ago, and had a fixed deal. Which was expertly designed to benefit both sides back then, but times have changed, wouldn't you agree?"

"The deal is outdated?"

"Very much so. Aged like... milk, perhaps, though I suspect our fathers hoped for wine.", he replies, licking his lips before he leans back to rest his arm on the back of the exquisitely crafted chair you have allowed him to seat himself in.

"I can give you this...", you say, punctuated with a tap of your finger on the topmost layer of the collection of photos (expensive to procure, he notes. You must have fit into your inheritance of the business perfectly) "And throw in its newer model, as well, and lower it to the same price as the original, but that's all I can do."

"But it appears the original has increased in price.", he observes, one knee over the other.

"I assure you, Herr Harding, no price increase is without reason. Tough times, wouldn't you agree?"

His tongue rolls around to the back of his molars, before he shakes his head. "What else can you offer me?"

You lean forward. "This, this, and perhaps an anchor or two."

"For?"

"Twenty-five."

He snorts. "And if I walk out right now?"

"I will close the door behind you. I do not wish to let in a draft."

Audacious.

"You need to help me out here, I'm afraid.", he smiles, courteous and professional. It doesn't matter how breathtaking you were, this was a business meeting.

"Trust me, Herr Harding, this is me helping you out."

"There has to be something you can do. I cannot, in good conscience, you see, unjustly increase my procurement costs while our profits stay stagnant."

You point. "Ah. Stagnant, but never bad."

"No one would say no to more money, would they, madam?"

You laugh at that, though hushed and polite. "Alright. Three of the new models, then. Three anchors. No originals."

"The new models at the price of the originals?"

"Yes."

He stands, his hand out. "You have a deal, madam."

"Thank you, sir."

Your handshake's firm, he notes. You've either been rigorously trained, or you're made for this.

"I do, however, have a condition, Herr Harding, one that I know my father set, but not rigidly enough, not even nearly, and all our customers skirt around it."

He nods, his brows furrowing for a moment, before he sighs. "The weaponry."

"The weaponry.", you affirm. "Herr Harding, we provide solely for cruise ships and merchant ships, not military ships, not ones which create havoc in the oceans."

"You refer to the HMS Medusa.", he mutters, attempting to fix his hat on just perfect so that you are not privy to the bulging vein on his forehead. He recalled the horror stories his father told him about sea-wars, and conversely, the horror stories he'd been told of his business partner who refused to take part in naval ship-building.

"It is said to be huge, stacked with carronades, and it is already the talk of the town, despite having just been ordered this year.", you explain, your hand gesturing to the door of the study so that you may walk him out.

The clicking of heels overlap, just as your voices do.

"But madam, military ships are the new—"

"I am aware, but it was my late father's wish—"

"I understand that, however, you must think of how it looks for me to refuse my customers - the Navy, essentially - simply because you do not wish your accessories part of a military effort.", he reasons, his fingers skirting around the rim of his hat.

"These are my conditions, Herr Harding. I will have my people draw out the deal, and if you are not interested, simply do not sign. I bid you a good evening."

His first time dealing with a woman was proving to be the last time he'd ever want to.

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Friedrich had grown up watching his Papa at the factory, his little feet straining to keep up with Herr Harding's purposeful strides as he moved with his hands behind his back, his workers earning warnings, instructions, and approval alike from their boss.

Now, he is the Herr Harding, and he, too, strode with his hands pinned behind him, moustache twitching every time that he sees something he approves of. "Good job, Johann.", he mutters offhandedly, before his eyes fixate on something approaching him.

The annoying "businesswoman" who could not even lower her price for one of her oldest, most trustworthy business partners. You.

Yet, he remains civil, cordial, even, as he walks to you. Although, it's hard to remain himself when the sunset on the horizon strategically behind you blazes the edge of your hair just so. It's as though your hair's dripping Sun.

"You might have written, I could have sent a rider to bring you on horseback."

"Ah, that's no trouble. I quite like walking by the port. The sea breeze calms me."

"So, this is a random visit, then?"

Your brows furrow. "No, it is mentioned in the drawn-up agreement that you signed. We come and ensure our materials are not being used on a war ship, or anything to do with the military."

He fights a scoff and suppresses an eye roll. "Right. I must've missed that. It is the first time this has ever happened. Do you mean to say, all these decades, you have had spies?"

You chuckle at that, shaking your head. "No, no, this is a new condition that we added. We— Herr Harding."

You've noticed, it seems.

"Those are cannons."

"That will be covered. They will be tucked in safely to the—"

"Herr Harding, it was my father's wish not to inadvertently induce violence, because his father, my grandfather, said to him—"

"Military ships are the new necessity.", he grits out, patient and firm.

"My father believed—"

"Your father believed that he could bring popularity to such an imbecilic concept as "cruise ships", madam! They have never, and will never exist ; there is no one with such an interest in the sea besides pirates and dolphins, and your father, god rest him!"

Your scoff (and what would have been a very biting retort, he's sure) is cut off when the foghorn sounds. It seems to give you enough of a jolt not to say something you do not mean, although Friedrich knows that what he's just said had crossed a line.

"You are a liar, then, Herr Harding."

His arms open, almost like a hug, although you know it is not. "I am a businessman, madam."

"A liar. We should not like to do business with you again."

"You cannot afford to lose us as customers!", he calls to your retreating figure. "You know this!"

"My father used to tell your father everything, but those times have changed! You and I are not best mates, Herr Harding! I have gained a lot more customers than you know of!"

That gives him pause.

Truth of the matter was that he could not afford to lose your business.

He sighs. God. Doing business with a woman? Hell. No wonder "feminism" was such a novel phrase. Hopefully it stays in France.

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His hat presses against his chest as your maid opens the door.

"Is the Madam in?"

He's not sure what they call you, but he's sure they won't take it kindly if he used their Lady's first name so casually.

"Sir, it has nearly gone midnight."

"It is alright, Frieda.", a voice is heard, and his brows bunch together, paired with a squint of his eyes, and he can almost make you out in the bluey dark of the night, your beauty highlighted by the vague orange tint of the maid's candlelight. What a challenge you were proving to be. "Let him in."

His gaze is fixed on the floor when you excuse yourself to tighten your robe's knot, and then, he dutifully follows you into your study, which is surprisingly already sparkling with gentle glows of burning candles throughout, a gold sheet over the dull browns he'd been privy to not a month before.

"This is wildly improper, Herr Harding."

"Yes, yes. I am aware. I simply wished to convey my apology. I... spoke out of line, and I hurt you. I, of all people, know how tender the name of a father is in a child's head, how precious, and it was a line I did not wish to cross."

"Is that it?"

He huffs. He could leave while he's in the safe zone, having apologised for both the rudeness and the late-night visit. But when has Friedrich ever been able to resist a tiny peek past someone's walls, especially someone as exquisite as you, in your nightrobe, repeatedly running your hands through your hair to ensure the results of sleep (or tossing and turning) left it?

"No. If you have time, I'd like to go over the next order."

You raise a brow for a moment, before you scoff. "Unbelievable."

He, for one, did not expect this. "Come again?"

"Midnight, on a Sunday, and you expect—"

"I'm sorry, I'm confused, how does the day matter?"

"No one reads the contracts!", you whine, shouldering past him and causing him to lurch forward to hold onto the table for balance. You return rather huffily, dropping a tiny stack of papers identical to the one delivered to his house nearly a month ago for him to sign, onto the table with a flutter. "We've adopted Industrial Britain's idea of a "week-end", though they have only Saturday afternoons off. We have a five day workweek. It's novel, but I've found it highly increases my employees' spirits, and they work better."

His finger slides across the page as he reads, his lips mouthing the words before his striking blue eyes move up to yours, brimming with incredulity. "You're telling me that two days of the week, neither you, nor your employees work? And you've somehow managed to gain customers in this... this... chaotic new system of yours?", he splutters, his hands running through his hair.

"It intrigues people that my company's services are not available every day of the week, it makes it seem scarce and exclusive and—"

"Mad! I'm in business with a madwoman, a child, as well, as I've found out from due research on my part."

"I am twenty, I am no child!", you retort, stacking up the papers with aggressive taps onto the table, before you move past him to place them back.

"Two decades you've lived on this planet, then, and more than half that time, you were a child, a non-conscious entity that merely did as told!", he spits, his arms folded so as to not clench and reveal just how vexed he was.

"And, what, you've got a couple decades on me, have you?", you scoff, mirroring his stance. "You're twenty-five, Friedrich, you are considered young in this world, as well!"

The use of his first name is what sets him off. How dense of him to expect the same courtesy of professionalism from a twenty-year-old, a girl at that, that he so kindly provided? It's almost like your very presence disturbs the air around him, tugs at the very ends of his self-restraint, offends his sense of propriety.

His hand is on you in an instant, the soft curve of the side of his palm aligning with your jawline, his index and thumb digging into your cheeks on either side, so hard he could feel your pulse. "Yes. That's half a decade wiser, little girl.", he hisses, ignoring the rage in your eyes in favour of glancing down at your lips.

It's almost as if you're aware of every silly, sinful, wrong thought that's just permeated through his brain that instant, because you slap him away, the impact echoing through the room.

He knows what's coming. It's what any self-respecting woman would do. But before you shriek 'get out', he's going to attempt to salvage this wreckage of a business relationship.

"If you are so against ships on the offensive side, enlighten me with your plans for how ships — even merchant ones — may be able to defend themselves from being seized by pirates or enemies of the Crown.", he challenges, breathily, because he's just come this close to heaven, and hadn't even made his presence known at the gates.

Your demeanour shifts, a split second frown on your brows. "Come again?"

"You have any ideas for a ship that runs solely on defence? Because I'll tell you something, if you manage, that, you'll be a pioneer."

You suck on your teeth, eyes dancing around the room. "Do I have your word to maintain secrecy?"

"Of course."

