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hatethysinner · 24 days ago

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I’ve been reading stories where Remmick meets the reader whose in a bad marriage with a cheating spouse. They’re good but I now want a different kind of AU, I want to see Remmick meets pregnant reader which the baby’s father dipped the moment he heard the news so basically Remmick steps in to take care of the reader and the baby. If it’s no trouble can you write it please? I don’t mind if you do or don’t add smut in the story

ɴᴏ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 5.1k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. I LOVE THIS IDEA ANON UR SO SMART! i was kind of hesitant to write this for some reason but the more i thought about it the more i was like oh my god this is gonna be so good! one thing led to another and well... is 5k words still a drabble? i'm not in love with my writing in this but i truly hope y'all enjoy it. as always, white girls you can have your fun with this too! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: familial abandonment, grief, light religious mentions, birth though i don't think it's that graphic but mileage may vary, excessive divider usage, amateur knowledge of maternity(!!!), domestic lonely!remmick fluff

fanart!

You hadn’t planned to be alone.

Not like this.

Not with your belly round and aching, your fingers too swollen for the ring he slipped on with shaking hands that spring. Not in this creaking old house with lace curtains and porch swings and enough room for a family that hadn’t come.

The Mississippi heat hadn’t let up in weeks. It clung to your neck like grief, heavy and humid, the cicadas too loud to ignore and the crickets too quiet to trust. You moved slower now, out of necessity, not grace. The floorboards groaned beneath your bare feet as you made your way from the bed to the kitchen as if the house missed a second set of steps too.

You still caught yourself reaching for him at night.

Still caught yourself dreaming of the way he used to hold your waist like it anchored him. The way he kissed the back of your neck in the kitchen when you were stirring something sweet. How he'd whisper that you were going to be the best mother Mississippi ever saw.

He loved you.

Didn’t he?

But the day you sat him down, palms damp, breath caught somewhere between hope and dread, and told him you’re gonna be a father, everything shifted. Not all at once. Not with shouting or slamming doors.

Just silence.

First, he started staying late at the shop.

Then the notes stopped showing up with the groceries.

Then you woke up and he was gone.

No suitcase. No goodbye.

Just the weight of knowing his absence wasn’t an accident.

You’d told yourself it was a mistake. That maybe he was hurt. Maybe something happened. But the bank hadn’t seen him. The rail station hadn’t, either. He left. Left you.

Left this.

The whispers in town followed you like gnats. Women with their husbands at church, nodding politely, eyes drifting down to your stomach before flicking back up with something like pity, or judgment, you couldn’t quite bear to name. No one said it outright, but you heard it anyway.

Poor girl.

What a shame.

You still sat in the same pew. Still sang the hymns, even when your throat ached. Still held your chin high. But it was getting harder. Harder to feel beautiful. Harder to feel strong.

Harder to believe there’d be anything left of you once this child came into the world.

You’d made peace with that, sort of. With being a mother, even if you couldn’t be a wife.

Until the night he showed up.

It was late. So late, the world felt folded in on itself. The moderate rain only exemplified the quiet. The porch light had burned out weeks ago, and the only glow came from the oil lamp you kept near the window. The town had gone quiet save for the occasional bullfrog croaking out near the creek, and you’d just settled into your rocking chair, fingers pressing gentle circles into the small of your back, trying to coax the ache away.

Then the knock.

Soft. Barely a sound at all.

You startled.

Knocks didn’t come this time of night. Not unless someone was dead or dying. You wrapped your robe tighter and eased yourself upright, hand on the edge of your belly, heart already ticking faster.

You stood slowly, one hand on your lower back, the other braced against the wall as you moved toward the door. You didn’t bother to make yourself look presentable. Just adjusted your chest, padded barefoot to the front of the house, and peered through the fogged glass of the window beside the frame.

There was a man on your steps.

Not your husband.

A stranger.

Tall. Lean. Barely cloaked in a threadbare coat. He stood crooked against the porch railing, eyes tilted toward the sky like the rain was speaking to him. His hair was damp and clung to his forehead. His hands were empty.

You should’ve locked the door.

Should’ve turned off the light and walked back to bed.

But something in the way he looked up when you touched the knob, like he’d sensed it, like he’d been waiting, froze you in place.

You opened the door.

He didn’t move.

“Sorry to trouble ya, miss,” he said, voice rough, worn down like old gravel.

You didn’t answer.

He cleared his throat. Rain had slicked down the collar of his coat and soaked through the fabric at his shoulders.

“I ain’t askin’ for much,” he added. “Just a night. I won’t touch nothin’. I just-” He hesitated. “It’s cold.”

You looked him over.

The way he stood didn’t scream threat. Didn’t scream drunk or high or desperate. But it didn’t scream safe either. He looked pale. Tired. Gaunt in the cheeks, but not unwell. Just… small, somehow, despite his size.

You shifted. Felt the baby stir gently beneath your ribs.

He noticed.

His eyes dropped to your belly. His whole face changed. Not pity. Not disgust. Just something sharp and unfamiliar, like recognition.

“I’ll sleep on the porch,” he said quickly. “Didn’t realize... I wouldn’t’ve knocked if I’d known. Honest.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then. Maybe it was the ache in your ribs. The absence of someone who should’ve been there to keep you company through all this. Maybe it was how needy he sounded. How soft his voice got when he said honest.

