reamara

[reamara]

Hey everyone,

Lately, I’ve been feeling a bit uninspired. I still have two Bleach fanfics waiting for new chapters, but honestly, I just haven’t had the motivation. We’ve also been sick on and off for weeks, which left me feeling completely drained.

So my husband and I decided it was time to start a new series – and we ended up watching Frieren: Beyond Journey’s End. It’s such a beautiful anime (I’ve already read the manga, too). I love the calm atmosphere, the slow pacing, and how the story really takes its time – in our fast-paced lives, it feels like a breath of fresh air.

I immediately fell in love with Himmel and Frieren and felt a strong urge to write something new.

And here it is on AO3:

Imprints of You

She watches Fern blush. Watches Stark fluster.

It's happened often enough that Frieren has started to wonder, what it is that makes humans respond like that.

Frieren never flinched when Himmel touched her.

Not during the journey. Not after. Not ever.

But now, in the stillness of sleep, in the hush of memories and dreams...

She wonders if she left behind more than she thought.

Or if he left something in her that’s only just begun to breathe.

Himmel/Frieren, Stark/Fern

[reamara]

Hello lovely people,

Today I want to share my new fanfic (Bleach, IchiHime) with you, for Ichi Hime Week 2025!

Whence I Came Undone

A semester in London. Broken statues. Poetry on glowing screens.

He thought leaving would be easy.

He was wrong.

A One Shot for Ichi Hime Week 2025

AO3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65149576

[reamara]

Here's little sneak peek for you of my One-Shot for IHWeek2025. I am so excited to share it with you next week!

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡

They’re at the airport. Terminal 2. Gate C. His flight boards in twenty minutes. His dad’s there, being loud as hell. Yuzu’s crying. Karin’s pretending not to. Even Urahara showed up. His friends are there too — the whole damn support squad.

And yet, Ichigo barely sees any of them.

He only sees her.

Orihime stands in front of him, clutching a small gift bag to her chest. It’s got a ribbon and little cats printed on the paper. She looks up at him with that same smile she’s been wearing all week. Too gentle. Too brave.

“Don’t miss your flight,” she says, voice soft and careful. Like if she’s not, something might break.

He swallows and the knot in his stomach’s been there since he woke up, but now it tightens. He should say something. Should tell her something. That she makes it hard to leave. That when he closes his eyes, he sees her instead of London fog and lecture halls.

But he just nods. Of course he does.

She laughs. And for a second, he thinks… maybe. Maybe her smile is a little forced. Maybe her fingers tremble when she adjusts the bag. Maybe she’s got a lump in her throat too, and she’s swallowing it down with the same pathetic effort he is.

But maybe he’s just imagining it. Maybe he wants her to feel it too — this pull, this awful thread — so badly, he’s making it up.

Still, he can’t stop looking at her.

[reamara]

He will never forget the moment he first saw her.

For one heartbeat, he had believed in the impossible. That Hisana had returned. That love had somehow called her back from death, guiding her steps straight to him.

Then, on the second look, the differences emerged.

Her face was rounder, her eyes wider. And when she spoke—bold, brash, unrefined—it was nothing like the soft, gentle woman Hisana had been.

It had shattered him.

He has never told anyone. He never will. Admitting it to himself had already been unbearable. It took him years—years—to face the truth. Because despite all those differences, despite the decades that have passed since his beloved wife left this world, he sees her in Rukia.

Every single day.

A gesture, a movement, the shape of her stance, the way her hair falls—it’s a constant reminder of what he lost.

And maybe that was why he had needed that distance. He had built walls—thick, impenetrable, unshakable. Not just to keep her out, but to keep himself from drowning in the grief, the guilt, the unbearable knowledge that she was never meant to replace Hisana. That she never could.

And yet—

Now, holding his newborn niece Ichika in his arms, her tiny fingers curling around his own, and with Rukia and Renji asleep on the futon across the room, he is more grateful than ever that those walls have long since crumbled into dust.

Because he isn’t looking at Rukia and seeing only what he lost.

He sees what he has.

A sister. A family. A future.

If Hisana was his past, then this—this moment, this life—is his present.

And for that, he is grateful. Grateful for them. Grateful to them.

