a/n: I know you guys wanted the batfam…. I‘m still thinking of a drabble idea, my bad😓 it will come this week though!! But the production of the death note musical inspired me and I decided to write in a different view this time, how do you like it?
The afternoon sun hung low over the quiet Tokyo street, its pale golden light stretching long shadows across the pavement in front of the middle school gates. Students were spilling out in small clusters, laughter and chatter filling the air as the final bell had released them for the day. Some hurried toward waiting parents, others lingered with friends, reluctant to leave the brief freedom of the schoolyard.
Among the crowd standing just beyond the gates was Light Yagami.
He stood with the composed posture that came naturally to him, dressed in his neat high school uniform, his expression calm and observant as his sharp eyes scanned the groups of students leaving the building. To anyone passing by, he simply looked like a responsible older brother waiting to escort his sibling home.
But Light rarely observed anything without analyzing it.
His gaze swept across the courtyard automatically, noting the behaviors of people around him, the loud boys shoving each other, the tired teacher ushering students toward the street, the casual disorder of ordinary life. Even here, in something as mundane as a school dismissal, Light could see the subtle flaws of society: carelessness, immaturity, selfishness.
The world truly was rotten.
Then suddenly—
“Light!!”
A bright, excited voice cut through the noise.
Light’s eyes shifted immediately toward the source.
Running down the path toward him was you.
Your school bag bounced against your side as you hurried forward, your pigtails slightly messy from the long school day, strands of hair escaping their ribbons. The moment you reached him, you didn’t hesitate even for a second before throwing your arms around him in a cheerful hug.
Light’s body stiffened only briefly before relaxing.
“Big brother! You actually came!”
Your voice was warm with excitement, as though the simple fact that he had shown up for you was something wonderful.
Light looked down at you, the faintest trace of a smile appearing on his otherwise composed face.
“Yes,” he replied calmly. “I told you this morning that I would.”
You pulled back slightly, beaming up at him as if he had just done something extraordinary.
Light observed you quietly for a moment.
Your hair had clearly suffered the consequences of a full day of classes and running around with friends. One of the ribbons holding your pigtails had loosened, and several strands had fallen free.
Without thinking much of it, Light reached out and gently fixed the ribbon, carefully retightening it before smoothing the stray strands back into place.
“You should try to keep your hair neat,” he said lightly.
You giggled.
“It got messy at recess.”
Light finished adjusting the ribbon, then lowered his hand.
“…There,” he said. “Better.”
You looked pleased, almost proud, as though being fussed over by him was something special.
Without hesitation, you slipped your hand into his.
Light didn’t pull away.
The two of you began walking down the street together, leaving the school behind as the noise of students gradually faded into the background.
As usual, you immediately began talking about your day.
“So today in science class we had to do this experiment with plants,” you said animatedly, swinging your school bag slightly as you walked. “And Aya spilled water everywhere and Sensei got really mad, but it wasn’t even her fault because—”
Light listened quietly.
He always did.
Even while his mind constantly worked through far more complicated matters—the investigation, criminals across the world, the future he was shaping as Kira—he still paid attention when you spoke.
“…and then at lunch we traded desserts,” you continued. “I gave my pudding to Emi because she really wanted it.”
“That seems like an unfair trade,” Light remarked.
You shrugged.
“I didn’t mind.”
Of course you didn’t.
Light glanced down at you briefly.
You were far too kind for your own good.
Your voice lowered slightly as another thought occurred to you.
“Oh! And that boy did it again.”
Light’s attention sharpened instantly.
“Which boy?”
You puffed your cheeks in mild annoyance.
“The one from the other class. The tall one with the weird haircut.”
“What did he do?”
You sighed dramatically.
“He pulled my pigtails again.”
Light’s footsteps slowed slightly.
You continued explaining it casually, clearly more irritated than upset.
“Sensei saw it this time, but she just said he probably does it because he likes me.”
You frowned.
“But that’s stupid, right?”
Light was silent for a moment.
“What is his name?” he asked casually.
You answered without hesitation, completely unaware of the way Light’s mind had already begun organizing the information.
“What class is he in?”
“Class 2-B.”
“Does he do this often?”
You nodded.
“Sometimes.”
Light hummed thoughtfully.
To anyone listening, it would sound like the mild curiosity of an older brother.
Inside his mind, however, the situation had already been evaluated with cold efficiency.
Someone causing repeated distress to you.
Someone displaying aggressive behavior.
Someone lacking discipline.
A small, unpleasant piece in a flawed society.
Light’s gaze remained forward as he spoke calmly.
„If he bothers you again,” he said, “tell me.”
You smiled.
“Okay!”
As you continued walking, the two of you passed a row of small shops.
One of them had several televisions displayed in the front window.
Every screen was showing the same news broadcast.
KIRA STRIKES AGAIN — CRIMINAL DIES OF HEART ATTACK
Your attention immediately shifted toward the screens.
“Oh… it’s about Kira again.”
Light’s eyes flickered briefly toward the broadcast.
Of course it was.
The entire world was watching him now.
Even schools.
Even children.
You tightened your hold on his hand slightly.
“Everyone talks about Kira at school now,” you said. “Even during lunch.”
Your voice carried a hint of unease.
“Some kids say Kira is cool because he punishes bad people.”
Light said nothing.
You continued quietly.
“But others say he’s scary.”
You looked up at him.
“…Light?”
“Yes?”
“How does he do it?”
Your innocent curiosity hung in the air between you.
“The news says criminals just suddenly die.”
Light’s expression remained calm.
“The cause hasn’t been determined.”
You thought about that for a moment.
Then your voice became softer.
“Dad is working a lot more lately too.”
Light knew that already.
Their father, Soichiro Yagami, was deeply involved in the investigation.
Trying to stop Kira.
Trying to stop him.
You kicked a small pebble along the sidewalk.
“I don’t like that he’s gone so much.”
Light’s tone softened slightly.
“Dad’s work is important.”
You nodded slowly.
Then you asked the question that had clearly been sitting in your mind.
“…Light?”
“Yes?”
“Killing people is bad… right?”
For a brief moment, the world seemed to quiet around them.
Light looked down at you.
Your expression was serious in the way only children could be. Simple, honest, and completely sincere.
You weren’t thinking about ideology.
Or justice.
Or the future of humanity.
You were thinking about something far simpler.
People dying.
Light considered his answer carefully.
“In most situations,” he said evenly, “yes.”
You nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
“But,” Light continued calmly, “there are people in the world who harm others without hesitation.”
You blinked.
“Like criminals?”
“Yes.”