Or maybe it was the look he gave you when you gave him permission to step inside.

He didn’t smile.

Just nodded. Like you’d saved him from something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Thank ya,” he said, voice almost hoarse now. “Thank ya kindly.”

You still didn’t ask his name.

You didn’t ask where he came from.

You just shut the door behind him, gestured toward the blanket chest by the hearth, and said, “There’s a quilt in there. Floor’s all I’ve got.”

He nodded again. Didn’t complain.

You watched from the corner of your eye as he lowered himself down, slow and careful, folding the blanket once before curling beneath it. No pillow, no cushion. Just wood and wool and whatever weight he’d carried in with him.

And when you eased yourself back into your rocker, listening to the soft tick of rain on the windowpanes, the baby shifted again, sharper this time. Like it knew something had changed.

You didn’t sleep well.

But when you woke the next morning, he was still there.

And that was the last night you ever spent alone.

It started with the dishes.

Not all at once. Just one plate, then another. A rhythm, like he'd done it a hundred times before. You’d woken from your afternoon nap to find the washtub full and your best rag already soaked, the scent of lye soap and something copper-tinged filling the air.

He hadn’t even looked up at first. Just kept scrubbing slow circles into a plate with that strange, methodical care of his. You’d stared at him for a full minute, waiting for him to stop, to say something, maybe even look guilty. But he didn’t. He just nodded toward the table, where he’d made a small spread of breakfast, only for you.

“Thought ya might be hungry,” he said.

That was all.

You didn’t ask him why he’d done it.

You didn’t need to.

He’d been quiet like that all week. Hovering without hovering, close but never quite imposing. You noticed the way he watched you when you moved around the house, hands tucked behind his back like he didn’t trust himself not to help too quickly. He'd fixed the door latch before you'd even thought to mention it, patched the hole in the roof where the rain got in, even dusted your kitchen shelves with one of your old slips of cloth tied around his wrist like a makeshift cuff.

You hadn’t asked for any of that either.

But maybe that was what made it bearable. Strange, yes, but not frightening. Not threatening. He wasn’t a loud man. Wasn’t messy, either. He stepped light, didn’t slam doors, always kept his boots by the back steps and his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked.

You caught him at it often enough. When you were washing greens, when you were folding linens. His gaze always softened around the edges, like he was watching something breakable and didn’t trust the room to keep it safe.

At first, you’d looked away.

Now you didn’t.

You weren’t sure what changed. Only that something about the way he moved, how slow and deliberate it all was, made your chest ache in a way you didn’t expect. Like you’d forgotten what it meant to be seen without being expected to perform.

He watched you differently than your husband had. That man, gone now, though not without taking a piece of your heart with him, had looked at you with something close to love. Maybe it had been love. You still didn’t know. But there had always been a shadow in it. A hesitation. Like he was trying to hold on to who you were before. Before the baby. Before the curve of your belly started showing in every dress. Before you started humming lullabies under your breath.

He didn’t do that.

He just brought you warm water for your feet in the evening and kept the fire going when the wind picked up through the walls. He hung herbs on the porch rail to dry, even though you hadn’t taught him how. Got it wrong the first time. Rosemary bundled with sassafras, but corrected himself without complaint. He had sharp eyes. Paid attention. Knew your schedule by heart now. When you took your walks. When you liked your tea. When the baby liked to kick.

And Lord, the way he fussed over that baby.

He listened for the kicks like they were gospel. Dropped to one knee anytime you winced or shifted, one hand already hovering like he could ease the weight of your belly just by being near. He’d murmur soft nothings to it sometimes, voice low and warm as molasses. Called the baby sweetheart, sugarplum, his little dove, like it already belonged to him, like he'd been waiting for it longer than even you had.

When the baby turned in the night and made your whole spine ache, he was already there with warm cloths and gentler hands. He never made a show of it. Never asked for thanks. Just laid his hand where it hurt most and waited until your breath evened out again. Sometimes you’d wake to find him asleep beside your chair, his head resting lightly against your thigh, still half-dressed from whatever he’d been doing before he heard you stir.

He carried buckets of water in the mornings without you asking, swept the porch, patched the leaks. Cleaned the chicken coop even though he hated the smell. Anything to spare you the strain. Anything to make things easier.

And he never touched your belly without permission. Not once. Always waited for a nod, for some small sign that it was alright. Then he’d press the flat of his palm against your skin like it was sacred.

He didn’t ask for much in return.

Just to be close.

Just to stay.

It was strange, all of it.

You’d said that to yourself more than once, lying awake with your belly high and heavy under the quilt, the fire crackling low in the stove and his footsteps creaking through the kitchen. It wasn’t fear that kept you up. It wasn’t discomfort either, not exactly. It was something quieter. Thicker. A feeling like you’d wandered into someone else’s story, someone else’s life.

You’d never expected company. Not after what happened. Not after the man you married, the one you’d whispered vows with in a sun-warmed church, turned pale and silent when you told him about the child growing inside you. You weren’t stupid. You’d known it would be hard. But you hadn’t expected the look he gave you, like you’d broken something between you. And then he left. Just like that. Like the baby had made you unrecognizable.

But he didn’t seem to flinch.

He hadn’t run, hadn’t stared at your stomach like it was a problem that needed solving. Hadn’t looked past you like he was trying to remember who you used to be before the swell of your belly changed the silhouette of your body.