Because without them, how else would he have ever known what it feels like to truly live again?

AO3:

Logbook of Lifetimes

[reamara]

It’s unfamiliar. That’s his first thought. The second is that he doesn’t mind. It’s strange, but not bad. Not at all.

For the first time, he wakes up with her in his arms. Not a dream, not his mind playing tricks on him. She’s here, really here. Her body molds against his, soft and trusting, her breath a slow, even rhythm. The scent of her lingers in the sheets, on his skin, in the air between them, sweet and unmistakably hers.

It’s... calming.

His life has never been calm.

And it terrifies him, the fact, how much he needs it, her, now.

His life has always been a battlefield. He’s woken up bruised, bleeding, but never like this.

Never with something—someone—so undeniably his.

He shifts carefully, needing to see her. Auburn hair spills across the pillow, framing a face so heartbreakingly serene it almost hurts to look at. He’s seen her countless times, watched her smile, watched her cry.

But never like this.

Never this close, this bare, this his.

His fingers move without thinking, brushing a stray lock from her cheek.

She stirs. A sleepy mumble, a soft wrinkle of her nose, then, without hesitation, she burrows into him, pressing deeper into his chest, curling into his warmth like she belongs there.

No, not like.

She does belong there.

His heart stumbles.

It’s unfamiliar, this morning.

But it feels like the most beautiful dawn he’s ever woken up to.

Logbook of Lifetimes

[reamara]

Hey everyone!

Lately, I haven’t had much time to read or write fanfics. We’ve been down with colds quite a bit and whenever I wasn’t sick, it was usually one of the kids. So, either way, I was out of commission, just in a different way, holding little hands through it all. But now that the weather is getting warmer, we’re finally getting healthier, and I’m finding more time to read, and, most importantly, to write!

I also wanted to update you on some of my ongoing stories and share a few new ideas with you.

Bleach Fanfics

Quincy Cults - Bound by Jell-O OR How Ichigo proposed to Orihime

This small, funny story belongs to the Love Particles series. I have about one or two chapters left, and once it’s finished, the entire series will come to an end.

Memories in Hell

Part of the Withered Flowers series. I initially planned to update this weekly, but time didn’t allow for it. I’ve written quite a bit, but I want to go over everything again before publishing. Something about it doesn’t feel quite right yet, but I hope to continue it soon!

New IchiHimeWeek 2025 Fic

I’m planning a new story for IchiHimeWeek2025. This time, our protagonists are already in college. Ichigo is about to leave for a semester abroad in England, and he and Orihime aren’t together yet. The distance comes with its own set of challenges - and maybe some unexpected opportunities.

One Piece

New One Piece Fanfic (Nami x Luffy)

This will most likely be a collection/series of one-shots. I can’t say too much about it yet, but there will definitely be something soon!

Octopath Traveler 2

Black and White is Lilac (Temenos x Throné)

This series is still ongoing, and I’m also planning a one-shot to go along with it. Once that’s done, this series will be completed as well.

That’s all for now! I hope you’re all doing well. Don’t let all the negativity in the world bring you down—you’re all amazing!

Hope to see you again soon!

Much love,

Reamara

[reamara]

I am excited to participate this year for the first time 😍

Brought to you by daily ichihime on twitter, here's the prompts for #IHweek2025!🍓🍞

Rules & Guidelines:

Any IchiHime original content allowed. Fanart, video, fics, animations, gifts, playlist, cosplay, poem, etc.

NSFW allowed, but please put content warning flag/tags

Absolutley NO AI/Plagiarism. NO reposts/edits of someone else's work.

NO ship hate

Don't forget to post with the tag #IHweek2025

This event will be running from 30th April 2025 until 6th May 2025, so you have plenty of time to prepare! We look forward to seeing what you create this year!

If you have any questions, don't hesitate to drop dailyihs a message!

[reamara]

Hi, I hope we see your stories in IHweek2025 ✨

Hey,

Yes, I think about writing something for IHweek2025!

[reamara]

No one—no one—knows about his sacred hair routine.