"Herr Harding.", you warn.

"Yes, you have my word."

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"Welcome, Herr Harding, to the future."

It's good there's a lack of light in this room, because it'd have been over for his dignity had you seen his jaw slacken.

"Now, believe it or not, growing up, I was quite the patriot. Quite the skeptic, too, although those often go hand-in-hand.", you begin, gesturing for him to duck as he nearly collides with a hanging model of a ship.

"And I, too, asked my grandfather and father how they hoped to engage solely in non-violence. I thought, should our enemy attack, we must be properly armed to strike back."

He follows you through the expanse of what most houseowners would use as a wine cellar, traipsing past tiny models of ships with labels he can't read, because you refuse to linger long enough with the lamp.

"Then, I realised, a good offence is worth nothing if your ship has already acquired a heavy amount of damage."

"So... you have come up with a preventative measure? Some form of device that can detect offensive intention?"

The glint in your eyes travels to your mouth as you grin. "Not quite, Herr Harding."

He loves this, he decides. There's something about the excited, almost manic way you move around, floaty, dreamlike, angelic, as you speak about what he assumes is the only thing that brings you joy and solace alike, since your father's passing.

"What if you could detect the approach of another ship, as well as its speed and direction?"

Friedrich tilts his head. "Surely you don't mean to suggest—"

"This contraption, Herr Harding, can do two calculations at once. First, the speed of the waves in general will move this knob any which way.", you demonstrate, tapping your nails on the glass. "However, this knob is for any irregularity, any... ripples, I would say, that disturb this regular pattern. Ripples big enough not to be a whale or dolphin, that is."

Remarkable. He must remember not to gasp. "Seems there are plenty variables."

You seem genuinely pleased by that. "A man of science. Good. Yes, this is a prototype. I'm working on it. However, this...", you declare, moving around the unnaturally long table to another model. "A propeller that minimises cavitation—"

"Propellers? For big ships?"

"Why not? David Bushnell did it in 1776. Why can we not?", you ask, a glimmer of mischief in your tone. "Now, these minimise cavitation, which will minimise noise. And less noise means..."

"They won't see us coming."

"That's on the offense-side, Herr Harding. I mean to say that we can creep past them, most likely. I also have a method of creating safe fog that envelops around the ship but not the crew."

He's in absolute awe.

He settles in the study armchair upstairs with a huff after you two climb the arduous stairs, without invitation, though he has a nagging feeling that the two of you had gone far past that.

"You do not mean to tell me you come up with these alone?", he muses, the question a scream in the tranquil of your study at one in the morning.

"You do not mean to tell me you run your business alone?", you retort.

"You are fascinating.", he murmurs, and you pretend you didn't hear it.

"Am I allowed to include these in my ships? Or will it take a while to perfect?"

"It will take a while."

He nods. "Fair enough. I feel honoured to have seen these."

You seem quite pleased at that, a form of childlike validation, it seems.

He points at you with a single ringed finger, with playfully narrowed eyes to boot. "You tell me the moment it's ready, alright? The propeller and the... the fog... contraption. Yes?"

You nod, and he stands, his fingers drumming at his waist. "Anything else?"

You shake your head. "I will give you the regular order by...", you mumble, flicking through pages and pages of a rough yet new book, presumably a ledger. "The fourth?"

The corners of his lips curl down in acknowledgement. "Alright."

He reaches over to the table behind you, nearly desperate for a taste of heaven once more. But he is nothing if not a gentleman, so he clutches onto the hat he'd been pretending to reach for. "I shall take my leave. Thank you for bearing with me tonight."

Doing business with a woman was tiresome, but a business with an inventor? Fantastic, magic, even.

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Friedrich isn't sure when his nails had become this blunt. Surely he had a lot more left to chew? He flexes his hands before him. No, he has not got anything left but skin to chew. It's tempting, but he wouldn't want blood to stain his legal documents as he signs them.

Perhaps one day, there will be an invention where a message once sent can receive a reply immediately, without the sender having to anxiously await it. Hell, perhaps you'll invent it.

For now, however, he has to wait the stipulated three days. You live too far, he thinks. Unnecessary.

Today, ideally, is when the return letter should have arrived.

Nine words is all he'd written.

Nine words and that had taken, possibly seventy-two hours to reach you, and another seventy-two for a letter back to reach him.

He wishes it would reach, but he sits, wringing his hands together, a bit too close to his candle.

He contemplates attempting the trick many a friend of his has shown him, swiping a finger through the flame, but recalls that this is possibly the hand he will have to use to place a ring on your finger.

If you accept.

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The fog of the early morning, and the fog from trying out your fog-contraption amalgamate into what can only be known as the eeriest blanket Friedrich has ever found himself cloaked in.

But he finds himself cloaked in anticipation a moment later, because something nearly angelic, a silhouette of sorts that seems equal parts ominous and ethereal. He knows it's you.

As you get closer, however, his mind begins to play tricks on him. You're either holding the letter he sent you, or some sort of cleaver meant to mutilate him, and in this fog, he's sure he'd be left unprotected. He's rooted to the spot.

"'I have a proposal. A real one this time.'? What is that supposed to mean?"

It is the former. The letter.

He cocks his head, a fond smile playing on his lips. The daftest, most dexterous girl he's ever loved. "You do not understand? I thought I was the epitome of clarity."

"No, by all means, be vaguer.", you hiss, waving the letter around in front of his face. "Perhaps I'll understand in about a century."

Shaking his head, Friedrich moves closer. "Did you see what came with it?"

"Yes.", you mutter, handing him the necklace. He folds your fingers around it, gently pushing it back to you.

"The ring in it, acting like a pendant? It is for you. Clear now?"

You remind him of a statue, the way you're looking at him, the only indication that you are alive being the way your eyes dart between his.

"Clear now?", he repeats, fingers reaching for your earring. "Lovely is the woman that wears diamonds."

No one has ever said that in his life. He's sure you're smart enough to figure that out, but you say nothing.

"These are pearls.", you scoff, grateful for one bit of banter, one subject change, at the very least.

He nods, biting his lip. "True. But this is not.", he murmurs, tapping on the ring resting on your palm, along with the chain around it.

"I—"

"I do not wish to be unprofessional, and I definitely do not wish to embarrass you, in any way, shape or form, because I have given you more than a tiny peek— no, an endless view behind my walls, and as a businessman... well, you know more than most how that is a suicide in the business world. I— I am afraid I am rambling, and taking up far too much of your time."

Shaking your head offhandedly, you rub the delicate chain between your fingers, your mind clearly elsewhere.

"You do not have to give me an answer that you do not want to give. You do not, in fact, have to give me an answer at all. But you did come onto this pier, to my port, because you wanted... at the very least, to know more."

You don't respond, so he pushes. "Am I right in assuming that?"

"I don't know why I came."

"I don't know why I wrote. We are in the same b— well, ship."

That earns a pity-laugh out of you.

Sighing, Friedrich is forced to shake his head for the thousandth time in your presence, and he's prepared to do it for the rest of his life, if you'll have him. "Here."

"What?"

"May I?", he asks, his palms hovering over your shoulder until you nod with permission. He places them on your shoulders, gently steering you to face the ship. "That's your fog-contraption."

He sees you smiling.

"The propellers are, of course, not visible, but I can show you the plans later."

You're still smiling.

"Look at the ship. Our ship. Your ship."

You do, and he swears he just saw a spark fly in your eyes. God.

"And now, look at me. The only question you need to answer is whether you can look at both the ship and me the same way."

Your lips part, and he's not sure if you're simply amused that he's compared himself to a ship, to your life's work, or if you're about to say something.

It seems to be neither.

You just keep looking at him, and it's throwing him off, frankly.

"What is it?" Perhaps you cannot see him in this fog.

"I'm not—"

Not in love with you.

Not interested.

Not an idiot.

Not ever going to reciprocate.

"Not what?"

"Not sure that's fixed right.", you say, and he looks over his shoulder. The fucking contraption. Teach him to love an inventor. "It's getting caught in the— hold on."

You make for the ship, but he grabs your arm, close enough that it seems like you're in the glistening study again, illuminated solely by candlelight and love. However, his fingers do not jab into your cheeks this time, no, this time, they flow against your features, jaw clenching, throat bobbing as the words he wishes to say are somehow adhered right there.

"I will not hold on.", he says, sternly. "Either kiss me, or give me an explanation, but I will not be made to wait."

He's sure he's inches away from throwing himself into the murky waters beside him.

"My affections may be seen as offensive, or seen as repulsive, or even, unfortunately, disrespectful, but I find comfort in the fact that they are at least seen.", he murmurs, his forehead against yours, tiny little kisses blooming on each of your knuckles.

He's really, desperately hoping your little fog machine works, because the last thing he needs are his employees seeing a younger woman reject him, especially with the bluntness you seem to possess and wield.

"Are they seen? Tell me they are seen. They are seen, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Are they reciprocated?"

"I'm not sure."

A tilt of his lips. "But there is a chance."

Nodding, you shrug. "Yes."

"You're a scientific mind. Tell me the chances. Not in percentages, I can never comprehend them."

A small laugh escapes you. He wants it to ring through his ears until he's driven further into insanity. "A good one."

"Air-travel-being-invented-by-tomorrow-good, or I-can-kiss-you-now-good?"

It's cheeky, he knows, and he knows you're amused, if your scoff is any indication. "Well, you know, I think it may take a few decades, but air travel may be—"

"Teach me percentages so I can tell you which feature of yours occupies which percentage of my heart.", he murmurs, shaking his head with a breathless "Shh-shh-shh." at your imminent snarky retort.

Friedrich will let you talk later. For now, as his lips move with yours and the fog acts like the veil you will wear when he weds you, he'll do the talking.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Friedrich Harding x wife!reader

Summary: Your marriage with Friedrich has been wonderful except for the fact that you haven't conceived a child yet, which worries you more than it worries him.