He just stayed.

And that was strange.

So was the way he moved through the house now, your house, though it hadn’t felt like yours in a while, with a sense of purpose that made no sense. You never asked him to scrub the floorboards or polish the handles or oil the hinges, but he did. Quietly. Methodically. Like he wanted to earn the space he took up.

Strangest of all, though, was how he spoke to your belly.

He didn’t talk to you about the baby. Not directly. But he murmured to your stomach like it was a person already. Asked questions. Told it things. Ran his hand, cool and callused, gently over the curve of you like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

“Evenin’, little one,” he’d say, crouching to place a soft kiss right above your navel after bringing you tea. “Ya givin’ your mama trouble again?”

And when the baby kicked, he lit up like a man who’d just heard the voice of God.

The first time it happened with him, just a nudge, a little flutter against your ribs, you’d gasped and pressed your palm to the spot. He'd rushed across the room with a towel in one hand and a pail in the other, dropping them both like they were meaningless and was at your side in an instant.

“Was that ‘em?” he whispered. “Did they move?”

You nodded. And he reached for your hand so gently it made your throat ache. Placed it over his own, right where your skin had jumped. You watched his eyes flicker red in the dim candlelight as he waited. Then brighter. Brighter still when the baby kicked again.

You didn’t mention the glow. Not then.

You’d noticed it before. Brief, flickering, like something hiding behind glass. His eyes weren’t blue the way other white men in town had them. They weren’t even just blue. They had depth. Layers. Like river water after a storm, with light trapped somewhere deep inside. The red only came when the light hit just right, and was brightened when he was emotional. Happy. Or upset.

Or something else.

His teeth, too, were strange. White, yes, but sharper at the corners. His canines lingered a little too long. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, they always showed just a little too much. He never seemed to eat, not really. Said he had odd hours. That his stomach didn’t take kindly to most food.

But he cooked for you. Always. Carefully. Like the act of preparing your plate meant more to him than eating his own.

All of it was strange.

But you didn’t stop him.

Because when he sat beside you and ran a hand over your belly, there was nothing selfish in it. Nothing claiming or hungry. Just awe. Just devotion.

That was the word that kept coming to mind lately. Devotion.

He followed your pace. Matched your rhythm. Learned your moods before you even knew them yourself. If you sighed, he brought a shawl. If you shifted, he offered his arm. If you cried, when the tears came without warning, in the middle of cooking or brushing your hair or just trying to read, he said nothing. Just held you. Let you soak his shoulder and said your name like it was a promise.

Sometimes you caught him watching you.

Not in a lurid way. Not even in the way your husband used to, back when things were good between you. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The way your breath hitched when you laughed. The way your ankles swelled at night. The way your fingers danced over the pages of your herbal guides even when you were too tired to really read.

You didn’t ask why he stayed.

You told yourself it was pity. Gratitude. Maybe a sense of guilt.

But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only tether he had left to something real, made you wonder.

And more than once, you found yourself leaning into him just a little longer than needed. Letting your hand rest on his when he passed you a cup. Letting the silence stretch between you when the fire burned low.

It was slow.

It was strange.

But it was real.

And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

It had been almost a month.

Four weeks of him sleeping on the floor beside the hearth. Of you waking up to the scent of ash and chicory. Finding the kitchen swept, the kettle hot, your shoes waiting near the door like you had a man who knew where you liked to go. Four weeks of strange cohabitation, of watching each other without asking too many questions, of wordless routines built out of necessity and slow, quiet trust.

And yet, still no names.

You knew the cadence of his footsteps. The shape of his shadow in the yard. How he always tucked his hands behind his back when he thought too hard about something. You knew the way he’d squint at the firewood pile before choosing a piece. And he knew you. When your hips started to ache. When your breathing changed. When the weight of everything, not just the baby, but the world, got too heavy and you needed silence more than you needed talk.

Still, he had never asked for your name.

And you had never asked for his.

It should’ve been strange. Should’ve felt unfinished. But it didn’t. Not really. Because whatever he was, he had never felt like a stranger. Just something old. Something waiting.

That morning, the sky had opened up with thunder and mean gray light. A storm sat heavy over the treeline, wet wind slicing through the cracks in the wood. You stood barefoot at the back door, mug in hand, and watched the trees sway like dancers out of rhythm. He was already outside, boots deep in the mud, securing the herbs he’d hung on the rail.

You saw it before he did. The string snapping, the whole bundle of thyme and yarrow whipping into the wind. He reached for it too late. You nearly called out.

But then he moved.

Fast.

Not just quick, but wrong. Not human. A blur of striped clothing and sharp motion. His feet barely touched the porch before he was in the yard again, herbs in hand.

He caught them. All of them.

And when he turned back toward the door, he looked surprised to see you watching.

His smile faltered.

But he walked toward you anyway, hands full of dripping stems and his coat soaked through to the elbows.

You opened the door.

“Got ‘em,” he said, like that explained anything.

You stepped back to let him in.

He didn’t speak again until he’d shaken the rain off his shoulders and laid the herbs gently on a dry cloth near the stove. You were still watching him. Something you’d been doing more lately. Not because he made you nervous. Not exactly.

But because you didn’t understand how someone could be so careful with the smallest things and yet move like that. Unnatural. Unsettling. And beautiful, somehow. Like a storybook thing.