Every day, without fail, Renji combs his mane exactly 107 times, oils it with a custom blend imported from the Living World, washes it on a strict schedule, and applies only the finest masks and treatments. He calculates humidity levels. He times his wash cycles with planetary alignments (not because it makes a difference, but because true dedication means going the extra mile).

This secret must never be exposed. His reputation hinges on maintaining the illusion that he is effortlessly cool.

And normally, his hair is a flawless cascade of crimson perfection, so lustrous and radiant it could have its own fan club. He ties it back, not for practicality, but because overexposure to wind friction could weaken the strands. If hair care were a battlefield, he would be its greatest warrior.

But now he stands before the mirror, staring into the abyss.

His hair is… dull. Frizzy.

Dead.

The morning sunlight cuts across the room, illuminating the crime scene upon his head. His breath shallows. His hands tremble as they ghost over the lifeless straw where his glorious mane once was.

This is not real.

This cannot be real.

Desperately he lunges for his hidden cabinet, yanking open the doors to his sanctuary. His eyes dart wildly across the shelves—tubes, serums, elixirs of life—his holy relics.

And then, there, he sees it. The infiltraitor.

Nestled among his precious shampoos, sitting there with the smugness of a villain who knows they have won.

A single can of shaving foam.

The world tilts, his vision swims.

There is no coming back from this. His legacy, his pride, his future shampoo sponsorship deals...

Gone.

He drags a hand through the ruins atop his head, trying to calculate the recovery process when—

A single, unmistakable cough.

Renji freezes.

His soul leaves his body, eyes with dread flicker to the mirror.

Behind him stands his Taichō.

Byakuya Kuchiki. Witness to his ultimate disgrace.

Renji cannot breathe, cannot move. He has been seen in his most vulnerable, weakest state.

Byakuya’s expression remains unreadable, his gaze shifting—just slightly—to Renji’s hair.

And there it is. That infinitesimal flicker of emotion. Not disgust, not pity.

Acknowledgment.

Renji braces himself. He is ready to swear eternal loyalty right here, right now, even as a frizz-ridden failure—

But he stills as Byakuya, without a word, sets something down on the dresser.

A single, elegant jar. Then, with the unshakable dignity of a true noble, he turns and walks away.

Renji, still too paralyzed with grief to function, finally looks down.

Hairy Fairy All Repair Mask.

He does not know how to process this, but his chest tightens.

Byakuya... his Taichō... the greatest man he has ever known... had foreseen his suffering.

Had prepared for it.

A hero. A savior.

The protector of the weak and the frizzy.

Renji clutches the jar to his chest, eyes burning with emotion.

He will not let this kindness go to waste.

He will not fail his Taichō, ever.

Byakuya Kuchiki—graceful, untouchable, all-knowing—has reminded him that even in the darkest moments, even in the depths of shaving-foam-induced ruin, there is hope.

AO3 Link:

Hairy Fairy All Repair Mask

[reamara]

Buzz buzz—Buzz buzz

His phone, relentless and insistent, vibrating against his thigh like a mosquito with a personal vendetta. He already knows who it is because she is predictable as the sun rising and inevitable as taxes. He fishes his phone out, his thumb hovering above the screen, knowing full well the impending doom even before it flickers to life.

Rukia.

The message appears, stupid and completely void of sense:

🍓+👸=🍆💦

He snorts in dismay, drawing the brief attention of a nearby student who peers at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He shrinks back, hoping they don’t notice the absurdity of his life.

And he tries to make sense of it, he really does, but there’s nothing noble about Rukia, save for the lineage of her brother and her last name—an entire family tree overshadowed by this emoji-mad tyrant.

What fresh hell is this?

Ever since Orihime introduced her to the pixelated sorcery of emoji texting, he’s been effectively imprisoned in this digital purgatory.

Someone, anyone, should be paying for this. Preferably someone who hadn’t just endured a lecture on the existential dread of 18th-century poetry.

A rebellious flick of his thumb that might momentarily provide him solace—he swipes her into the digital abyss; he blocks her.

He knows with grim certainty that Orihime will orchestrate a rescue mission later, unblocking her as if she’s some tragic hero in a soap opera.

But for now, he shoves the phone back into his pocket, the lecture suddenly feeling marginally less torturous. Just another small victory in the endless war of trying to maintain dignity in the face of absolute madness.