Genre: Angst and Fluff

Warnings: age gap (22/30), allusions to sex (kinda explicit), Friedrich was previously married to Anna but they didn't have children either, mentions of pregnancy, infertility, sexisms (regarding medical practices :( and marriages) misunderstanding trope, naive!reader

FRIEDRICH HARDING MASTERLIST

Your husband was much older than you when you married him. He was a widower, previously in love and happy, and your union had only been a marriage of convenience. Your father worked with his father in his shipyard, and they had arranged the entire ceremony. You'd even heard them talk in the parlor about how if you were of age when it was Fridrich's first time to find a suitable wife, they would have married you both sooner.

Friedrich didn't talk to you much after your initial meeting and you sensed his apprehension in marrying someone so soon after his Anna. 

The wedding ceremony still happened despite your pleas to your mother that you were ill and that they would have to postpone the marriage until your ailment disappeared. She had simply tightened your corset and shushed you, leaving no more room for anymore protesting. 

As you approached the altar, you felt sicker and sicker. Friedrich didn't look at you until you reached him, but when he did that harsh look in his eyes became softer, more understanding. You felt like you had cotton in your ears as the priest conducted the ceremony and the only thing that grounded you was the gentle caress of Friedrich's thumb against your palm.

His touch was calming but once the ceremony was over and you could finally retire to your chamber, all your nerves suddenly returned.

Friedrich sat on the bed, unbuttoning his chemise. He looked at you. "Well?" He smiled lightly and shrugged off his shirt. "Will you stand there like a frightened doe, or join me in our bed?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat and walked over slowly. Friedrich's large hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you in closer as he untied your undergarment, the fabric smooth beneath his fingers. You didn't dare breathe as his fingers danced and glided across your bare skin and the dress eventually pooled at your ankles. 

Friedrich's nose nuzzled against your neck as you found yourself on your back, his body hovering over yours. "Relax, I will talk you through what I am doing," he promised. You felt his hips press against yours, "I will not hurt you."

It was true. He didn't hurt you. He was gentle and kind. And once a cry of ecstasy tumbled from your lips, you fell madly in love. You craved your new husband's touch every waking moment. 

Friedrich was not used to you—how young and curious you were—Anna had fallen ill so soon into his marriage with her that she was never interested in being intimate, and he did not force her. With you, it was different, and he did his best to keep up and make you happy. He took you to your shared bed whenever you would ask him. 

But alas, nothing good could last forever, because the more he would bed you, the more suspicions around you grew louder. 

Why hadn't you become with child?

One evening, you lay beside your husband, his arm slung around your stomach as he sleeps against the crook of your neck. He's sleeping so calmly and you can't sleep a wink. You can feel his seed dripping from inside you, another attempt at starting a family, and you can feel tears in your ears. 

"Friedrich?" you whisper, taking his arm and turning onto your side. He groans, eyes fluttering open as he takes you in. The moon is the only source of light as it illuminates your worried expression. Your husband sleepily pushes some hair from your forehead with his knuckle.

"What is it?" he asks you, his voice thick with sleep. "It is late. Are you still unsatisfied?" Friedrich chuckles slowly but it dies in his throat as he feels you tense. He sits up, reaching over to turn on the oil lamp. Once he does, you sit up as well and look at him. Friedrich smiles and pushes some loose hair behind your ear. "What is the matter?"

"I am not with child," you whisper, your voice strained. 

"Not yet."

"Friedrich, it has been months," you try to explain your worry but he shakes his head, his palm resting against your cheek. 

"I am not worried," he reassures you but pauses when he sees your anxious expression, "but if you want, I shall call Dr. Müller in the morning, but we shouldn't—"

You cut him off and nod. "Please, will you call him?" you ask. 

Friedrich's jaw clenches but he nods.

The next morning, you're sitting in the parlor. Dr. Müller was in the hallway, discussing your condition with Friedrich. You sit uncomfortably, feeling sore from the exam, and the maids look at you sympathetically as they prepare your morning tea.

You're anxious for your husband to return with good news and so when Friedrich walks in, you stand and press a hand over your stomach. Your corset is digging into your ribs.

Friedrich looks up, his expression unreadable, and he walks over. "Mein Liebling (my darling)," he begins, his knuckle skimming your cheek. 

"What did Dr. Müller say was wrong with me? Can he help?"

"Nothing is wrong with you, dove. There is nothing abnormal that he can see," he whispers, he soothes you as his fingers play with a ringlet near your cheekbone. Your hopeful gaze disappears and Friedrich's chest tightens. "He has prescribed some herbal medicines that help with fertility, but he says we should keep trying. He did not seem worried," he explains slowly. 

You frown and shake your head. "But, my cycles. I told him they're agonizing—surely that must—"

"Shh," Friedrich kisses your forehead. "He does not think it is related."

"But—"

"Can we speak of something more joyful? Nothing is wrong with you. That is a good thing. Come, we can go for a walk in town and I shall buy you those roses you love," Friedrich says against your skin and smoothes a hand down your sides. Your lips thin into a line and you know better than to argue. Instead, you strain a smile and pretend that the gnawing worry in your stomach isn't there.

* * * 

Months pass and still no child. 

"We have been, sir," Friedrich interrupts his father's rambles one cold winter evening as he drops his silver fork onto his plate. You startle at the sound, having gone quiet as soon as the conversation of grandchildren came up. Friedrich's mother looks at you pitifully. 

You feel like you could burst into tears. This dinner was bound to be a disaster and you had warned Friedrich but he did not listen. 

"My love, why don't you and Mama talk in the parlor," Friedrich interrupts as his father opens his mouth to answer. Your husband stands, his chair scraping against the expensive wooden floor, and he helps you stand as well. You nod, unable to meet your father-in-law's gaze as you walk into the parlor room. 

Friedrich's mother does not speak to you, her gaze locked onto the door as she waits for her husband and son. 

"I–" you turn to her, picking at the skin of your nails. 

"No need, child. Our husbands will work it out," she says sternly and that pit in your stomach returns. Feeling restless, you stand, unable to bear knowing Friedrich and his father are discussing you in another room. Friedrich's mother only stares at you. 

You walk into the dimly lit hallway, your hand sliding over the mahogany door. You press against the door, listening in. You can only make out fragments of their conversation, and both of the men seem angry. 

"I will not die without a grandchild. You need an heir, Friedrich."

"I know this, and we have been trying—"

"You know trying is not enough. She is a lovely girl, my son, I should know I chose her for you, but you know what needs to be done—" 

Air leaves your lungs as tears prickle in the corner of your eyes. Herr Harding wants Friedrich to divorce you. You feel faint as you hold onto the wall, your stomach turning. Still, you continue to listen in; 

"I know," Friedrich says and then he pauses, "Just let me do this my way. I shall speak with her—"

You can't beat to listen to anything more as you move from the door, returning into the parlor. Frau Harding looks up, her expression blank, but she sees your fright.

Standing, she walks over and presses her palm to your forehead as your breathing becomes heavy. The doors to the parlor swing open and Friedrich walks in, his father close behind him.

When your husband sees you, concern immediately sparks in his eyes and he walks over. "Mein Liebling (my darling), what is the matter? Are you feeling ill?" He pulls you into him, holding you to his chest as his fingers soothingly massage into your scalp. "Shall I call Dr. Müller?"

Friedrich's mother returns to her husband, touching his arm and shaking her head. Tears blur your vision. You remember their conversation. Friedrich plans to ruin you. A sharp pain strikes your heart. 

Still, you shake your head, whispering, "No, it is nothing." 

That night, while your maids help you undress and brush your hair, Friedrich walks into your bedroom—the spare one you have without him. The maids startle, quickly finishing up, and leaving. You stand, looking confused. He never comes in unannounced. This is your space, the room you'd chosen as your sanctuary when you needed one. It wasn't often you used it, but tonight you didn't feel like joining Friedrich in your shared chamber.

"Friedrich," you whisper, bare feet padding across the carpet to him. 

He meets you in the middle and holds your arm. "I think we should travel. Go to the seaside. The fresh air will do you some good. Clear your head. It could help," he smiles and his hand splays across your stomach. You tense and grab his fingers, pushing his hand down. He frowns but doesn't comment on the gesture. "I can arrange one of the ships in the morning for us. The winds have been good and it shall only take us a week to England. My family owns a cottage near the sea and I think—"

"I do not want to travel," you say. 

"Y/n—"

"I want to stay home," you argue, looking up at him. 

Friedrich looks disappointed and his jaw tightens. His hand raises and he strokes your cheek. "I don't think I can give you a choice, little wife, you've been looking so sad. This is sure to cheer you up." You know that there is no changing Friedrich's mind and that pit in your stomach returns. 

Will he do it there? Soften the blow with the smell of the ocean? You would rather stay home, somewhere where the memories you both shared could remind him of his love for you.

You barely sleep that evening, tossing and turning in a lonesome bed. You miss Friedrich's warmth and you almost wish he hadn't accepted sleeping in different rooms.

Eventually, you sit up, eyes bleary from sleep and you throw your legs over the end of the bed, grab the oil lamp, and rush across the hall, creeping into your shared bedroom.

You wish you didn't need Friedrich as much as you do, because you're still angry with him, but you need him all the same. He feels you climb into the bed, humming sleepily as he hooks his arm around your waist. You gasp, setting the lamp on the bedside table, but you let him pull you into him. 

"Missed me?" Friedrich mutters into the shell of your ear. His hand slides his hand over your stomach, dipping lower until your fingers wrap around his wrist. 

He stops and looks into your eyes. You shake your head, not wanting that tonight. 

Behind a small smile, your husband simply kisses your forehead and says, "Sleep, my love." 

You relax against him, letting the steady movement of his chest lull you to sleep. The memory of his words slowly turns into a distant nightmare. 