He noticed your eyes. Of course he did.

“What is it?” he asked, quiet.

You didn’t lie.

“Just thinkin’ how strange this is,” you said, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. “You. Me. This.”

He didn’t answer.

“You sleep in my home. You touch my things. You know how I take my tea. And I don’t even know your name.”

That made him blink.

He stood there in the center of the room, rain still clinging to his lashes, one hand trailing over the spine of a chair.

“I suppose ya don’t,” he said after a beat, almost sheepish.

You raised a brow. “What is it, then?”

He looked at you a moment longer, then stepped forward and said it in a voice like wet moss and river stones:

“Remmick.”

You let it sit between you for a second. The shape of it. Strange and clean. Like something unspoken finally made solid.

Then you nodded.

“Alright.”

He tipped his head, that small, half-hopeful smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

“Ya got one for me?”

You didn’t smile back.

But you said it, soft. Like you were reminding yourself it belonged to you still.

And maybe to him now, too.

You watched the way he turned it over in his mouth after you gave it to him. Like a word he’d chew through all winter, rolling it on his tongue like a secret, like a prayer.

He said it again.

Once.

Like a promise.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the ache in your lower back sharper now. You pressed your hand gently to the curve of your belly. He noticed. He always noticed.

Without needing to be told, he crouched in front of you and helped guide you to the rocking chair near the stove. His hands were still cold from the rain, but his touch was steady. He adjusted the cushion. Draped a shawl over your knees. Then sat beside you on the floor, arms draped loosely over his knees like always.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The rain softened. The fire popped.

He reached toward your ankle, thumb brushing where your skin met the top of your sock. Not asking for anything. Just anchoring.

“I’m glad ya let me stay,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But you reached down and covered his hand with yours.

Because somehow, so were you.

The pain started low and slow, like a tug at the deepest part of you. You were in the kitchen, barefoot and brushing dust from the windowsill, when it hit hard enough to make your breath catch. You gripped the edge of the counter, then looked down.

Water.

A slow trickle at first, then more, pooling between your feet.

You didn’t panic. Not really. You’d read enough, listened to enough, prepared enough. Still, your heart kicked up in your chest like it was trying to warn you of something big coming down the road.

And it was.

“Remmick,” you called, steady but loud enough to shake the rafters.

He was there in an instant. Not from the garden or the porch like he usually was this time of day, but already in the hallway, already moving toward you with that eerie stillness he had when he was trying not to look like he was floating.

His eyes snapped to the floor, then to your face. "It’s time?"

You nodded once, slow.

Then the contraction hit, sharp enough to knock the air from your lungs.

He caught you before your knees buckled.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. His hand was at your back, the other already slipping under your knees. He lifted you like you weighed less than the apron still tied around your waist. “I've got you.”

You didn’t ask how he moved so quick. You didn’t ask how he got the basin already filled, or how the towels had been laid out on the bed before you even stepped inside the room. You barely remembered the lamp being lit.

But it was.

Everything was ready.

Remmick had prepared.

He moved with a purpose that didn’t belong to a man who had never done this before. There was no fumbling. No panic. He worked like someone who had learned the rhythms of birth from midwives long buried, had seen a thousand labors begin and end under candlelight and wood smoke.

He guided you through it all. Let you curse and sob and grip his arms so tight you left bruises.

"Good girl,” he whispered, again and again. “You’re doin’ so good. Keep breathin’, baby. Just like that.”

You didn’t have the energy to wonder how he knew what to do. You couldn’t ask. Not with the pain hitting like waves, not with the pressure bearing down. But somewhere in the middle of the storm, when your vision blurred and your body ached in ways you didn’t know it could, his voice was still there.

Low. Calm. Constant.

“Push now. There ya go. You’re safe. I got you.”

His hands were slick with water and blood, but steady as stone. He never looked away. Not once.

And when the final push came, sharp, terrible, blinding, he caught the baby in his hands like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

There was a moment after. A long one.

Where everything stopped.

And then, the cry.

Thin, high, beautiful.

You fell back against the pillows, sobbing harder than you thought you would. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just the release of it all.

Remmick didn’t speak at first. Just held the baby in both hands, his face unreadable.

And then he looked at you.

“It’s a girl,” he whispered, voice cracked and full of something you couldn’t name. “She’s perfect.”

You let out a breath that rattled your whole body.

He brought her to you, wrapped in a cloth so soft it must’ve been hidden in the dresser for weeks. And there she was.

Dark skin. Curling hair already damp against her forehead. Tiny hands twitching with life.

And Remmick, pale, bloodstained, glowing faintly in the dim lamplight, looked down at her like she was something holy.

She was.

To you both.

His fingers shook as he touched her cheek. Shook like he wasn’t sure he deserved to, like the smallest movement might shatter the moment into pieces he couldn’t gather again. His knuckles were bloodstained, and his hand was far too large, too scarred, too rough to be so gentle, but it was. He moved like a man touching glass.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll take care of ya.”

There was no promise in his voice, no boast, no plea.

Just fact.

You looked at him then. Really looked. Not through the fog of pain or the veil of exhaustion. Not with the wary glances you’d grown used to offering him in the first weeks. But truly. Fully.

His eyes were still wet. Still glowing. Not bright, not loud, but pulsing softly. Faint and sure, like something not ready to die.