Light’s tone was calm and rational.
“Some criminals destroy lives without ever facing proper consequences.”
You listened attentively.
“If the law cannot stop them,” Light said, “then they continue hurting innocent people.”
You frowned slightly.
“But… killing them is still killing.”
Light observed you closely.
You truly believed that.
Your morality was simple and uncorrupted.
Right and wrong.
Life and death.
No grey areas.
Light felt something shift quietly inside his thoughts.
For a moment, his mind wandered beyond the street around them.
He imagined the world as it currently existed.
Crime.
Corruption.
Violence.
An endless cycle of people harming each other while justice struggled helplessly to keep up.
Then he imagined something else.
A future.
A new world.
A world where criminals no longer existed.
A world where fear disappeared.
A world where people like you could grow up without ever worrying about being hurt.
His eyes shifted slightly toward your small hand holding his.
Someone like you should never have to live in a rotten world.
Light had already decided long ago what needed to be done.
He would cleanse it.
He would become the god of the new world.
Yes, his reasons were greater than any one person.
His vision was for humanity itself.
But even so…
A quiet part of his mind acknowledged something else.
If that world protected you as well…
Then that outcome was even more acceptable.
You tugged gently on his hand, pulling him back to the present.
“Light?”
“Yes?”
You looked thoughtful.
“I still think Kira is scary.”
Your voice was soft.
“I hope the police stop him.”
Light looked down at you.
Your innocence was almost astonishing.
He reached out and gently rested his hand on your head, lightly ruffling your hair.
“You’re too kind for this world,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head.
“…What does that mean?”
Light simply smiled faintly.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
Eventually, the familiar sight of your house came into view.
You brightened immediately.
“Home!”
The two of you stepped inside.
You removed your shoes quickly and turned toward him with your usual cheerful energy.
“Thanks for picking me up, Light!”
Light placed his bag down calmly.
“You should start your homework,” he said.
You groaned dramatically.
“Already?”
“Yes.”
He gestured toward the hallway.
“Go to your room.”
You sighed but nodded.
“Okay…”
As you started walking away, Light added calmly,
“I’ll bring you a snack and some water in a moment.”
You looked over your shoulder.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Your expression lit up again.
“Thanks, big brother!”
You hurried off toward your room.
Light watched you disappear down the hallway before turning quietly and walking toward his own room.
The moment the door closed behind him,
A familiar voice echoed lazily through the air.
“Well, well.”
Perched casually near the window was Ryuk, the tall, skeletal shinigami grinning down at him with obvious amusement.
“That little sister of yours really adores you.”
Light ignored him at first, placing his bag on the desk.
Ryuk swung his legs idly.
“She’s interesting,” he continued. “So innocent. So trusting.”
Light opened a drawer calmly.
Ryuk leaned forward slightly.
“You’re awfully nice to her.”
His red eyes gleamed.
“For someone who kills people every day.”
Light finally looked up.
“She has nothing to do with this.”
Ryuk chuckled.
“Oh, but she does.”
Light’s gaze sharpened slightly.
Ryuk tilted his head.
“You’re creating a whole new world as Kira.”
His grin widened.
“But tell me something, Light…”
His voice dropped into curious amusement.
“Are you doing all this for justice…”
“…or because you want to protect that sweet little sister of yours?”
For a moment, the room fell silent.
Light stood by his desk, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the floor.
Sweetpea‘s time on the Moby Dick (or with the Whitebeard Pirates)
After that stormy arrival and the panic that followed, Sweetpea’s presence on the Moby Dick became… permanent. The Whitebeard Pirates — rough, chaotic, terrifying to most — restructured themselves around her like she was something sacred. At first, they treated her like a guest, a fragile little creature who just needed time to recover. But when her memory didn’t return — and when she started calling them by name, smiling at their jokes, helping carry fruit even when she almost tripped — they realized: she was theirs now.
Sweetpea didn’t fight it.
She couldn’t return to the Straw Hats — didn’t even know how — and every time she brought them up, her voice cracked. “I know they’re out there,” she’d whisper, “but I don’t know where… or if they’re okay…” She once cried herself to sleep on Marco’s shoulder. After that, the topic became quietly forbidden. No one told her not to talk about them, but every time she did, someone would change the subject. Or pick her up and carry her away. Or distract her with sweet food or soft hands.
Whitebeard himself declared her their daughter. He called her “hatchling,” and no one questioned it. If someone made her flinch — even by accident — he gave them a look that made seasoned killers pale.
She was never left alone on any island.
If they docked, she had an escort — always someone trusted: Marco, Thatch, Izou, or Ace. If anyone even looked at her wrong in town, they were quietly “handled” before she noticed. She was allowed to help in the kitchen, arrange flowers, hum little songs on deck — but never touch weapons. Never wander alone.
Ace watched her more than the rest.
At first, it was guilt. Luffy’s girl — or something like that — dropped into his hands during the worst part of his life. But the longer she stayed, the more that guilt twisted into something darker. She trusted him. Told him her memories. Her fears. Let him hold her when she had nightmares. She giggled when he told dumb jokes and always believed his tall tales without question.
The way she looked at him, with wide eyes and soft warmth, made Ace feel like he mattered. Like he was worth something again.
And that feeling became addictive.
⸻
The moonlight washed the deck in silver, calm and cold. Everyone else was asleep, or at least pretending to be, but Ace sat on the edge of the railing, one foot propped, the other swinging idly over the sea. Sweetpea sat beside him, her knees hugged to her chest, Luffy’s straw hat perched messily on her head like a crown.
She always wore it when she was sad.
“You miss them tonight?” Ace asked softly.
She nodded, chin resting on her knees.
“I dreamed about Usopp. He was showing me some weird slingshot…” She smiled a little, but it faded quickly. “I miss how they talked. The way Luffy laughed. Even Zoro’s grumbling…”
Ace didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leaned back, arms behind him, gazing up at the stars.
“Y’know,” he said after a beat, “you’ve been with us for over a year now. Almost two.”
“I know.” She hugged her legs tighter.
“And you’re still here.”
“I didn’t ask to be,” she whispered, but without venom. “I… I didn’t choose to leave them.”
“But you didn’t choose to leave us, either,” he said quietly.
That made her look at him.
He was already watching her. Moonlight made his freckles glow, and his eyes, usually easy and teasing, were serious now. Heavy.
“You’re part of this crew, Sweetpea,” he said. “You’re part of my crew. You know that, right?”
She nodded slowly.
Ace leaned forward. “I know you miss them. And maybe someday we’ll find them again. But if we don’t…”
She opened her mouth to speak, but his hand was already reaching up, gently removing the straw hat from her head, setting it aside.