* * *

"Are you ready, Mein Liebling?" Friedrich asks, helping to wrap the satin ribbon of your bonnet under your chin. You're standing outside the entrance as the servants ready Friedrich's Coach.

His hand flicks up to attract your attention and you nod, adjusting your cloak around you. The sun is slowly setting and turning the sky a bright orange. It had taken Friedrich longer than he'd wanted, but he had finally finished up his affairs and was prepared to leave.

You aren't too keen on sailing at night, but you'll be on the water for around a week anyway, and Friedrich knows what he's doing. You trust him. 

"Yes," you nod and Friedrich snaps his fingers to one of your maids. She hurries to take your trunk and help pull it towards the footman. You look up at him, smiling a little, and touch his cheek. "How long will we be in England?" 

Friedrich thinks for a moment, looking away, and then he looks back at you. "A few months."

Your stomach twists again. A few months? Why so long? You don't ask the question as Friedrich words to his father enter your mind again; "Just let me do this my way. I shall speak with her." You feel like crying but you hold in your tears. 

Friedrich touches your cheek. "Are you okay? You look sickly," he says and he strokes his thumb over the apple of your cheek. You look into his eyes, forcing a smile. If you pretend nothing is wrong, maybe he won't discard you as quickly as he planned. 

"I'm okay," you say sweetly, earning a kiss to your lips and you relax. 

The trip to England is dreadful, but eventually, you arrive at a small cottage near the sea. Your dress catches sand as you walk up the board stairs. It's not nearly as fancy as your home in Wisborg but it smells like salt water and you can't deny the fresh air feels nice on your skin. Your personal maid prepares your chamber as you and Friedrich sit on the porch, watching the waves crash against the shore as the sun begins to set over the horizon. 

"How are you feeling, my love?" Friedrich asks, holding your hand. 

"Well. I don't feel sick anymore," you quip.

Your husband smiles. 

That night, you make love and the night after that as well. Still, there is no sign of a baby. Weeks and weeks pass and the sound of the ocean only becomes taunting as you wait for Freidrich to tell you he's divorcing you. The more days pass, the quieter you become and the more Friedrich begins to notice the change in your behavior. 

One evening, you stand near the bed as he undresses his vest and chemise. 

"When are you going to tell me?" you blurt out, unable to keep your feelings inside. It's cruel to make you wait any longer. You deserve to know. 

He's dismissive. "Whatever do you mean?"

You chew on the inside of your lip. "I heard you and your father talking." Still, you want answers. "If you're planning on divorcing me, just tell me now, and let's stop this horrible game. I clearly cannot give you an heir!" You cover your mouth, your other hand resting helplessly on your stomach as you break into tears. "Just tell me," you add, your voice small and you shrink back a little when your husband stands. His eyebrows are scrunched together and he doesn't speak as he walks up to you and takes you into his arms, kissing your hairline as you sob.

You don't end up talking much that night as you cry yourself to sleep in his arms.

That morning, you wake up alone. The little cottage feels so empty without Friedrich and you think the worst has happened until you hear a small, little, cry from the front door as you read anxiously in the living room. You think you're mistaken as you stand and investigate the sound. It sounds like a baby.

"Mein Liebling (My Darling)?" Friedrich calls and your eyes widen when you see him standing in the doorway. In his arms is a small, not even one-year-old, baby. You rush over and touch his arm, looking at the child. The baby is crying, its small little mouth is shaped in an O and his bright blue eyes blink up at you and Friedrich.

"Meet little Friedrich," your husband whispers pulls the cotton blanket down, and caresses the baby's cheek. The child's scream turns into hiccups.

You look up at Friedrich, confused by his statement. 

"I have every faith you will conceive a biological baby, my dove. But I will not divorce you over something as silly as an heir. I love you. I knew of an orphanage around here, a good one, and I should have talked to you about it but I did want to wait some more before introducing you to him," he says and looks down fondly at the baby. You follow his gaze and you can't deny the undeniable similarity between him, and you, and Friedrich. He truly could pass as yours. "But then you spoke of divorce? I had no clue that awful concept was on your mind." 

You look back up at Friedrich. "I thought you would want one because I can't—"

"I don't and you can. Because in every way that matters, he is ours. No one has to know you didn't conceive him naturally. It's been enough time since we left for you to have a baby if we say you were some months pregnant before our journey."

You listen to Friedrich's plan and realize he's been planning this for a while. You look at your maid who stands in the corner, watching the scene in pure amazement, and Friedrich leans down and whispers, "She won't tell anyone. She's really only here to strength our story."

He hands you the baby and you easily take the child into your arms. Little Friedrich's big blue eyes, the ones that do look so much like his father's, glimmer up at you, and a warmth spreads in your chest as well as relief. 

There was no divorce. And now you have a baby. A beautiful baby boy. An heir. 

The baby giggles and looks around at your features as if memorizing you. You look down at the child with nothing but love and you decide then and there that you would die for this boy. 

"Is this why you would leave for town randomly?" You ask Friedrich. 

He nods sheepishly and moves closer to you and the baby. "Are you angry?"

You think for a moment and then shake your head. Deep down you know you can't conceive, but now that doesn't seem so daunting anymore because of the little boy in your arms. You run a gentle finger over little Friedrich's forehead and smile when he hiccups. You glance up at your husband again. 

"No. I'm not. This is perfect. He is perfect." 

And your Friedrich couldn't agree more. 

[hederasgarden]

@whatblogisthis216 has me thinking about which ATJ characters enjoy edging versus overstimulation.

Characters: Sergei Kravinoff (Kraven the Hunter), Friedrich Harding (Nosferatu), Tangerine (Bullet Train),and Ives (Tenet) Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Edging, overstimulation, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV, breeding kink, use of restraints, and a lot of other truly questionable sexual things. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

Let's start with the KING of overstimulation - Kraven!

Sergei’s stamina in the bedroom is both a blessing and a curse because he could literally spend hours between your thighs without breaking a sweat. He likes to start off with his hands and mouth. His heightened sense of smell lets him savor the way your scent changes with your arousal and he wants to be nose-deep in the source. Plus, he enjoys slowly stretching you out, adding a third and fourth finger even as you protest and tell him you couldn’t possibly fit another. But he certainly doesn’t need his hands to make you come, his tongue is talented enough. 

Depending on his mood, he might tie you up or make you wrap your legs around his head, crossing one ankle over the other, your heels pressing firmly into the back of his neck so he can devour you whole. You’ll be trembling, shaking all over with the effort to hold that position. It feels like you’re suffocating him but he’s ravenous, his hands wrapped firmly over the top of your thighs. The sounds he makes while he eats you out are filthy and you can feel yourself dripping down his chin. He’ll easily make you come half a dozen times that way before easing your legs off his shoulders and crawling up your body. 

Once he’s inside you it’s a litany of praise, his mouth roaming over your face and neck. He loves to nip and bite with his sharp teeth, teasing your nipples until they grow hard and sensitive. He could go for hours like this but he knows your body is fragile, only able to give up a certain number of orgasms before you pass out. He’s careful to toe the line, waiting to come himself until he’s pulled every last drop of pleasure from you. 

The aftermath is almost as enjoyable for Sergei as the overstimulation part. He loves how soft and pliant you become. You’re extra clingy too and he gets to indulge in taking care of you. He’ll carry your limp, half-conscious body into a steaming bath, washing you with care. You’ll be cleaned thoroughly, though his hands are gentle when they wash between your legs - he knows how sore you get. 

Once you’re dry and clothed you’ll get some water and fresh fruit before he tucks you beneath the furs in his bed. He’ll whisper something in Russian, most of the words foreign to you except dorogaya, my beloved. The last thing you remember before falling asleep is the sweet kiss he gives you, alongside the promise of breakfast in bed tomorrow.

Friedrich doesn’t have the patience or interest in edging you. Honestly, he doesn't even mean to overstimulate you either, it's just that he gets so lost in your smell and taste that he loses track of time. Can you blame him? When he’s between your thighs each moan and gasp you let out drives him nearly insane. He loves the way your thighs squeeze his head each time you come and how your body trembles the longer he stays down there.

When you thread your fingers through his thick curls and tug on the roots he groans into your cunt. His touch grows rougher and more demanding. He needs you to come again, it’s a near compulsion at this point. Each one tastes sweeter than the last and he drinks from you like a man starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive. He’ll use his fingers to work you open, his thumb circling your clit while he gazes down at your swollen cunt. Watching your face as you come undone is almost as good as tasting you. 

By the time he’s fully satisfied, you’re shaking all over, begging him to stop. Friedrich calms you down with sweetly murmured words, his hand running up and down your side soothingly. He kisses you slow and deep, wanting you to taste yourself on his tongue and understand just why he had to stay down there so long. By this point, you’re so wet that you welcome him inside without any resistance and he slides home with a groan. Despite how hard he is, he doesn’t rush your lovemaking, rolling his hips in an unhurried rhythm, drawing out both of your pleasures. This is the main show after all, the whole reason he had his head buried between your thighs in the first place. He needs to put another baby in your belly. It's all he can think about.

He makes sure you come again when he's inside you. He's a gentleman after all. While he chases his own release he's praising you, talking about how warm you are, how tightly you grip him. How good you've been for him. After, he stays lodged firmly inside, gazing lovingly at you. He just needs to catch his breath and then he'll be ready to go again. Doesn't that sound good, darling?

Tangerine loves edging you simply because he can. You look so pretty when you cry, especially when your tears ruin your makeup. The more debauched you look, the better. Nothing makes him harder than seeing you at his mercy.  He likes to use his fancy silk ties to bind your wrists and ankles to the bed so you’re spread eagle for him. Throughout the whole experience, he remains fully clothed in his three-piece suit while you’re completely naked.