His shirt clung to him in wrinkled, clumsy lines, soaked with sweat and streaked with all the effort he'd poured into your labor. The collar was limp and stained with blood, yours and hers. His sleeves had been rolled back at some point, but they'd slipped again, damp fabric bunched at the crook of his arms.

There was blood under his nails. Streaked across his jaw. A smear dried along the side of his throat like he'd wiped his face without thinking.

And his teeth, those strange, terrible things, peeked through when he spoke. Elongated. Cuspate. Pressed just barely over the curve of his lip like he hadn't remembered to pull them back yet. Like maybe, in this moment, he didn’t care to hide anything at all.

But they didn’t scare you.

They never really had.

This strange man. This mystery with calloused hands and a voice like river stones. This creature who could build fires from the dampest wood and wash clothes better than you ever had patience to.

This father to your child.

You nodded. Slow. Steady.

“I know.”

The way his shoulders dropped then, just slightly, made your chest ache. As if he'd been holding the weight of that doubt for weeks. Maybe longer.

He held the baby again, arms curling around her like she was the most delicate thing he’d ever seen. Like she might disappear if he looked away too long. She made a soft, squeaking sound in her sleep, and Remmick’s whole body tensed around her as though the world might threaten her simply for breathing.

“She’s yours,” he whispered, voice crumbling at the edges. “And now she’s mine.”

You didn’t correct him.

Didn’t want to.

There was no logic that could define this thing between you. No words that could make it neat. But you weren’t looking for neat anymore. You weren’t looking for anything.

Except this.

This house. This moment. These people.

There was no sense to be made of it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But the three of you, somehow, you fit.

Remmick settled beside you on the bed. Not with the hesitant edge he used to carry, not like he was afraid you might change your mind and ask him to leave. But with something close to reverence. He moved slowly, gently, as if even sitting beside you might unmake the calm if done wrong.

One arm stayed curled protectively around the baby. The other slipped behind your back and pulled you close, cradling you like he didn’t know where else to put his warmth. You let your head fall against his shoulder, heavy with everything you’d just endured. Your body still ached, hollowed out and raw, but it wasn’t empty.

It was full in every way that mattered.

The fire popped in the next room, slow and lazy now, just embers and ash. Wind rattled the windowpane above your heads. The familiar kind of wind that came in every winter, dry and loud and aching through the trees.

But everything else was still.

The hush of the house held you like a lullaby.

Remmick kissed the top of your head, his lips barely brushing your damp hair.

The kiss wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even expectant. It was steady. It was sacred. Like sealing something between you.

“My girls,” he said, voice breaking just a little at the end. “My girls.”

His hand cupped the back of your neck. His chin rested against the top of your head. The baby shifted against his chest, small and soft and unaware that her world had just been born with her.

You closed your eyes.

Let the weight of him, the heat of her, the ache in your body, all of it,anchor you.

And for the first time since that long, lonely night on the porch when the world had changed forever, you didn’t feel afraid. Or alone.

You were home.

And Remmick would never let you forget it.

#remmick x reader #remmick #black!fem!reader #black!reader #remmick x black!reader #remmick x black!fem!reader #remmick sinners #remmick x you #sinners #sinners 2025 #inboxxx #remmick fluff #request #for some reason i feel so insecure abt this one sorry if its bad yall 😭😭😭#here she comes world please be kind to her

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dorkshadows · 4 months ago

Text

The Writeup (Part 2!)

(From Jiaozi's Nezha doodle celebrating the 2.6 billion record on 2/2.) *In CN, it's common to say "my tendon pulled!" when you get a cramp in your limbs.

Translation:

Ao Bing: My leg cramped! [literal translation: My leg pulled (its) tendon!] Fish Demon: NEZHA PULLED OUT THE THIRD PRINCE'S TENDONS!!!!!!!!

Literally the day after I published this post, new developments cropped up in the Nezha 2 fandom :D I thought it best to wait and see if anything ELSE could happen before updating this. Thankfully, I waited because things did happen. They sure did happen! So I'm popping in out of retirement (again) for one (1) day (again) to update this before the first fandom writeup becomes completely out of date. I appreciate all the interest given to the previous writeup and I'd feel bad for leaving it outdated for everyone that supported it! So here's part 2 to catch you up on what's happening deep in Nezha 2 fandom.

4-5 weeks in, and we have already have new shipping lore, shipping stat updates, and new fuel for the Ao Guang discourse battles. And it's somehow just as long as writeup part 1 🤣

Guangying shippers have apologized to everyone they harassed, acknowledged the error of their ways, and now get along well with fans of other ships...NOT. Click below to see updates on fandom lore, Ao Guang discourse, doubling down, conspiracy theories, drama in the Nezha cosplay world, and a total lack of self reflection from guangying fans ft. more images and links than last time

Obligatory disclaimers again:

This is NOT about the people who happened to watch the movie, the people who are just interested in box office stats, the people who really enjoyed the movie, or the people who just really admire Nezha. This will be about the fandom fandom, the truly invested, the brainrot (affectionate) in its purest unfiltered form. This is a post about brainrot for those also suffering from brainrot.

This is a collection of patterns mainly from lofter, but also from douyin, weibo, bilibili, and xhs. I don't know how to warn for some of the things mentioned here, so just a blanket note of caution- if you read on, you are prepared to see anything and everything. If you are OK with all this, then- let’s go!