“…Then you’re still not alone.”
She blinked, caught between breath and heartbeat.
He leaned in, forehead pressing softly to hers.
“You have me,” he whispered.
Her eyes fluttered shut. “I know.”
His hand rested against her cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye.
“You’re safe with me. You always will be.”
And in the silence between their breaths, Ace felt the guilt vanish — replaced by something deeper. Something unmovable. He had her. And that was enough.
Even if Luffy came for her one day. Even if she remembered every detail of the world she lost.
She wouldn’t leave.
Not now.
Not when her heart had already started to echo with his name.
I’m terribly keen to see what happens when mihawk meets sweatpea… possibly the most contradictory characters personality wise and well… everything wise.
But you know what they say, opposites attract and I could see it going very yandere very fast
You are correct. That would be a interesting combo to watch together. let me think of a scenario:)
this one is a bit shorter… but it just ends so well with that part. Don’t worry I’m writing the fourth part already:)
Then, slowly:
“I already have you.”
She stood.
It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger.
It was something else.
A coldness in her chest.
She gave a polite nod, trying to smile. Her lips barely moved.
“Thank you for your time, Getou-san. That will be all for today.”
He inclined his head.
“Sleep well, little dove.”
She didn’t look back.
The hallway outside diagnostics was quiet.
(Y/N) walked slowly, arms curled around her clipboard, fingers still trembling slightly from the last session. Suguru’s voice still echoed in her head. Not the things he said about his crimes—but the last thing.
“I already have you.”
She shook her head gently, like that could shake the words out too.
Just ahead, a familiar silhouette stood by the end of the hall, her back against the vending machine, one hand lighting a cigarette beneath the No Smoking sign.
“Shoko-san.”
The woman looked up with a raised brow, smoke curling from her lips.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
(Y/N) offered a small, sheepish smile. “You always say that.”
“That’s because you always do.”
⸻
They sat together on a bench just outside diagnostics. Shoko smoked while (Y/N) sipped tea from a paper cup.
The silence was companionable. Almost warm.
Then—
“Shoko… can I ask you something?”
The older woman didn’t look at her, just blew out a slow trail of smoke. “You just did.”
(Y/N) giggled softly. “I’m serious.”
Shoko side-eyed her. “Go on, then.”
“How do the others talk like that about the patients?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, almost uncertain. “I don’t mean just the guards. I mean… nurses. Doctors. The psychologists.”
Shoko didn’t answer right away.
“They act like they’re not even people,” (Y/N) whispered. “And some of them… they’ve been saying things about me. That I’m sleeping with… with them.”
Her face went red. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That I’m letting them… touch me.”
Shoko sighed, pulling the cigarette from her lips. “You think they say those things because they know you?”
(Y/N) blinked.
“They say them because they don’t,” Shoko said simply. “And because they’re scared. Of what the patients might do to them. Of what you represent. You walk around this place like it hasn’t chewed you up yet. They don’t know how to handle that.”
“But it’s not true…”
“They don’t care. You get results. You make them look like failures.” She flicked ash into a tray. “They don’t hate you, (Y/N). They’re afraid of how calm you are in the dark.”
She went quiet for a long moment.
Then (Y/N) glanced up, cautious. “You knew them before, didn’t you?”
Shoko tilted her head. “Satoru and Suguru?”
(Y/N) nodded.
The doctor’s smile was tired. Bittersweet.
“Yeah,” she said. “Back when they were just two dumb boys who thought they could save the world.”
(Y/N)’s eyes softened. “What were they like?”
Shoko chuckled. “Exactly what you’d expect. Satoru was loud. Cocky. Drove everyone insane. Suguru was quiet. Thoughtful. Smarter than any of us.”
She went quiet again.
“They were like brothers, you know. Opposites. And when they broke apart… everything else did too.”
(Y/N) stared down at her tea.
“…Do you think they can be saved?”
Shoko took a slow drag from her cigarette.
“I think,” she said softly, “they’re already gone. But they still think you can bring them back.”
⸻
(Y/N) didn’t speak for a while after that.
They just sat in the quiet.
Until—
“Oh,” Shoko added suddenly, a smirk forming. “Nanami tells me you’ve been staying at his place.”
(Y/N)’s cheeks went red instantly. “I—I wasn’t trying to! I mean—it’s not like that, it’s just temporary—!”
Shoko laughed.
“He’s always been like that,” she said. “The minute he cares, he starts pretending he doesn’t.”
(Y/N) looked down shyly.
“…Do you think he—?”
“Yes.”
(Y/N)’s eyes widened. “You didn’t even let me finish—!”
“I didn’t need to.” Shoko stubbed out the cigarette. “He watches you like you’re made of glass. He doesn’t even stay late unless you’re here.”
(Y/N) fidgeted with her sleeve.
“I don’t want to cause trouble…”
Shoko stood, stretching her arms over her head.
“You’re not causing trouble. You’re just soft. And that’s rare around here.”
She glanced back once before walking off.
“Just don’t confuse kindness with safety,” she added. “Not even from him.”
(Y/N) sat alone for a few minutes longer.
Thinking.
Holding her cup like it could protect her from the heat in her cheeks—or the cold settling again behind her ribs.
The sky outside was a dark purple.
Cicadas buzzed softly beyond the windows, and the forest wrapped around the cabin like a blanket. The kettle on the stove hissed gently. The little home was warm, dim, lived-in—books on the shelves, neatly folded clothes on the dresser, an extra futon laid out across the floor for her.
(Y/N) sat at the small wooden table, hugging her knees beneath her pale cardigan, her yellow floral dress slightly wrinkled from the long day.
Nanami placed a cup of tea in front of her. She blinked, then smiled softly.
“Thank you…”
He sat down across from her, sleeves rolled up, collar loose. He looked tired. But less guarded than usual.
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
She watched the steam rise from her cup.
“…Can I ask you something?” she said.
Nanami didn’t look up. “You always do.”
“What made you stay?” she asked. “Here. In this facility. Everyone else seems like they hate it.”
He was quiet.
Then:
“Someone had to.”
She tilted her head.
“You don’t talk like the others,” she said. “You don’t treat the patients like monsters.”
He let out a slow breath.
“That’s because I’ve seen real monsters.”
She stayed quiet, sensing the weight behind those words.
“I’ve worked in places worse than this,” he continued. “Places where people wanted to break others. For profit. Or pride.”
“This facility was different. At first. It was supposed to be about control. Recovery. Balance.”
He looked down at his tea.