Because he loves to push boundaries, even when you’re absolutely certain you’re at your limit, he’ll keep going until you have to use your safe word. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter throughout, using a mix of praise and dumbification in equal measure. You may act like you don’t enjoy it when he’s mean to you, but the way your cunt squeezes the shit out of his fingers tells a different story. Speaking of which, Tangerine isn’t about to remove his rings for this. He wants you to feel them as he curls them deep inside you. 

When it’s finally time to let you come he wants you to soak his face. After all, he put in all the work and he’s going to get his reward. Then, knowing him, he might shift into overestimation territory just because (and if you happen to pass out on him at this point, when you wake up he’s going to lecture you about falling asleep on him). When it’s finally time to sink to your body he’ll demand just one more orgasm from you as he finds his own end.

After, Tangerine will take a minute to admire what he's done to you. Maybe even snap a photo or two for later when he's gone on a job. Although he’ll clean up your tears and give you a little forehead kiss, that’s as far as he’ll go. He wants you to go to bed with a mess between your thighs. The thought of his cum slowly leaking out of you for the rest of the night makes him hard enough to go again. 

Ives has a purpose for edging you. Maybe it’s punishment for disobeying him or just because he knows you need it. Either way, you’re going to be handcuffed to the bed, sweaty, and begging to come by the time he's done with you. Ives is steady and calm during the whole experience, squeezing your thighs in reassurance while he reminds you that you can and will go another 10 minutes like this. 

And when he’s finally ready to let you come it won’t be with his mouth. You’ll come on his cock or not at all. He’ll sink into you slowly, relishing how you welcome him in with a fluttery little gasp, straining against the handcuffs. You’ve been empty for so long that it’s almost overwhelming to have him fill you up. But he’s not as unaffected as he likes to pretend. You can feel a tremor work through his body as he slowly rocks into you, building to deeper and harder thrusts. By the time you’re coming around him, without ever needing him to touch your clit, the bed is groaning and smacking into the wall.   

After Ives will clean you up with a washcloth and wrap his body around yours, nuzzling into your hair. You’ll fall asleep to him telling you what a good girl you were for him.

♡

Special thanks to @ryebecca and @otaku-girl-ao3 for looking this over.

I'm curious to hear everyone else's thoughts and reasoning. 👀

[ticifics]

Okay, where do I start? Because well, you probably already know that you're one of the people who inspires me to write (when I do something, I try to reach your level of quality), and you should also be aware that your Friedrich fics are DIVINE, a masterpiece that could easily be on display in the fucking Louvre

So it shouldn't come as a surprise that I absolutely loved this, like?? My God, this is so surreal, it's so perfect. I absolutely loved, loved, loved every word, every metaphor, the lyricism, the tone you used. It's perfect, absolutely perfect

"Never leave my side again." The whisper was filled with something primal, something he didn't usually express. "It's an order. The only one I give you."

I screamed when I read this, soooo perfect

my reactions while I was reading (marry me for the love of God)

THE SEASON BEFORE SUNRISE

friedrich harding x fem!reader

summary: feelings shift like the changing seasons.

tags n warnings: smut/mdni, angst, arranged marriage, death, post anna death, widow!reader. word count: 6.4k

Everyone knew of the desolation Friedrich Harding faced after the loss of his beloved wife, Anna, his dear companion since childhood. Yet little was spoken of the grief you were enduring from the recent death of your husband, a man who had been your companion since your early youth, and from the loss of Anna just a few months ago. Even though the years had diminished the frequency of your contact, your affection for her remained, deep and unaltered. Perhaps it was the weight of society at the time that inhibited such feelings, where female grief was treated as fleeting hysteria, a whim of weak minds and idle hands.

Women, they said, should keep themselves busy, as if the burden of suffering could be softened by daily tasks. It was due to a peculiar tradition in your family, where bloodlines and fates intertwined in strange ways, that you were now the next in line to marry Friedrich. You, the only woman not bound to him by blood, but with a dowry substantial enough to offer comfort to a widowed man. A cold comfort, perhaps, like the silent pact between two broken hearts. It was ironic, you thought, how a marriage without love could be the most fitting consolation. Two widows united not by passion, but by a shared grief and a common memory: Anna.

You and Friedrich had agreed to set aside the formalities of courtship, and secret meetings in the winter garden of your home had become a regular practice. There was no time to waste. Youth had already passed, and both of you had experienced the weight of losing something precious. Now, only pragmatism remained. The marriage would come, and with it, the certainty that the wedding night would not be consummated. There was no reason for it. There was no more urgency.

The next morning, you woke early and dressed simply, but appropriately, for breakfast. When you entered the kitchen, you saw Friedrich seated at the table, his tired eyes absorbed in a thick book. His cup of tea was nearly empty, and the morning sunlight cast soft shadows on his face, highlighting the lines of weariness that loss had etched into him. When he noticed your presence, his body straightened subtly. He closed the book with a careful gesture and set the cup back onto its saucer with an almost automatic delicacy, as though the simple act of drinking tea was a ritual of composure.

"Good morning," he said, his voice rough and formal, clearing his throat with a slight motion of his hand—an old habit of someone accustomed to maintaining an elegant facade, even amidst pain.

"Good morning," you replied softly, almost inaudibly, as you moved closer to the table. You sat down with the grace of someone who already knew the intricacies of the space, your eyes briefly settling on the fresh pastries and fruits laid before you. The gentle scent of herbs from the tea filled your nostrils, offering an unexpected sense of comfort.

“Had an unpleasant night?" Friedrich asked, lifting his cup with precision, his eyes—tired but alert—never leaving you. He took a pastry, bit into it carefully, and paused, letting the silence linger for a moment before drinking his tea with measured, slow movements, as though each gesture were calculated.

"Quite the opposite, Mr. Harding," you said, offering a gentle smile, feeling the weight of the title. The word "Mr." seemed so distant, a barrier that still lingered between you. "You have a lovely place." You paused briefly, your fingers almost absentmindedly tracing invisible circles on the edge of your cup.

"Friedrich, please," he corrected, his tone softening in contrast to his earlier stiffness. His hand moved to the napkin, white and clean, to remove a tiny crumb that had settled on his elegant mustache. Even now, after Anna's loss, he exuded an unshakable class. "We agreed to make this as normal as possible. We are adults."

"Yes... Friedrich. I apologize." You spoke with a cordiality that flowed naturally. Your smile was timid yet sincere, and you resumed your breakfast with a slower pace, as if you were still adapting to the new routine—strange and, at the same time, familiar.

The ensuing silence wasn’t uncomfortable. There was an unexpected tranquility in the air, like a silent conversation that both of you knew how to navigate without words. Being with Friedrich was different from anything you might have expected. The void left by shared losses had turned into a tacit alliance. You weren’t just widows; you were companions on a journey that no one else could truly understand. The bond between you was more than just suffering; it was the mutual acceptance of the present moment—a silent contract that, despite the pain, something new could grow. Not from love, but from necessity, from the understanding that, in some way, both of you were navigating the same turbulent waters.

"I’m afraid I must go to work," Friedrich announced with his usual polite formality, rising from the table with a smooth motion, as though every gesture of his were part of a well-rehearsed ritual. You, too, stood up, moving instinctively to give a curtsy, but he raised his hand, halting your movement with a gentle yet firm gesture.

"There’s no need," he said, his voice low, almost impersonal, but with a hint of something more—an unspoken desire to break free from the formalities.

"I always did this at my old home," you murmured, an unexpected wave of discomfort washing over you for the first time in his presence. The seemingly simple gesture felt like something larger, something from another time, something you still carried with you as a relic of upbringing.

Friedrich merely offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile as he folded the napkin with deliberate calm, his gaze briefly dropping to the table. "Don’t worry about that here." His voice softened, almost intimate, as though he were trying to push away a part of himself you didn’t yet know. "Get used to being free, without those mechanic acts."

You swallowed hard, sitting back down at the table, a little disoriented, and turned your attention back to your coffee, trying to find comfort in the small things, like the warmth of the tea. "I… Thank you, Friedrich… Have a good day."

"Thank you, Miss. Have a wonderful day," he said, giving a small nod. With a nearly imperceptible movement, he stepped away from the table, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the heavy silence that filled the air.

That small encounter, despite its simplicity, ignited something in you. A forgotten spark, a glimpse of something approaching freedom—a faint light, yet still, something that could guide the way. Even with the emotional distance between you, that moment felt significant in some way. He seemed emotional, perhaps even unsettled. You tried not to be drawn into it, but then, you heard it.

"I’m sorry." His voice broke the silence, the softness of the words catching you by surprise. When your eyes lifted, you found his gaze. Blue, deep, seeming even more lost than before. "For your husband. It must not have been easy."

There it was. The strange and unexpected connection you had sensed between you. It was the first time anyone had expressed their condolences in such a genuine way, without offering empty advice about remarrying or retreating to a convent. He understood your grief. He understood you.

"Well… Thank you for your condolences… Friedrich," you said, your voice trembling slightly, the lump in your throat tightening. You adjusted yourself in the chair, trying to find a more composed posture, yet something inside you was shaken. "My previous marriage wasn’t as happy as yours. Your loss, without a doubt, must have been much greater than mine."

"On the contrary, my dear," he responded softly, almost warmly, and leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh, as if sharing a painful secret. "You suffered the most of us all. I heard the stories of your husband. I have happy memories of my Anna. But what about you? What remains?"

His words were a sharp blow, like a knife driven deep into your chest. He knew the stories, knew the whispers and murmurs about your marriage. You fell silent, lifting the tea cup to your lips, trying to hide the tremor that spread through your hands. You sipped the tea more forcefully than you intended, attempting to silence the pain that surged up in a way you hadn’t expected. The past, with all its lies and absences, seemed to manifest once more.

"I loved him." The words came out softly, almost like a silent confession. That phrase, so simple, still felt like a heavy burden. Even after all this time, you could still feel the echo of something that, for a brief moment, seemed like love. "It was a shame we never had the chance to have a child before the… accident. I feel like it might have distracted me, perhaps."