PART 2 HERE WE GO:

Firstly, the general fandom is as creative as ever, and everything you can think of (and more!) has been written/drawn/discussed by somebody somewhere. I've seen Shiji Niang Niang bring Shen Xiaobao back to life, I've seen Ao Bing studying for the TOEFL, I've seen a Jane Eyre AU fanfic for Ao Guang/Shen Gongbao, I've seen Taiyi go on a diet, I've seen 1979 Nezha transmigrating into the 2019/2025 world, etc. etc.

The Lu Tong meme is also not even a meme anymore- lots of people seem to genuinely believe that randomly spamming any and all content featuring Lu Tong/He Tong with paragraphs of praise will result in them granting their wishes. So that's why you'll come across lots of comments with phrases like: "Lu Tong is the manliest of all men, the most powerful of all celestials, the strongest deer... please Master Lu Tong, grant me a raise from my boss."

Also, I didn't include these extremely cursed memes last time because I felt that they might cause people to die. BUT since everyone was strong enough to survive writeup part 1, I think you've proven yourselves strong enough to see these in writeup part 2--behold! Popular FAMILY GUY NEZHA edits:

These cursed images are popular enough that multiple people have made them their profile pics. That's not even the end of it...

Not only that, the fandom has also made "fusion" edits of the characters in the vein of the Nezha/Ao Bing fusion we saw in canon (as in, a Taiyi/Nezha fusion exists). If you wondered what things would be like if 1) Nezha possessed Ao Bing instead or 2) Shen Gongbao never stole the spirit pearl, wonder no further! Here is the answer:

Next, congratulations to lubao for completing the transformation from surprise crack ship to third most popular pairing in the fandom (4 and 5 probably go to Ao Guang/Shen Gongbao [longwangbao] or lutong/hetong [luhe] depending on the platform). Coincidentally, lubao is now no. 3 trending on weibo, beating out dilong. Professional cosplayers are also doing lubao cosplays for clout (to 10K+ likes on bilibili and even 100K+ likes across douyin, etc.). They even have their own animatics now. -> Every individual (main) character and ship has plenty of animatics; if you want to see them, just add the word "手书" (hand book) after whatever subject you're searching for. EX. For oubing animatics, just search for 藕饼手书, and many many will come up.

The lubao lore has also expanded since Feb.:

In Nezha 1, Shen Gongbao told Ao Bing he can teach him how to hide his horns in public. Lu Tong, as a deer, should also have antlers (as shown by his demon/animal form), but doesn't! This clearly means that Shen Gongbao taught Lu Tong how to hide his antlers with the same method he offered for Ao Bing.

Fans noticed that Lu Tong's eyes are brown in deer form, but as a human, his eyes are green- specifically, the exact same shade of green as Shen Gongbao's. They believe it means Lu Tong purposely turned them green because he took inspiration from Shen Gongbao's appearance.

They also noticed that in the post-credits, Wuliang and He Tong didn't seem to know where the underground prison was. Lu Tong guided them over. They believe this means Lu Tong was the one who brought Shen Gongbao into the prison and tied him up in the first place.

You can make the assumption that Shen Gongbao, Ao Bing, and Lu Tong all have the same hairstyle. Why? Because Shen Gongbao combed Ao Bing's hair (with the approval of Lu Tong's #2 enemy, Ao Guang), and he previously combed Lu Tong's hair. Out of love/obsession for him, Lu Tong has kept that same style. And now this is yet another thing Ao Bing STOLE from Lu Tong!

As of 3/9, Jiaozi put out this drawing of Shen Gongbao riding a leopard while acting as captain of the demon hunting team (to celebrate Nezha breaking the 14.6 billion record at the box office):

Since Lu Tong had that exact same pose, while also riding an animal from the same species, lubao fans took this to mean Lu Tong was again trying to copy everything Shen Gongbao did because he's just that obsessed with him.

As for fanon expansion, there is now a version of He Tong who is not only aware of Lu Tong's obsession, but also supports, abets, and contributes to his actions because she too felt abandoned by their shi shu. Now Shen Gongbao can never leave them again! Theirs forever! Too bad that pesky Ao Bing keeps getting in the way and doing annoying things like "saving his master" and "having morals."

And a little round of applause for Shen gonggong too for going from cartoon villain barely anyone cared about to earning the highest honor in fandom--becoming the resident whump angst pain machine. This was unofficial in the previous writeup, but now it's safe to call it official! You know his poor meow meow status is cemented when the average SGB-centric fsyy crossover is now, "Wuliang and his disciples torture the cultivation out of Shen Gongbao, seal his powers, and give him to King Zhou to do as he pleases. The royal court proceeds to treat him as some kind of party animal, all while using and abusing whatever's left of him-" (paragraph 1 of 100)

The average pre-canon story is also, "everyone except Taiyi tortures and mistreats Shen Gongbao at Yuxu Gong-" He's an alcoholic in these too, and he hates himself, and he's depressed and (insert any form of trauma here, he has it)- Someone said that they knew Shen gongong was doomed (by the fandom) the moment he showed up like That in the easter egg scene, and I think that person had the gift of prophecy.

Now for the main event! Dilong, Aobing Zhuan, and the reaction (or lack thereof) of Guangying shippers:

Yes, that's Jim from The Office. The above is a circulating meme made by disgruntled dilong shippers.