“Then they brought in Satoru. And everything changed.”
She waited.
“I read their files,” she said gently. “But it’s hard to imagine. You’re always so calm.”
He gave a small, humorless smile.
“Calm isn’t peace. It’s survival.”
She blinked at that. Then smiled.
“…I think you’re kind,” she said.
He looked up, surprised.
“I mean it,” she added quickly. “You always look out for me. You didn’t have to. But you did.”
His eyes softened. The way he looked at her now—like she was something breakable, not in a bad way, but in a sacred way.
“I don’t like how this place treats you,” he said quietly. “You’re too good for it.”
She blushed at that. “I’m not that special…”
“You are,” he said, almost under his breath.
She looked away, flustered.
The silence between them shifted—something heavier now. Thicker. Tense not from fear, but from awareness.
He stood slowly, walking to the window, looking out into the trees.
Then:
“You’ve changed things here, you know.”
She blinked. “Me?”
“Suguru paints again. Satoru behaves for weeks just to see you. Megumi talks. Even I… stay late. For you.”
She flushed instantly. “Nanami-san…”
He turned back to her. Walked closer.
Then, he paused—just beside her. His hand hovered near her shoulder, hesitant.
“Can I…?”
She nodded before she understood what she was nodding to.
His fingers brushed against her cheek—knuckles light, reverent.
She gasped softly. Her skin tingled. No one had ever touched her like that. Not gently. Not like she was wanted and not just useful.
Their eyes met.
Her heart fluttered.
Then—
He leaned in.
It wasn’t a kiss.
Not yet.
Just his forehead against hers. His hand warm against her jaw.
And everything went still.
“I’m not like them,” he said softly. “I won’t lose myself in you. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel it.”
She stared at him.
Face flushed.
Breath caught.
Then—
She whispered, “Okay.”
________
The cursed energy sensors had been quiet all morning.
Nanami watched through the viewing window with his arms crossed, two guards standing behind him, tense but relaxed. Today looked normal.
But the moment (Y/N) stepped into the room—
The pressure changed.
Satoru was already waiting. Sitting cross-legged on the cursed circle at the center of the room, chains glowing faintly around his wrists and ankles.
His head lifted the second she stepped in.
“There she is,” he beamed. “My favorite bubblegum hallucination.”
(Y/N) gave a soft laugh despite herself.
She was wearing a huge pink cotton sweater that nearly swallowed her hands, her skirt barely visible beneath the hem. Her hair was loose today, strands curling around her cheeks in soft waves.
Satoru grinned wider.
“You look like a marshmallow that came to life. I want to take a bite.”
She smiled nervously, clipboard hugged to her chest.
“Good morning, Gojou-san. Let’s begin today’s session.”
“Aw, no hello? Not even a Peach, I missed you so much, I was dreaming of your face every night—?”
“Hello,” she said gently, cheeks pink. “Now answer your baseline questions.”
They went through the list.
He answered, mostly playfully. She asked about sleep, hallucinations, emotional outbursts. He played along. Her voice was soft as always, her handwriting delicate and pink.
“You really shouldn’t use that pen with dangerous criminals,” he said, watching it. “It makes me want to steal it and keep it forever.”
“Only the pen?”
“…No.”
She smiled again—more to herself this time.
And then she asked:
“…Why does Suguru always know what we talk about?”
Satoru tilted his head.
“Aww. You’re starting to notice.”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” she said. “But he always knows.”
“That’s because he’s a snitch.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I mean, we talk,” Satoru said casually. “Through cursed space. He’s weirdly good at it. Always eavesdropping like a jealous wife.”
She stared at him.
“But it’s okay,” he added brightly. “Because I think the three of us shouldn’t keep secrets from each other, don’t you?”
“I…”
“We belong together, after all.”
Her fingers twitched around her clipboard.
Then—
The door hissed.
Nanami appeared in the doorway, giving a silent hand gesture.
Time was up.
(Y/N) stood slowly, smoothing her sweater. She gave Satoru a soft nod.
“Bye, Gojou-san. See you soon.”
“Peach,” he called as she turned. “Wait.”
She looked back.
He didn’t speak.
But he watched.
The way she walked.
The way her fingers fluttered nervously at her sides.
The way her eyes flicked to Nanami.
The way she blushed.
And something behind his grin snapped.
“He touched you.”
She froze.
“You’re blushing. You were touched.”
Her eyes widened. “Wh—what?”
“Where?” he said, still smiling too wide. “Where’d he touch you, sweetheart? Your hand? Your neck? Or was it lower?”
“Satoru—”
The chains rattled. The cursed seals glowed hotter.
“You let him? You let him touch you?”
“I didn’t—!”
“You think he cares about you?” His voice warped with something beneath the charm. “He’s just bored. That’s all men like him ever are.”
She backed away instinctively.
He surged forward—but the chains yanked him hard, the curse circle flaring.
“I’ll tear his fucking arms off.”
The guards tensed outside the door.
Nanami stepped in—calm, unreadable. He moved to (Y/N) and gently touched her arm.
“Satoru,” he said firmly. “That’s enough.”
Satoru’s head snapped toward him, grin twisted, eyes glowing.
“Oh, I get it now. You’re the guard dog. You’ve got your little den in the woods and you think she belongs to you?”
Nanami didn’t rise to it.
“She touches you once,” Satoru sneered, “and you start dreaming about being her savior? That’s pathetic.”
“Your session is over,” Nanami said flatly, hand still on (Y/N)’s elbow.
“Take your hand off her.”
Nanami raised a brow. “Make me.”
The chains flared again. Satoru trembled in place, white hair falling across his face.
“You’re just a moment,” he hissed. “She’s mine in every one.”
Nanami didn’t flinch.
But (Y/N) was already backing toward the door, her heart pounding.
“Let’s go,” Nanami murmured to her, steering her gently out.
“Peach,” Satoru called one last time.
She looked back.
“Next time… wear that sweater again.”
“But nothing under it.”
The door slammed shut.
______
The door sealed with a hiss behind them.
Nanami’s hand was still lightly wrapped around her arm as he guided her into the corridor, away from the tension that had just roared behind cursed seals.
(Y/N)’s breath was unsteady, chest rising and falling too fast. Her pink sweater looked oversized now in a different way—like a blanket clinging to someone who’d just walked out of a storm.
She stopped walking.
Her fingers gripped the edge of her clipboard until they turned white.
“I didn’t mean to upset him,” she whispered.
Nanami turned toward her.
She stared down at the floor. “I must have said something wrong, or… or maybe the sweater was too—”
“Stop.”
His voice was calm, but firm.