He took a deep breath, the air seeming heavy in his lungs, and nodded, as if the words didn’t need to be spoken for both of you to understand the pain. The atmosphere, once light, now carried the weight of memories neither of you wished to revisit. Plague, death, lost causes. The torture of being left behind by those you loved.

"Would you like to take a walk?" His question caught you off guard, and the tension seemed to drain from your posture as if by magic.

"Yes. Of course. That would be lovely," you replied more quickly than you had intended, feeling an unexpected lightness in your chest. For a moment, you could have sworn you saw a glimmer of something softer in Friedrich’s eyes—something you couldn't quite define, but it stirred a mutual curiosity.

He forced a small smile and rose from the table. You took a final sip of your tea before following suit, gently wiping your face with the napkin. Friedrich took deliberate steps until he stood beside you, extending his arm so you could walk closer to him than you had expected. You looped your arm through his, and together, you walked in silence toward the garden. The only sound was the steady rhythm of your steps, almost in unison, and the faint noises of a few servants at work in the distance.

The soft morning light touched your face, the cool breeze contrasting with the warmth of the sun, kissing your cheeks with a refreshing coolness. You glanced briefly at Friedrich, who returned your look with a small smile, his blue eyes sparkling under the soft morning light. He inhaled deeply, the fresh air filled with the scent of newly blossomed flowers and the distant scent of pine trees in the garden. It was spring, but there was still a chill in the air. The birds chirped carelessly, crossing the blue sky with few clouds, which looked more like mere decorations in the landscape.

"If it weren’t for the circumstances, I’d say this feels like a romantic play," you remarked, letting the gentle breeze play with your hair. The sense of freedom felt almost absurd against the complexity of the situation.

"Indeed. It’s a beautiful day today," he replied, his tone lighter as he scanned the scene around him. Then, he paused briefly, a subtle movement that indicated a puddle in front of you, his attention that of someone who had done this countless times before. Attentive, but almost unconscious.

"Did you always do this with her?" you asked, carefully stepping around the puddle and continuing your walk. Your gaze followed his movements, unhurried, almost automatic. It was a gesture that seemed to be part of his nature.

"Not really. She was careful, as though she knew every stone she stepped on." His tone grew distant, as if momentarily transported to memories of times past. Then, a small, almost nostalgic chuckle escaped him. "But I never stopped doing it. At least it served a purpose with you. You’re a bit clumsy."

"Clumsy?" you laughed, surprised by the playful and sarcastic jab he’d thrown your way. Your laughter echoed lightly through the tranquility of the garden. "Is that an implicit signal for me to pay more attention, Herr Harding?"

"Don’t be silly." He smiled, a look of amusement crossing his face before he stifled a chuckle in his throat. "Don’t change your behavior because of some nonsense I let slip. I just mean, it’s easier to handle it that way."

"What do you mean by that?" you asked, feeling the proximity of his presence, the warmth radiating from him in contrast to the cold wind that still marked the changing of the season.

"Anna was perfect. Fabulous." He paused, searching for the right words, as if he were touching something painful, yet inevitable. Then, he cleared his throat, a subtle attempt to clear the tightness before continuing. "But sometimes I felt like I always had to be…"

"Nervous?" you completed his sentence, your gaze attentive to every unspoken word, the soft rustle of the breeze contrasting with the heavy silence. Friedrich gave a slight nod, acknowledging your guess.

"Like I always had to be perfect," he sighed, coming to a stop and sitting down beside you on a small bench in the garden, shaded by thick trees. He seemed exhausted, yet relieved at the same time, as though the weight of the words had momentarily lightened. "I know I’ll never replace her. But with you, I feel at ease. Like a confidante."

“Well, two widows together. Is there anything more tragicomic than this?” You joked, once again touching on the peculiar humor that seemed to flow so naturally between you. This time, Friedrich couldn't suppress the laughter. The sound came from him lightly and effortlessly, like a wave, vibrating through his chest, free of the constraints that had held him back before.

“You’re quite subversive, aren’t you?” he said, a playful expression spreading across his face. He ran a hand over his mouth, as if brushing away his smile, crossing his legs and slowly retrieving a cigar from his pocket. The movement was deliberate, almost like a ritual. “Do you mind?”

“No.” You shook your head with a smile, signaling for him to go ahead. Still, he placed the cigar back in his pocket with a silent respect, as if he already understood what truly mattered between you. “I’m subversive because I have a sense of humor? I didn’t know you were so conservative.”

“Spare me. These rules of etiquette are nonsense invented to rob us of life.” He chuckled, shaking his head as if pushing away the weight of societal expectations. “Look at us. We were forced to marry because someone said it’s not good for man to be alone.”

“Are you tarnishing the holy word, Friedrich?” You teased, raising an eyebrow, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. He uncrossed his legs, relaxing beside you, his posture loose.

“I think I’m not punished more than we are in this situation,” he laughed again, the sound genuine and unconstrained, a rare, welcoming laugh that echoed melodically, breaking the last traces of tension between you.

“We still broke the wedding night rule,” you reminded him, and he threw his head back in a hearty laugh.

“My God, we’re a lost cause,” he chuckled, but the laughter soon softened, fading as he turned to look at you, trying to calm his amusement.

There was something captivating in the way he seemed to reflect on the moment, a mix of enjoyment and resignation. With a nearly imperceptible movement, he tilted his head to the side, distracted, then pulled out his pocket watch. The gesture marked the end of the lightness in the conversation.

“I fear it’s time for me to attend to business,” he interrupted, his tone turning more sober.

“Of course,” you replied, standing up at the same time he did, the tension between you both dissipating as you shared one last light smile.

However, noticing that he had briefly watched you, you couldn't resist offering a small, mocking bow, one that escaped you almost without thought. He caught the gesture, and for a moment, his smile curved just slightly, a polite expression that nonetheless betrayed a shared intimacy between you.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” he promised, his words carrying a promise of something unsaid, something suspended, waiting for the right moment to be picked up again.

Even in his haste, he accompanied her to the hall. What once seemed like a simple, everyday obligation had now transformed into a silent ritual, almost a shared pleasure between them. As if fate were playing with its invisible threads, their marriage had occurred at the end of winter—an understated departure of the season’s chill, while spring began to make its first tentative steps, blossoming alongside hearts now beating in sync.

The scent of roses lingered in the air, reminding her of the bottles Friedrich would gift her from time to time—subtle gestures that concealed more than mere intentions. A soft breeze wound its way through the house, reviving memories of his elegant presence, lifting the curtains in an ethereal dance, sweeping away the dust, and bringing a refreshing coolness to every room.

Then came summer, and with it, the sun’s awakened rays poured life into what had once seemed faded. Morning conversations, filled with musings on the weather or trivial matters, filled the emptiness of a new day. In the afternoon, their exchanges became sharper, commenting on the neighbors and the townspeople who fancied themselves important, yet were, as he put it, "clowns dressed in finery." In the evenings, conversations grew rarer, more spaced out—not just due to the fatigue they both felt, but because of the weight carried by the “unsaid.”

Even though they were married before God and the law, invisible barriers still separated them. But in the rare moments they sat together after dinner, those moments felt almost precious—revealing a little more of the inner worlds hidden behind the curtains of formality.

As days passed, summer slowly gave way to the melancholy of autumn. The golden glow of warm days was replaced by a softer, almost nostalgic light that painted the afternoons in shades of amber and crimson. The wind, once a messenger of warmth and life, now blew with a distinct coolness, carrying the earthy aroma of dried leaves that gathered along the paths.

The house, once flooded with vibrant sunlight, now seemed to be wrapped in a cozy shadow. The curtains no longer danced so freely, weighed down by the thicker air of the season. Friedrich, always attentive to the subtle changes around him, watched time shape every corner with its unshakable patience. The silence of autumn was not empty; it was filled with meaning—a quiet invitation to introspection, a harbinger of something new.

The garden, once a sea of vibrant colors, had now transformed into a mosaic of orange leaves drifting from the branches like unsent letters to the wind. The last rosebuds held firm, defying the growing cold, as though refusing to accept that everything must, eventually, wither. It was a season of transition, of fleeting beauty. And, in some way, it mirrored the silent shift that was settling between them.

“You know, from the first time I saw you, I felt like I could trust you,” he confessed, his voice low but steady. As he took a draw from his cigar, he exhaled the smoke with a deliberate movement, as if releasing more than just tobacco. His free arm was lazily draped over the divan, fingers almost brushing against her clavicle, but not quite making contact—just grazing her skin in the subtlest of gestures, as if the touch was unnecessary, yet still undeniably present in the space between them.

“At the church?” You asked, turning your head to look at him. He slowly rotated his eyes to meet yours, his head slightly tilted, watching your face with an expression that could have been contemplative, though, at its core, remained inscrutable. It was as though his mystery deepened with each word spoken.

“In the garden,” he answered, pausing again to take another puff from the cigar, his eyes focused on the horizon, searching for something invisible in the landscape. When he exhaled the smoke, it moved slowly, almost poetically, as if his words were still being shaped. “When you made the agreement. You were firm. You knew what you wanted. I admire that. Strong, determined people.”

“Do you think I’m strong?” You asked, your voice softer now, a trace of curiosity slipping into the words. It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but a genuine uncertainty. Your eyes met his, waiting for an answer that might reveal more about him than about yourself.

“Stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen,” he replied, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. The world could have fallen apart around them, but in that moment, on that divan, there were only the two of them, as though nothing else mattered.

As always between them, emotions and glances didn’t need words to communicate. It was a mutual, silent understanding—the kind of connection only those who share a bond so complex can truly grasp. What they both needed in that moment was simple: touch. Warmth. Something physical and pure, the reminder of what it meant to be near, to be present. Friedrich pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was brief yet intense, pulling away slowly, as though making sure you wouldn’t pull back, that you were there, willing to allow it.