Translation:

If you look like this

("Nezha 2" Ao Guang) Your husband doesn't look like this

("The Sons of the Dragon" Ao Guang) Your husband looks like this

*The Sons of the Dragon is a nickname (derogatory) for Ao Bing Zhuan because detractors think it focuses on all of Ao Guang's sons except Ao Bing

I'm not too familiar with Aobing Zhuan itself, so if you or your loved ones know more about the storyline or drama, please feel free to tack onto this post with your own links, writeups, and/or input!

Dilong fans finally had Enough of the nonstop harassment and put together gigantic takedown posts on why Aobing Zhuan sucks, featuring citations, side by side images, and so on.

In addition to accusing the author of using Yinglong as a self insert, they also accused Yinglong of being a genderbent version of Ao Guang (as he used to be drawn in Dilong fanart back in 2019). They pointed out that the author modeled toddler Ao Bing after her own goddaughter instead of his image in the movie. Said author has also gone on record saying Ao Bing is the "least charming" of Ao Guang's sons. Aobing Zhuan gave Ao Bing a healthy number of friends as part of the supporting cast too; when readers asked how this is possible if his first and only friend is Nezha, the author said "The friends are dead, so they don't count!"

The receipts also tell us that even though Ao Guang (and his siblings) made Ao Bing's coat in canon, Aobing Zhuan credited that to Yinglong. His martial arts also came from Yinglong, even though everyone knows it came from Shen Gongbao. And it gets deeper-- as the story goes on, Ao Bing has less and less screentime and barely any "cool" moments. The story becomes completely about his older brothers (specifically his second eldest brother, Ao Yi), while all canon characters are ignored or shafted. It also goes wild with epic wars, battles, and subplots that the movie never even mentioned.

This leads to the fandom nicknaming Aobing Zhuan "OC Zhuan" (and yes, they are using OC the English way. This is not the Tale of Aobing, this is the Tale of Original Characters not even made by Jiaozi). Another nickname is "The Tale of Ying" not because Yinglong herself has that much screentime, but because ABZ fans have spent so long harassing literally everybody else in the fandom while using her as an icon and constantly saying "look, you've made yinglong sad" "how disgusting of you to split up such a loving couple" "you're not allowed to ship anything besides the canon couple" etc. etc.. while spamming fans of literally every other Ao Guang ship with pictures of Yinglong.

Even in non-shipping content involving Ao Guang and Ao Bing, they'll constantly talk about Ao Guang's wife and Ao Bing's mother and how totally important she is to them + the story. Guangying shippers have also constantly used a mother's day screenshot (of the official Nezha account wishing Yinglong happy mother's day with an image of her and Ao Bing in ABZ) as proof that she's officially married to Ao Guang, and you are therefore NOT allowed to ship him with anyone else, including yourself. It turns out that screenshot doesn't exist- the Nezha weibo never posted it. Guangying shippers faked the image.

Someone even asked deepseek (or baidu?) who Yinglong is and it said, "Yinglong is Ao Guang's father!" (incorrect btw, but this is proof that yinglong has no mythological connection to Ao Guang anyway). Fans also noticed that Aobing Zhuan- despite having a physical publication- wasn't featured at all in Nezha 2 merchandise. Instead, there's a cute picture book featuring parts of little Ao Bing's childhood (with NONE of ABZ's events).

The book is called "Memories of the Three Realms" 《哪吒·三界往事》and contains little stories about the entire cast before the events of the movies. This book was promoted as part of Nezha 2's merchandise, so it's safe to consider it a direct tie-in with the franchise. Noticeably, Ao Bing's family in the book consists of only himself, his father, his master, his aunt, and uncles. No brothers, no mother.

So TLDR, Aobing Zhuan "fell apart" in the fandom's eyes because:

It directly defies canon ideas and events

Guangying shippers faked screenshots to make it look like the Nezha team acknowledged ABZ more than it actually did

The art style is "ugly" (imho, it's less that it's ugly and more that it's very off model when it comes to canon characters and just doesn't fit Nezha's art style)

ABZ constantly puts down Ao Bing/Ao Guang/Shen Gongbao in order to elevate its OCs

Ao Guang doesn't like Ao Bing very much in ABZ

The author doesn't care about Ao Bing and was only using his name for clout; the author exclusively only loves Ao Yi

Yinglong is the author's self insert and arguably a plagiarized version of dilong!Ao Guang. Ao Yi has also been accused of being a plagiarized design of dilong!Ao Guang. (imo, not so sure about how valid these particular accusations are because all three designs are commonplace throughout all xianxia art)

Ao Yi, Ao Jia, and Yinglong (Ao Bing's brothers and mother) are fanmade OCs and might not even have those same names if they appear or come up in the movies

ABZ attempted to make a love interest for Ao Bing, but backtracked after backlash from oubing fans

The Nezha team seems to want nothing to do with it

The takedown was brutal. The rest of the fandom, specifically the confused people who had no idea why other fans were going on and on about Ao Guang's wife (who does not appear in the films) and closet dilong shippers, went, "Hey, ABZ does suck!" Why did it take so long for them to notice it sucked? General consensus is that because the comic was not very good in the first place so nobody talked about it or noticed it. Now they notice because 1) guangying shippers shoved it in everyone's face 2) guangying shippers/ABZ fans bullied literally Everybody else in the fandom

Then overnight, the fandom turned on ABZ and all its OCs. Now it's considered #cringe to like Yinglong, Ao Yi, and Ao Jia. People regretted paying for the comics, people tried get it refunded, and people apologized to dilong fans for hating on them based on falsely believing they were "splitting" a canon couple (and not because idk, harassing strangers over cartoons is rude??).