She looked up, startled.
His gaze met hers directly. Controlled. Grounded.
But there was no doubt in it.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Her lips trembled. “He said I let you—he saw I blushed. I did blush, Nanami. Maybe I—maybe I gave him the wrong idea. Maybe I made him—”
“You didn’t make him anything,” he said, stepping closer. “You exist. That’s all you did.”
Her eyes filled, but the tears didn’t fall.
“You’re kind. Gentle. People aren’t used to that here. So when they feel something—when they need something—they think they’re owed it.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeated, softer now. “You never could.”
She lowered her head.
And then—
He pulled her into his chest.
It wasn’t like the hug before.
This one was protective.
A quiet, solid wall between her and the screaming things in the dark.
His voice near her ear.
“You don’t need to be afraid.”
“Not while I’m here.”
And for a moment—just one—
She believed him.
______
She was running late.
Her session with Suguru was scheduled for fifteen minutes ago, but diagnostics had overrun. She’d barely had time to re-braid her hair, fingers fumbling slightly. Her yellow floral cardigan was half-buttoned, and her name badge was flipped around.
She turned the corner of the hallway—
And froze.
Three nurses stood in her path.
The same ones from before.
Older. Taller. Painted lips and sharp smiles.
“There she is,” one said sweetly. “Miss Sugar-Smile herself.”
(Y/N) blinked, confused. “I—I’m late for a session, I don’t want any—”
“With Getou again?” the second nurse asked, eyes narrowing. “What’s it like? Sitting alone with someone who painted a school in blood?”
“I don’t—he’s not—”
“What, do you hold his hand while he tells you about his feelings?” the third said with a sneer. “Maybe stroke his hair, tell him he’s a good boy?”
(Y/N) stepped back.
“Please don’t talk like that—”
“Maybe that’s your thing,” one hissed, stepping closer. “You like being wanted by monsters.”
“Or maybe,” another added, “you just like being their toy.”
And then—
A hand reached out.
Her braid was yanked.
Hard.
She gasped, stumbling back—but another hand grabbed the other side, tugging it so hard the braid loosened, hair slipping from the tie.
“Let’s see if he still likes you when you’re not pretending to be a doll,” one of them whispered.
Then—
A slap.
Sharp. Open palm. Across her cheek.
She cried out, reeling back, hand flying to her face.
“Aw, poor thing,” one cooed. “Where’s your guard dog now?”
They let her go.
She stumbled against the wall, her braid half-undone, lips trembling.
“Go on,” the last one sneered. “You’re late, aren’t you? Your little psycho prince is waiting.”
They turned and walked off like nothing happened.
And (Y/N) stood there, silent, trembling.
Disheveled.
Half-broken.
But still holding her clipboard.
And somehow—still going.
_______
The lights in his room were low again, filtered through the tinted panels above. His robe sleeves were pushed back, a half-finished canvas leaning against the wall beside him.
He was sitting cross-legged, brush balanced between two fingers, face unreadable as (Y/N) stepped into the room.
She moved carefully, as if her body was heavier today. Her braid was uneven, hair falling loose around her shoulders. A faint red mark still lingered across her cheek. Her cardigan was slightly rumpled.
She gave him a soft smile anyway.
“Good evening, Getou-san.”
At first, Suguru didn’t look up.
His eyes remained on the brush, tapping it slowly against his palm.
“I heard something,” he said quietly.
She blinked.
“Satoru said Nanami’s been touching you.”
She opened her mouth. Then closed it again.
He didn’t look at her. Not yet.
“I thought it was just jealousy. I thought maybe it was him projecting.”
His voice was too smooth.
Too calm.
“But now that I see you…”
He lifted his head slowly.
Their eyes met.
His expression changed.
Instantly.
The cold tension vanished—replaced by something worse.
A flicker of alarm.
“…What happened to your face?”
She touched her cheek reflexively. “It’s nothing. I—I fell.”
His gaze darkened.
“You’re lying.”
“I didn’t want to be late,” she said quickly. “I wanted to see your new paintings.”
“(Y/N).”
Her breath caught.
She looked down. Then gave him another trembling smile. “I like the purple in that one,” she said, pointing to a canvas near the back. “It’s soft. Feels like lavender fields.”
He didn’t speak.
She tried again, softer.
“You always paint such peaceful things, even when everything feels so loud in here. I think that’s—”
“Stop.”
Her voice died in her throat.
He stood.
Not suddenly. Not with anger.
But with quiet, awful control.
“You’re trying to change the subject,” he said, walking toward the glass. “But I see what you’re doing. And it’s not working.”
She looked up, wide-eyed.
“Who did it?”
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
“Who touched you?” His voice didn’t rise. But the chill was sharp. “Who put hands on what belongs to me?”
She flinched.
Then blinked.
“…Why should I tell you?”
That caught him off guard.
Her voice was soft, almost lost—but there was something firm underneath.
“What would you even do?” she asked, lips trembling. “I tell you, and then what? You’re locked in here, Suguru.”
He stared at her for a long time.
Then—
“Say their names.”
“No—”
“Say them,” he said, quieter now. “And I promise, they’ll never touch you again.”
She looked away.
The silence stretched.
Her fingers clutched the clipboard too tightly.
And finally—
“…The nurses.”
He said nothing.
Just stood there.
Like something ancient waiting in the dark.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“Don’t do anything,” she said quickly. “I just—I wanted to tell you because you asked.”
He tilted his head.
“I told you before, didn’t I?”
“You’re not like them.”
“You don’t get to be hurt by the same world.”
She looked at him.
Still confused.
Still unsure.
But when he stepped back from the glass and returned to his place by the canvas, the room felt… calmer.
Not safe.
But still.
She sat down slowly, brushing her hair from her face.
“Would you mind telling me what that one’s about?” she asked, voice soft again, pointing to another half-finished painting.
He looked up.
And for a moment, just one—
He smiled.
“She’s standing in a field,” he said. “Her hair is unbraided. Her hands are covered in paint. And there’s blood on the wind, but she doesn’t feel it.”
She blinked.
Then smiled.
And the rest of the session passed in quiet conversation—her pen scratching notes, his voice a low hum.
And when the door opened again at the end, and the guards called time—
He didn’t stop her.
Not yet.
“Sleep well, little dove,” he said quietly.
“And don’t worry.”
“They’ll never lay a finger on you again.”
The kettle had long gone cold on the stove.
(Y/N) had barely made it to the futon before she collapsed, too tired to even change out of her cardigan. The events of the day swam in her head—Suguru’s words, the slap across her face, the ache behind her eyes.