It had been so long since he had touched anyone, and neither had you. As if, for a moment, you both had forgotten the softness of human touch, the way bodies recognize each other when they are close. He absently crushed his cigar in the ashtray, his focus now completely on you. Nothing else mattered.

Slowly, he brought his hand to your face. First, his fingers slid gently over the texture of your skin, as if every millimeter was a discovery. His eyes were fixed on you, not just any look, but a deeply attentive look, as if he were memorizing every detail. When the palm of his hand met your cheek, the fit was perfect, as if your faces had been made to touch this way. He stood there for a few moments, just watching, his fingers tracing a delicate path across your lip with his thumb. A gesture that, although simple, carried immense meaning. He was with you, entirely.

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” The question came naturally, without haste, without expectation. It wasn't a simple rhetorical question, it was something genuine. Something he wanted to know.

The silence that followed was an implicit answer. You watched him for a moment, almost as if you were reflecting on the weight of those words, and then, as if confessing a secret you had kept, you answered:

“Maybe never like this.”

“You are beautiful.” He repeated, as if those words were the key that fit perfectly into your heart, as if he knew you needed to hear them in a way no one had said before. “Can I show you that?”

With the soft touch of your hand on his, you asked for more, without saying a word, but the request was there, clear and transparent. Consent. Desire. Begging. He noticed, and the answer was immediate. He leaned in once more, his lips meeting yours in a hesitant kiss, but not without intensity. It was as if the world dissolved even more in that moment.

It was just a brush. A soft touch, as if the very air between you was impregnated with something sweet and ancient. You could feel the softness of his skin, the faint scent of nicotine that still lingered on his fingers, the trace of expensive cognac, the kind of drink he kept in his library for special occasions, and even the delicate scent of strawberries, which mixed with the sensation of his touch. It was a mess of gastronomic and artistic sensations that you longed for, something sublime and complex, where each detail seemed like a fragment of something that, perhaps, had never been fully understood until that moment.

"Stay with me, Friedrich." Your voice came out weak, a whisper laden with pleading, dissipating in the thick silence of the room. The only immediate response was the crackling of the wood in the fireplace, soft clicks that seemed to mark the time between each of his breaths, warm and deep, brushing against your skin. "Stay with me until sunrise. Just for tonight." An indecipherable gleam passed through Friedrich's eyes, as if this was the prayer he had been waiting to hear for centuries. A slow smile formed on his lips before he tilted his face towards you.

"How can I refuse you, my dear?" The answer came in a low, intimate whisper, as his lips traced a reverent path across your face. First, a delicate kiss on your forehead, then on your temples, as if he wanted to engrave you in his memory.

He moved down to your cheeks, his lips brushing your skin in an almost imperceptible touch, warm and devoted. Your chin, the tip of your nose — every inch was graced with his attention. It was a silent blessing, a profane sacrament sealing a bond forgotten by time. Then, Friedrich closed the distance between you. His lips took yours with precision, without hesitation. The kiss was neither hurried nor voracious — it was a wordless oath. There was no sarcasm, no ghosts from the outside world. Just that moment, charged with something greater than the two of you. Love or not, there was an uncontrollable impetus there, something unforgettable. 

Friedrich's fingers slid along your jaw, slowly rising until they intertwined in your hair, tugging lightly, as if he wanted to keep you from disappearing. In response, your hands sought his, groping until they found them, fitting your fingers with his. The touch was cold, but not unpleasant; on the contrary, it felt like the anchor of something much deeper. He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes half closed, his breathing ragged. The fire in the fireplace cast shadows on the walls, dancing to the rhythm of the growing desire between you.

"Until sunrise," he murmured against your mouth, almost a promise. "All night."

Friedrich stood up with his usual elegance, extending his hand to you. Your fingers gently wrapped around his, and in an almost ceremonial gesture, he lifted you, guiding you with a care that made it seem as if time slowed down around you. Like a prince leading his maiden through an enchanted castle, Friedrich led you to his room—a previously unknown territory that you had only glimpsed in passing, always disorganized, with books piled haphazardly and traces of sleepless nights.

But now, everything seemed different. There was an unexpected order to the usual chaos, as if he had prepared the environment for this moment. The furniture was impeccably arranged, the curtains slightly open, letting the pale moonlight fall on the sheets. His familiar scent permeated the space, a mixture of stale tobacco and the woody aroma that always lingered on his clothes.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Friedrich turned the key in the lock, a discreet click echoing in the silence of the room. A simple gesture, but one that carried an invisible weight—he didn't want to be interrupted, not now.

"I prefer our night to be comfortable for you." He communicated, approaching, his steps calm but full of intention.

His gaze was a veiled invitation, a wordless promise. When his lips touched her face, it was not a hurried kiss, but an intimate mapping of her skin. He kissed her forehead as if consecrating that moment, her temples like a devotee in prayer. The line of her jaw, the curve of your cheek, every inch explored as if it were a rediscovery.

Nine long months without being touched by him, adding to the tally the months in which your husband had not touched you. You thought you had forgotten what it was like to be kissed. But the moment Friedrich’s lips met yours, all the dormant memories came back to life—not as distant memories, but as something as vivid as the warmth of his body against yours.

“Touch me.” You asked, sincerely. Need gave no room for shame at that moment. You needed to be touched by him.

“Anything you want.” His hoarse voice came out like a sinful whisper against your face.

Friedrich took a step back, then, walking behind you, he began to pull the lace of your dress with a mastery that you knew where it came from. But, at that moment, it was as if it were only yours. With precise speed, you felt the thin and expensive fabric, every penny intentionally bought by Friedrich, falling to the floor, with any other old rag that you forgot after a long time, leaving only the small nightgown and the corset underneath, which was also untied by him, allowing your muscles to relax again.

You turned your ankles, meeting Friedrich’s hungry gaze on your body covered only by the thin cotton with carefully embroidered lace on the sleeves. You moistened your lips, bringing your hands to your hair. Your fingers began to remove the pins, your perfect hairstyle falling apart, your long strands falling down your spine like a colorful waterfall. 

Friedrich felt a fleeting tremor in his vision, Anna’s memory mixing with his own in his head. No. He murmured, no. You could never be her. Not even if you tried in a million years. But there was something about you that pulled him back like a magnet. You stepped forward, giving him a chaste kiss on your lips.

“Anna would never do that.” He murmured, not sure how this would affect you or himself, trying to explain himself. “She was always so chaste, so reserved, so… pure. Even when I touched her. But you— I feel like a boy playing too close to a lake, where I fall in and never want to get out again.” 

“What’s in that lake?” You asked, reaching your brave hands for Friedrich’s vest, each button being unbuttoned faster with the courage inside you. 

“So many things. So much… life.” He paused, his gaze so distant, yet so present in that moment, alternating between which of your eyes he should look at. “It’s enchanting. There are so many fish, frogs, mud where I slip, but I always come back for more. And in this lake it rains, so hard. God.”

“Are you cold?” You encouraged, Friedrich helping you, putting the vest over your arms and taking off your shirt in just one pass over your head.

“I am.” He says, closing his eyes to one of your hands, cold from the night air, touching his neck, the other lazily in his strong arms. “I never want to leave here. I want to be trapped in this moment forever.”

It was your turn to be silent, swallowing hard at the confession between Friedrich’s eloquent lines. Noticing your hesitation, his strong hand took yours and placed it on your chest. Your hand feeling the strong and accelerated beating in his chest, you were causing this.

Intertwining his hand with yours, his other hand went to your waist, holding you as he guided your steps to the bed, where you lay right in the middle of the huge mattress. Friedrich put his fingers in the waistband of your pants, pulling them down, recording the memory of you, so delicate, but so honest and brave in that bed. It didn't seem like you were going to be devoured like a little lamb, but that he knew you would give pleasure and be pleased, like a nymph.

Friedrich crawled across the bed until he was on top of you, supporting himself on one arm, the other hand easily unbuttoning your nightgown, your beauty being served to him. With a gentle touch, he groped your breasts, rolling the small spot with his thumb, admiring the view.

“I had forgotten this feeling.” He commented, lifting your breast, palming it, squeezing it, like a boy discovering the female body for the first time. “It feels so good.”

You nodded, enjoying the moment, glimpsing every admirable reaction Friedrich had in that part of your body. He kissed both your breasts, moving down with kisses to your exposed sex, inhaling your essence.

“What’re you gonna do?” You asked, closing your legs instinctively, a touch of fear laced with desire in your voice.

“Have you never been touched like this?” He asked, surprised by your desperate reaction, opening your legs and doing his best not to embarrass you by facing your intimacy.

“No.” You confessed, without even knowing what he planned to do. There were hypotheses, but the ideas that went through your mind were hot, but they didn’t make sense.

“Can I show you?” He suggested, wetting his lips with his tongue in anticipation. You nodded, reluctantly opening your legs.

Friedrich took a deep breath before lowering his head, kissing the inside of your thigh. He sucked a small part of your skin, going down with small bites to your groin, where he placed a small kiss that made you shiver.

When he licked your pearl, you understood the surprise in his eyes. That was heavenly good. Your fingers went to Friedrich’s head, pulling his hair as a way to dissipate the pleasure that was growing between your legs.

His tongue licked your sex, pressing harder to hear your louder moans, switching to small, weak licks to turn you inside out. His large hands were firmly on your thighs, keeping you in place as he sucked on your sensitive spot with precision.

Lifting your head to look down, you saw Friedrich with his eyes closed, concentrating. The scene was stimulating enough to feel the pressure building in your stomach. Hearing your needy moans, he ended up licking faster and faster with more pressure. The tremors indicated that you were close and he focused only on your clit, punishing the flesh with his tongue fast and strong in sinful circles until he felt you collapse into his mouth with one last loud moan, lifting your hips against his mouth.