Regardless, everyone who secretly enjoyed dilong now came out to openly enjoy it. Dilong rose to #3 trending on several platforms, and dilong shippers rejoiced for finally being vindicated after literally 5 years of harassment. I mean pretty offensive and terrible harassment (CW terminally online fandom harassment methods): mass reporting, being accused of being degenerates, being accused of being uNpAtriOtIC, being accused of TrEAson, being told they should have died in their mothers' wombs, getting doxxed and suicide baited. Multiple dilong authors and artists were bullied into deactivating. The harassment got especially bad after Nezha 2 came out, so-

The tables turning on Guangying shippers can only be divine karma at work. Now in videos of people bashing dilong shippers, you can see comments saying, "hey op you dropped your clown nose!" and "get with the times, OC Zhuan fell from grace." Unfortunately, this drama has led to collateral damage in the form of-

Drama in the cosplay world:

However, there are lots of big name cosplayers doing Yinglong and Guangying cosplays. These people spent Big Money on their costumes. Now they're being told that ABZ has "fallen apart" and Yinglong was just somebody else's OC this entire time. Yinglong cosplayers feel personally victimized and don't know what to do with their costumes now.

To add fuel to the fire, fans have been insulting Yinglong cosplayers in the comment sections of their videos. Ao Yi cosplayers are facing a similar dilemma. Which leads to-

Yinglong fans react + Dilong fan conspiracies:

You'd think this would lead to some self reflection on the part of Guangying fans or an apology to their victims or maybe some attempt to be on better behavior. But why do that when it's easier to double down and play victim!

ABZ fans and Guangying shippers now believe themselves to be the biggest victims in the fandom. They feel that the takedown was made in bad faith and several points don't even line up-- Yinglong doesn't resemble dilong!Ao Guang that much, Yinglong is not the author's literal self insert, the spinoff is still canon, Ao Guang loves his son very much in ABZ too and those calling him a cold father in ABZ are pulling panels out of context, etc. They think they shouldn't be judged just for enjoying a comic and multiple people have called on Jiaozi to step in and acknowledge the Drama. Indeed, they shouldn't be judged or harassed for liking Yinglong or ABZ.

But I'd feel more sorry for them if they didn't spend the past month bullying and lying to literally everybody in the fandom, ranging from spamming all Ao Bing content with guangying comments to threatening Ao Guang x anyone else shippers with physical violence. Even on the notes of the last writeup, we have firsthand accounts of their cyberbullying:

^This is the kind of thing guangying fans do on a regular basis. (I'm so sorry they harassed you over something so stupid! All 6 of them owe you a kowtow and apology.)

The Drama continues:

According to dilong fans, ABZ and guangying fans have gone quiet but not gone away. They've changed tactics and can now be spotted on random Ao Guang content commenting, "I wonder who Ao Guang's wife is! I'm so curious!" and on Ao Bing content saying, "Oh I bet Ao Bing misses his mother and brothers so much." This is allegedly an attempt to get new fans to ask them about Ao Guang's wife and Ao Bing's mother/brothers + an attempt to do damage control for ABZ now that it's uncool to mention it publicly. Personally, I think the dilong fans are right about this theory. Makes perfect sense to me, especially given everything else ABZ fans have done so far.

Next, tying back to the cosplay drama, dilong fans believe the people attacking Yinglong cosplayers are guangying fans masquerading as dilong fans. These guangying fans are hoping to harass enough people for something major to happen (conveniently taking the heat off of ABZ). Then the wider media will report on cosplayers being harassed by dilong fans, resulting in the wider public going "Nezha fangirls are so scary!" resulting in cancellation of Nezha ships (specifically dilong) altogther in a complete repeat of 227 (the date in which Xiao Zhan fans mass reported AO3 over a real person fic, resulting in the AO3 ban in China and the ensuing backlash that caused the absolutely most nightmarish time of poor Xiao Zhan's life). Is this there truth to this theory? I have no idea, but wilder things have happened.

And lastly, no, Fei Wo Si Cun (established web novelist that published a dilong mpreg fanfic on main, as mentioned in the previous writeup) has not acknowledged the Ao Guang discourse drama at all. Jiaozi and the rest of the Nezha team have also not said a peep despite guangying shippers' desperate attempts to reach them.

Update to add: there was ALSO some fight between solo!Nezha stans and solo!Ao Bing stans on weibo. It didn't have that big of an influence, but was certainly an Online event.

And that's the end of the ride for now. Nezha 2 is still playing in theaters. Nobody knows what will happen once it hits STREAMING :D after all, 命由我不由天!

BONUS update: Believe it or not, there's a part 3 now !?

#nezha #nezha 2025 #nezha 2 #哪吒之魔童闹海 #哪吒2 #哪吒 #I don't know if anyone will see this update but it's here for those curious LOL!#and now to ACTUALLY retire.#if there's a third update to this and I need to come out of retirement Again I'll have to change my name to Hayou Miyazaki asdfasdfasdf

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