Sleep came heavy. Dark. Dreamless.
Bu it didn’t last.
A sound stirred her.
Low. Muffled.
Her eyes blinked open in the pitch-black room.
At first, she thought it was just the wind.
Then—
A voice. Sharp. Urgent.
She sat up slowly, her heart already beginning to pound. The wood beneath her creaked as she padded barefoot toward the main room.
Light leaked out from under the door.
When she opened it—
Nanami was standing near the window. His back to her. One hand clenched tightly around his phone, the other braced against the edge of the desk.
“…Have you secured the south wing? What about the surgical ward?”
“No, I said isolate the level fives first. If they’ve breached containment—damn it, someone give me a real update.”
His voice was low. Tense. Wrong.
(Y/N) froze in the doorway.
“…Nanami-san?”
He didn’t turn.
“No. She’s not to be informed until—”
“Nanami,” she said again, firmer now. Her voice small but resolute. “What’s happening?”
He exhaled slowly through his nose. Shoulders stiff.
Then, after a pause, he hung up the phone.
Still facing the window.
“Go back to bed.”
She didn’t move.
Her fingers trembled against the frame of the door. “Tell me.”
He turned finally.
His expression was harder than she’d ever seen it.
But his eyes—his eyes were afraid.
“There’s been a breakout.”
She felt the blood drain from her face.
“…A breakout?”
He nodded once.
“The facility’s in lockdown. Multiple breaches. Communications are failing in the inner wings.”
She swallowed.
Her voice cracked.
“Wh-who…?”
Nanami hesitated.
And then—he looked her directly in the eyes.
“All of them.”
She stared at him.
The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of words she couldn’t grasp yet.
Her lips parted—but nothing came out.
Then—
“They’re gone,” Nanami said quietly. “Satoru. Suguru. And others.”
Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)
Chapter 10.1
author‘s yap: oooppsss. Don’t mind the long break guys, life has been tough. But I’m on a semester break for now. I can’t promise I will post more regularly. Just that I have new ideas hihi:) anyway Ramadan Mubarak to my fellow muslims 💗 and belated chinese new year 🧧 also there is a small part 2 because I wrote too much:(
Gotham did not sleep.
It rotted slowly under neon lights.
And Y/N rotted with it.
The nightclub pulsed like a diseased heart at the edge of the Narrows — bass vibrating through cracked walls, colored lights bleeding over stained ceilings, the air thick with alcohol, perfume, and desperation. It was not a place for a girl like her.
But Gotham was not a place for girls like her either.
She balanced a tray between trembling fingers, weaving between tables of drunk men and sharp-eyed women, her borrowed name stitched onto her uniform.
Emilia.
The name tasted like rust in her mouth.
She wore contact lenses now — dull brown instead of the vivid, unnatural green that had once betrayed her lineage. Her hair was pinned up. Her posture smaller. Shoulders rounded.
Invisible.
That was the goal.
Invisible girls survived.
She moved carefully, quietly. Smiled when spoken to. Nodded. Apologized. Collected tips. Endured wandering hands with the frozen politeness of someone who knew retaliation would cost more than silence.
She told herself this was temporary.
She told herself this was safer than Wayne Manor.
She told herself this was better than dying at eighteen in an alley with blood filling her lungs.
But sometimes, when the music got too loud, it sounded like screaming.
And sometimes, when a glass shattered, she flinched because in her dreams it was bones snapping.
In her dreams she was older.
In her dreams she was stronger.
In her dreams she was dying.
She would wake up tangled in thin sheets, breath shallow, phantom fingers still wrapped around her throat. She never saw the face clearly — just shadows, just pain, just the echo of her own choking breath. The scent of iron. The feeling of being alone.
Always alone.
And somewhere in those dreams, faint but persistent, she heard voices calling her name.
Like a prayer that came too late.
⸻
She worked five nights a week.
Gary had protested at first, told her the club was no place for “a sweet thing like you.” But rent did not wait for kindness. Hunger did not wait for safety.
So she worked.
She ignored the way men looked at her.
She ignored the way one of the bouncers lingered too long behind her shoulder.
She ignored the way her hands sometimes trembled when she counted money.
She did not ignore the fear.
The fear was constant.
What if they find me?
The thought followed her everywhere. On the bus. In the shower. When she watered Gary’s plants in the early morning light. When she lay staring at the ceiling of her apartment, watching cracks form shapes like open mouths.
Would they chain her again?
Would they lock her inside the Manor and call it protection?
Would they look at her with that broken devotion and say they loved her while taking away every breath that belonged only to her?
Her chest tightened.
She pressed her palm against the nearest potted fern in the club’s corner — a decorative thing, barely alive from neglect.
It stirred beneath her touch.
Leaves unfurled slightly.
Green deepened.
She yanked her hand back like she’d been burned.
No.
Not here.
Not ever here.
Her powers were a whisper under her skin — a pulse that responded to emotion. And lately, her emotions were a storm.
She swallowed and returned to work.
⸻
The night it happened, Gotham was restless.
There were more men than usual. Louder. Meaner. The news had mentioned increased vigilante activity again — gang warehouses raided, drug routes destroyed, crime lords disappearing overnight.
She didn’t think it was because of her.
She told herself it wasn’t.
At table seven, a group of men in expensive suits called her over. The smell of cologne was sharp enough to sting.
“Smile more,” one of them said, fingers brushing her wrist.
She stiffened.
“I am smiling, sir.”
Another laughed.
“She’s pretty but young.”
“Too young for this place.”
“She shouldn’t be here.”
The first one’s grip tightened.
“You lost, sweetheart?”
Her heart began to pound.
Not again.
Not like this.
“I have other tables,” she said softly, trying to pull away.
He didn’t let go.
The music shifted. The lights flickered.
And then—
The doors opened.
It wasn’t dramatic. No explosion. No shouting.
But the room changed.
It was subtle at first — tension tightening, conversations dipping. A ripple.
Red.
A flash of red under dim lights.
A helmet.
A silhouette carved from violence.
Red Hood.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He moved through the club like judgment — quiet, controlled, lethal. Someone must have tipped him off. Maybe it was a trafficking ring. Maybe weapons. Maybe worse.
He didn’t see her.
Of course he didn’t see her.
She was smaller now.
Different.
Wrong.
The man at table seven released her when he noticed the newcomer.
“Shit,” someone muttered.
Chaos bloomed.
Two of the men reached for concealed weapons. Red Hood was faster.
The first went down with a brutal strike to the jaw. The second barely had time to lift his gun before it was kicked from his grip.
Screaming.
People scattering.
The bass cut abruptly.