Not wanting to push you to the limit right away, he lifted his body, returning to be on top and kissing you, the taste of your pleasure mixing on his lips. He lowered his lower part, showing his ugly cock that was throbbing hard against your belly, smearing your skin with pre-cum.

“Ready?” He asked, wiping the cloth down your legs and throwing it on the floor.

“Yes.” You confirmed, watching Friedrich grab one of the pillows and place it under your hips, which you lifted to help him.

Guiding his cock to your saliva-soaked and aroused intimacy, he pressed the tip against your entrance, showing a small reaction of discomfort before pleasure took over your face when you felt the length entering your canal, stretching your walls.

His hips began to move, slowly at first, so that you could get used to the recent intrusion after so long. When you were already showing pleasure, the rhythm became frantic, almost merciless. He murmured sweet nothings in your ear, not hiding any sound, and it drove you insane. You wanted everything from him, the sounds, the contorted expressions of pleasure, every thrust he changed the rhythm of, every compliment and disgrace he whispered. All of him.

In a short time, he melted inside you, loving you to the last drop, a hint of pride for having made you arrive before him, kissing your mouth to finish you off, leaning his forehead against yours, his breathing calming down.

He stood up, holding your hand firmly but unhurriedly, guiding you to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror revealed the marks of the night—sweat, tears and fluids, strands of disheveled hair. Friedrich smiled sideways, an almost complicit glint in his eyes, before taking a damp cloth and starting to clean you.

His every gesture was calm, almost ritualistic. He gently wiped the cloth over your face, removing traces of intimacy, his fingers brushing your skin with a caress that made your heart slow down. When he wiped your collarbone, he took a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the touch. When he passed it through your hands, he intertwined his fingers with yours for a brief moment, before continuing.

The world outside was slowly waking up. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the cracks in the curtain, dyeing the room with soft golden tones. The air still carried a remnant of the night—of whispered promises, of something unnameable that hovered between you.

But then, something sour settled in your mouth. A bitter taste, an inevitable memory. You looked away from Friedrich, the echoes of the previous promise resonating in your mind. Until dawn.

"I... I think I should go." Your voice came out hesitant, almost trembling. You turned your back, preparing to leave, but before you could take another step, you felt a firm tug. 

Friedrich wrapped you in an intense, almost desperate hug. His body was a wall against which you snuggled without resistance, feeling his heat pass through your skin. Friedrich's breathing was heavy against your hair, and his fingers, once so careful, now tangled possessively in the strands, as if he wanted to hold you there, forever.

"Never leave my side again." The whisper was filled with something primal, something he didn't usually express. "It's an order. The only one I give you." He inclined his head, his lips brushing your temple, the touch as gentle as a shared secret. "I will make you happy in your marriage. I will make you create good memories, I will be your anchor, your wine, your pleasure." 

You lifted your face, your eyes searching his, and then you moved closer, placing your lips on his bare chest, right over the place where his heart beat slow and deep. Friedrich's breathing faltered for a moment, and you let yourself sink against him, listening to that steady rhythm, like a melody that only the two of you understood. 

"I'm already yours, Friedrich." You whispered, filled with certainty. You closed your eyes, resting your head against him. "And I will be yours until the end of my life, living every sunrise by your side."

[ricksbae]

Idk why but i think THE most criticized marriage in whole humanity is aaron taylor johnson’s and his wife sam’s

MEEMAW LEAVE THE MAN ALONE!

[pascaloverx]

MINE

Summary: You are a journalist working for a modest newspaper, and for several years, you have been in a relationship with Friedrich Harding—a man of inherited wealth who is now embarking on a new venture in real estate renovations. One day, you are assigned to cover the story of a man known as Count Orlok, just as Friedrich is hired to renovate the Count's mansion.

Author's Note: This fanfic takes place in the Nosferatu universe but with several changes. First, it is set in the modern world. Second, instead of the reader being involved with Thomas Hutter, she is with Friedrich Harding. I’m not sure if I will continue the fanfic, so if you enjoy it, please interact and leave a comment. If not, my apologies.

preview

ONE

You are irritated as you struggle with your luggage. First, Count Orlok demanded a specific type of attire for your stay at his mansion. But then it got worse. Friedrich decided it would be wise to accept the condition of presenting himself as an unmarried man.

You have been together for a long time—you never wanted to force him into marriage. You are not even sure if you would want to marry at all. But now, you are about to stay in the home of a Count, where you must wear strange clothing and pretend not to know each other.

"It was a long journey; I won’t be able to endure your indifference, my fair lady," Friedrich says as you both step out of the airport, preparing to wait for Count Orlok’s driver or personal attendant.

"Forgive me, sir, but I cannot interact with a stranger," you say, making an effort not to look directly at Friedrich. How can he so easily pretend there is nothing between you?

"Is it unusual that we must pretend not to be together? Yes. But this contract with Count Orlok is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And if we are willing to wear antiquated clothing as if we had stepped into the last century, then pretending to be apart seems a small price to pay," Friedrich says, attempting to grasp your arm gently.

You turn to face him, resisting the urge to slap him. "Remember this ‘small price to pay’ when you’re lying awake in the cold German night, longing for the feeling of my body tangled with yours," you say, your voice dripping with provocation. The look he gives you is utterly sinful.

"Are you certain you’ll be able to resist me all this time?" Friedrich steps closer, nearly ignoring the luggage between you. His tongue flicks over his lips, and his piercing blue eyes seem to reach into your very soul.

You chuckle, tilting your head. "Perhaps now that I am an unclaimed woman, I might find comfort in another’s embrace," you tease, tracing your fingers lightly over his clothes. The fabric is extravagant and old-fashioned, but one of the buttons is straining, barely holding against the breadth of his chest.

"I would never allow another to take you from me," he murmurs, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around your waist. You are still wearing your regular clothes, making it easy for him to pull you into his embrace.

"Tell me you understand why I had to lie about being single. It was one of the job’s conditions, and this is a magnificent opportunity," Friedrich says, his fingers brushing through your hair, gently tucking stray strands behind your ear.

But just as you lift your gaze to meet his, ready to respond, the world shifts. It is as if you are slipping into a dream. The space around you vanishes. Friedrich dissolves before your eyes, fading like mist. Then, out of the encroaching darkness, a hand—long, clawed fingers extending toward you—emerges.

A figure approaches, vaguely human yet distinctly unnatural, draped in what seems to be a heavy, fur-lined cloak. It has no face, no discernible features, but its presence is suffocating.

"Sweet creature, come to me," it murmurs, the voice unlike any accent you have ever heard. It is not simply foreign; it is… otherworldly. And yet, you know this voice. You have heard it before—in your dreams.

"Who are you?" you cry out, your breath hitching as a thick fog coils around you, blurring your vision.

"There is time and place for introductions," the voice responds, calm and assured, as if speaking an unshakable truth. "But know this—only my touch will ever truly satisfy you."

The creature’s fingers graze your neck, pulling you closer with a grip that is both commanding and intimate. "Nothing will ever separate us, sweet creature," it whispers, and then—agony. And then is like you cannot breathe.

You scream, but the sound is swallowed by the suffocating mist. Agonizing pain sears through your skin as its claws carve into your throat, burning as though fire itself has kissed your flesh. The haze surrounds you, thick and intoxicating, dulling your senses even as terror pulses through your veins. You squeeze your eyes shut— And suddenly, you are awake. Gasping, you find yourself in Friedrich’s arms.

Your body trembles violently as you find yourself cradled in Friedrich’s arms, his warmth grounding you. "My love, you fainted for a moment," he says, his voice laced with concern. He holds you close, pressing gentle kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, and finally your lips. But the vision lingers. The pain feels real. You jerk away, startling him.

"I—I’m sorry. I just need a moment. I…" The words falter as your hands shake, the terror still fresh in your mind. Friedrich watches you carefully before reaching for your hands, enclosing them within his own. His grasp is firm yet soothing.

"I had a vision, Friedrich. It was dark… painful," you whisper, your voice nearly breaking.

He presses a kiss to your trembling fingers, his blue eyes filled with quiet determination. "My dearest, do not fear. Even if I must chase the shadows from your mind, I will protect you from whatever haunts you," he vows, holding you as if he can shield you from the unseen.

"Mr. Harding and Miss Y/L/N, am I interrupting?" A peculiar man approaches, dressed like a butler from the nineteenth century. You and Friedrich immediately pull apart, sensing that this must be the driver Count Orlok sent for you.

"No," Friedrich replies smoothly. "The young lady and I happened to be on the same flight, and when she felt unwell, I merely sought to assist her."

You roll your eyes before adding, "The lady is grateful, but hopes you understand it is quite inappropriate to approach an unaccompanied woman in such a manner." You begin gathering your luggage.

"Do not worry, I shall not report any of this to Count Orlok," the man says in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone. "My name is Kno—" He pauses, as if his own name were a secret. His scent reaches you—strong, sterile, like cleaning products. "Knock," he finally finishes.

"Let us be off. There is much for you both to adjust to, and the young lady must change into proper attire before meeting Count Orlok," Knock states, assisting with your luggage and loading it into a vehicle that looks as though it was plucked straight from another era.

"We are meeting Count Orlok today?" Friedrich asks as he lifts some of the bags into the automobile before offering you his hand to step inside.

"And must I change my attire?" you inquire as you settle into the back seat.

"The magnanimous Count Orlok will receive only the young lady today," Knock explains as he starts the engine. "Mr. Harding will spend the day settling into the guesthouse and assembling a local team for the restoration work, with my assistance. Meanwhile, Miss Y/L/N will don appropriate attire and begin her time in the Count’s esteemed presence."

The car moves forward, the landscape unfolding before you. A strange sense of familiarity washes over you, though you cannot place why. Friedrich, seemingly enchanted by the surroundings, barely notices as you raise a hand to your neck, your fingers tracing the phantom sensation of sharp claws against your skin. Something is coming. You can feel it.