AO3:

Logbooks of Lifetimes

[reamara]

It stinks. Kira wrinkles his nose, but the smell is everywhere—seeping into the corridors, clinging to the walls, even polluting the back garden. He considers fleeing, but he is a lieutenant. Running from a bad smell hardly sets the right example.

So, he follows it.

It leads him through the barracks, growing stronger with each step, until he stops at the squad kitchen. Maybe someone forgot to throw something away? He slides the door open.

Ah.

He should have known.

His Taichō sits at the table, head propped lazily on one hand. His usual smirk is softened, not mocking but something dangerously close to fond. Kira has seen that smile before. It’s the one his captain only wears for her. He wonders if his Taichō even realizes it. He wonders if she does.

Another pungent wave of whatever monstrosity she has created drifts toward him, and Kira barely swallows back a gag.

His Taichō doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he picks up a spoon, gives the concoction a thoughtful stir, and—without hesitation—takes a bite.

Kira watches in horrified awe as his Taichō chews, swallows, and hums in apparent satisfaction. “Not bad,” he muses, tapping the spoon against the edge of the bowl.

She brightens instantly, pleased by his approval.

Kira really, really wishes that his Taichō didn’t share his girlfriend’s exotic—if not outright concerning—culinary preferences. He also wonders (not for the first time) if love has dulled his Taichō’s sense of self-preservation.

[reamara]

He stands in front of her, blood trickling from a scratch on his arm, his breath uneven, his face flushed. He is hurt. But he is here. Alive.

She used to have to fight it—the overwhelming urge to run to him, to throw herself into his arms, to press her ear to his chest just to hear the steady proof that he was still breathing, still with her.

It had always been agony to hold back. Every time he had died—actually died—and somehow come back, the restraint nearly shattered her. She knows the trauma has settled deep, twisting into her bones.

But this time is different.

This time, she doesn’t have to hesitate. Doesn’t have to bite her tongue or clench her fists to keep herself in place. Because not long ago, he had asked her—soft, uncertain—if she loved him too. And now, she is allowed. Allowed to close the distance, to touch, to hold, to feel.

So she runs.

She crashes into him, arms locking around his waist, ear pressed against his chest. And finally, finally, she listens.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

[reamara]

Hi and welcome to Tumblr ✨

I have been reading your fics for IchiHime since Love Particles, it’s so good 💖

I hope we read more of your stories for them 🍓🍞

Hey there,

Oh wow, thank you so much! I know you as well from your comments ❤️

And Love Particles is also one of my dear ones, thank you for reading since then ❤️

[reamara]

Click here, to check out my profile in AO3

[reamara]

Hello there!

Honestly, I have no idea what to write here, so let’s just call this my little logbook. A place where I ramble about my writing, fandoms, and whatever else comes to mind!

But before that, let me properly introduce myself.

I’m Reamara—a 34-year-old mom of three energetic little boys and happily married to a ridiculously handsome dude who somehow puts up with my fictional obsessions.

Speaking of obsessions, I've been writing fanfic since the ancient times of 2001/2002! Yep, I'm a seasoned veteran, and I’ve hopped across various platforms over the years. I started on Animexx (a German fanwork site), moved to FanFiction.net, dabbled on Wattpad (we had a brief, awkward fling. It didn't work out.), and now, I mostly call AO3 home.

🪶Fandoms I Write For 🪶

Bleach (Ichigo/Orihime, Gin/Rangiku)

Final Fantasy VII (Cloud/Tifa)

Octopath Traveler 2 (Temenos/Throné)

One Piece (Nami/Luffy)

Yu-Gi-Oh! (Seto/Anzu)

Harry Potter (Dramione)

K-Pop (Because why not?)

As you can see, I exclusively write f/m fanfiction. It’s just where I feel most comfortable! Writing m/m or f/f feels a bit out of my depth—I wouldn’t want to do those relationships a disservice—so I stick to what I know best.

I’ll be linking my AO3 profile here soon, so if you’re curious about my stories, feel free to check them out!

Welcome to my little corner of the internet—I hope you enjoy your stay!