Y/N stumbled back, tray crashing to the floor. Her ears rang.
Red Hood’s voice carried through the room — rough, commanding.
“On the ground.”
She froze.
That voice.
It hadn’t changed.
Lower, maybe. Harder. But it was him.
Jason.
Her vision blurred.
She didn’t mean to look at him.
She didn’t mean to memorize the way he moved.
But she did.
And something inside her cracked.
He finished disabling the men in seconds. Efficient. Ruthless. Protective in a way that felt almost instinctual.
He turned slightly, scanning.
And for a split second—
His gaze brushed over her.
Just another waitress.
Just another civilian.
He looked away.
Relief hit her so violently her knees nearly gave out.
He didn’t recognize me.
Good.
One of the criminals lunged unexpectedly, grabbing her arm in a desperate attempt to use her as a shield.
Her scream tore through the air.
Red Hood reacted instantly — fury igniting.
The man was disarmed in less than a heartbeat.
Jason slammed him into a table hard enough to splinter wood.
“Touch her again,” he snarled, “and I break every finger you have.”
Her chest constricted.
He didn’t know it was her.
But he still protected her.
Like he always did.
That made it worse.
Before he could turn to check on her—
She ran.
⸻
She didn’t stop until she was three blocks away.
Her lungs burned.
Her vision tunneled.
Her hands shook so badly she pressed them against a brick wall to steady herself.
He was there.
He was so close.
They were searching.
They would find her.
They always found her.
Her breath hitched — and the panic surged.
No no no no no—
The alley behind her shifted.
A crack split through the pavement.
Green burst upward.
Vines.
Thin at first.
Then thicker.
Curling around rusted fire escapes.
Twisting along brick.
Blooming.
Flowers erupted from concrete like wounds opening.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
Stop—
Please—
She clutched her head, sliding down the wall as the plants obeyed her terror.
She saw it again—
The alley.
The future.
Blood soaking into stone.
A hand around her throat.
A voice mocking her for being Bruce Wayne’s daughter.
For being Poison Ivy’s child.
For thinking she could ever be anything but a pawn.
Her powers had flared that night too.
Too late.
Always too late.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered hoarsely.
The vines quivered.
She pressed her forehead to her knees.
“I don’t want to be her.”
Her mother.
Poison Ivy.
Pamela Isley.
Villain.
Eco-terrorist.
Monster.
The woman who had smiled at her when she was two years old and called her beautiful.
The woman who had never come back.
Y/N’s fingers dug into her sleeves.
She had spent years trying not to think about her.
Trying to prove she wasn’t the same.
Trying to be small. Harmless. Acceptable.
And yet here she was — making flowers bleed from asphalt.
She laughed weakly.
“I can’t do this alone.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
She had run from her father.
From her brothers.
From suffocating loneliness and harmful cages.
But she had never run toward anyone.
Not once.
Her gaze lifted slowly.
Arkham.
The thought settled heavy and inevitable in her chest.
If anyone understood what it meant to carry poison in your veins and still try to live—
It was her mother.
Maybe she wouldn’t help.
Maybe she would mock her.
Maybe she would see her as weakness.
But Y/N needed answers.
Needed something.
Because the nightmares were getting louder.
Because the vigilantes were getting closer.
Because Jason had stood three feet away and she had almost broken.
She pushed herself to her feet.
The vines around her began to retract, sinking back into cracks like secrets swallowed whole.
She wiped her face with trembling hands.
“Arkham,” she whispered.
And for the first time since she had run away—
She chose a direction.
The decision settled into her bones like frost.
Three days later, Y/N stood outside her apartment building with borrowed courage and shaking hands.
She had not slept much since the nightclub.
Jason’s voice still echoed in her mind. The way he had defended her without knowing who she was. The way he would have recognized her if he had looked closer.
She couldn’t let that happen again.
Arkham loomed in her thoughts like a final confession.
She didn’t remember her mother clearly.
Not in faces.
Not in full conversations.
Only fragments.
Green.
Warm hands smelling faintly of soil.
A voice that had once called her my little bud.
And then—
Nothing.
Bruce had found her in a warehouse hidden behind illegal botanical experiments and toxin labs. She had been two. Maybe three. Too small. Too quiet. Malnourished but alive.
Pamela Isley had laughed when they took her away.
You’ll never keep her from me forever, darling.
But forever had come and gone.
And neither of them had found each other again.
⸻
The taxi driver kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
She sat neatly in the back seat, hands folded over her floral skirt, hair pinned carefully, posture straight. She looked like she belonged in a library.
Not here.
Not heading toward Gotham’s most infamous asylum.
“You sure this is the place?” he asked carefully as the gray walls of Arkham rose into view, jagged against the overcast sky.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Family?”
She nodded.
He went quiet after that.
Arkham had a way of silencing people.
The building wasn’t just concrete and iron. It felt alive in the worst way — like something ancient and hungry crouched behind its gates. The air grew heavier the closer they got. Even the sky seemed dimmer above it.
When the taxi stopped, she stepped out slowly.
For a moment, she almost turned back.
What if her mother didn’t want to see her?
What if she laughed?
What if she looked at her and saw weakness?
But then she remembered dying.
Remembered being alone.
And she walked forward.
The guards at the front gate were unimpressed.
“No appointment.”
“I’d like to request one.”
“Name?”
She hesitated.
For weeks she had been Emilia Forenzi. Eighteen. Italian. Invisible.
But Arkham would not know that name.
And Poison Ivy certainly wouldn’t.
“…Y/N Wayne.”
The guards exchanged looks.
Recognition flickered.
Of course they knew the name.
Bruce Wayne’s daughter.
Poison Ivy’s child.
A headline waiting to happen.
“You can’t just walk in here,” one of them said firmly. “There are procedures.”
Her throat tightened.
“I just want to see my mother.”
“She doesn’t get visitors.”
Her pulse quickened.
Panic crept up her spine like ivy climbing brick.
Please—
“I won’t cause trouble,” she whispered.
They didn’t move.
Her breath came shorter.
The plants lining the perimeter fence rustled.
The ivy woven through Arkham’s outer walls trembled faintly.
Neither guard noticed.
But something subtle shifted in the air.
Her eyes — muted brown from lenses — seemed almost brighter.
Her voice softened further.
“I’ve come a long way.”
One guard blinked slowly.
The other’s posture eased without him realizing it.
“She’s been… stable lately,” the first muttered.
“She might respond better if it’s family.”
A pause.
“…Fine. One visit. Monitored.”
Y/N didn’t understand what she had done.
She only knew the gates opened.
⸻
Arkham smelled like disinfectant and decay.
Like something constantly scrubbed but never clean.
The halls were dim. The lights hummed faintly overhead. Doors lined the corridor — reinforced glass and steel — each holding something the world wanted forgotten.
She felt wrong here.
Too bright.
Too soft.
Her steps echoed too loudly.
Some inmates watched her pass with unsettling interest.
Some laughed.
Some whispered.
One man pressed his face to the glass and grinned too wide.
“Little girl in a graveyard,” he crooned.
She didn’t stop walking.
Her hands trembled.
This was her inheritance.
Not Wayne Manor.
Not gala dresses.
This.
When they reached the secure visitation chamber, the guard gestured for her to sit.
“She’ll be brought in shortly.”
The word brought made her stomach twist.
She sat.
Alone.
Separated by thick reinforced glass and a metal table bolted to the floor.
Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the barrier — pale, delicate, almost glowing in the sterile light.
She felt like an angel that had wandered into hell by mistake.
Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might shatter the silence.
Then—
The opposite door opened.
Chains did not bind her.
But presence did.
Pamela Isley stepped into the room like nature reclaiming a battlefield.
Even in Arkham scrubs, even thinner than memory might have painted her, she was breathtaking. Red hair cascading in controlled wildness. Green eyes sharp and ancient.
Power clung to her like perfume.
She did not look broken.
She looked contained.
The guards left.
The door shut.
Pamela did not sit immediately.
She stared.
Y/N’s breath left her in a broken whisper.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Pamela’s gaze traveled over her slowly — assessing, calculating, absorbing.
Then something changed.
Something fragile.
“…No,” Pamela breathed.
Her voice wasn’t mocking.
It wasn’t theatrical.
It was soft.
Y/N’s throat closed.
She removed her contact lenses with shaking fingers.
The brown faded.
Green emerged.
Bright.
Unmistakable.
Pamela inhaled sharply.
The distance between them suddenly felt unbearable.
“My little bud,” Pamela whispered.
Y/N’s composure shattered.
“Mama.”
The word left her like it had been waiting for years.
Pamela’s hand lifted instinctively toward the glass, palm pressing against it.
Y/N mirrored her without thinking.
Skin to cold barrier.
Separated.
Close.
“So tall,” Pamela murmured. “So beautiful.”
Tears spilled down Y/N’s cheeks before she could stop them.
“I don’t remember you properly,” she admitted in a trembling voice. “I tried to. I tried so hard.”
Pamela’s expression cracked — something raw surfacing beneath her controlled exterior.
“They took you from me,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“No,” Pamela corrected gently. “They tore you out of my arms.”
Y/N’s breath shook.
“I thought you forgot me.”
Pamela’s laugh was soft and broken all at once.
“Forget you?” she whispered. “Darling, you are the only pure thing I ever created.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Pamela did not sit at first.
She stalked the length of the small visitation space like a panther forced into a cage too small for its claws. Only when her eyes had memorized every line of her daughter’s face did she lower herself into the chair.
Up close, the resemblance was undeniable.
Not just the green eyes.
The bone structure. The quiet intensity. The way emotion simmered beneath restraint.
“Let me see you properly,” Pamela murmured.
Y/N lowered her gaze instinctively before forcing herself to look up again. She hated how small she felt under that stare. Hated how much she wanted approval.
Pamela reached toward the glass again, fingertips splayed.
“You’ve grown into spring,” she said softly. “And they tried to bury you in winter.”
Y/N swallowed. She didn’t answer that.
Instead, she asked the question that had been burning inside her for years.
“Why do I have them?”
Pamela’s head tilted.
“The powers.”
Her fingers curled slightly in her lap.
“They don’t listen to me. Sometimes they just—happen. When I’m scared. Or upset. Or when I don’t mean for them to.” Her voice tightened. “I don’t want them.”
Silence.
For a heartbeat, Pamela simply stared at her.
Then she smiled — slow, dangerous, wounded.
“You are asking me how to stop being what you are.”
“I just want to be normal.”
The word normal tasted bitter in the air between them.
Pamela’s expression hardened.
“Normal?” she repeated quietly. “You are not a weed trying to survive in concrete, my love. You are the garden itself.”
“I don’t want to be,” Y/N whispered.
The glass separated them, but Pamela leaned forward as if she could crawl through it by will alone.
“Did they make you hate it?” she asked, voice silk over steel.
Y/N’s stomach tightened.
“No.”
Too fast.
Pamela’s eyes sharpened.
“How did you get here?” she asked suddenly. “Bruce would never allow this. He would rather salt the earth than let you step foot in this place.”
Y/N looked down at her hands.
“I just… came.”
“That is not an answer.”
Y/N said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Pamela studied her daughter the way she might study soil before planting something fragile in it. Searching for toxins. Searching for cracks.
“You’re thinner,” she noted softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
Pamela’s fingers flexed.
“You smell like fear,” she said gently. “And smoke. And… cheap alcohol.”
Y/N’s breath stuttered.
She hadn’t realized.
“You are not fine,” Pamela concluded.
Y/N’s jaw tightened. She refused to let tears fall again.
“I just want to control it,” she insisted quietly. “The plants. The… influence. Sometimes people listen to me differently and I don’t even mean to. I don’t want to manipulate anyone.”
Pamela’s lips curved faintly.
“It is not manipulation to exist powerfully.”
“It is when they don’t have a choice.”
That made Pamela pause.
There it was.
Conscience.
Bruce’s influence.
Pamela exhaled slowly.
“You cannot erase it,” she said at last. “It is genetic. It is cellular. It is woven into you like chlorophyll in leaves.”
Y/N’s shoulders slumped.
“But,” Pamela continued, eyes gleaming faintly, “you can learn to guide it. Control is not suppression. It is understanding.”
Y/N looked up, hope flickering despite herself.
“You’d teach me?”
“If I were not trapped in this cement coffin?” Pamela’s smile sharpened. “I would never let you struggle alone with something that belongs to you.”
The word alone pressed into Y/N’s ribs like a bruise.
Pamela noticed.
“Did they teach you?” she asked.
Y/N hesitated.
“…No.”
Pamela’s jaw tightened.
“They should have,” she murmured.
The overhead speaker crackled.
“One minute remaining.”
The words fell like a guillotine.
Y/N’s head snapped toward the sound. “Already?”
Pamela stood abruptly, chair screeching against the floor.
“No,” she said sharply. “We are not done.”
Her voice shifted — deeper, edged with something ancient. The faint hum of the facility’s plant life responded. Ivy crawling along the outer walls trembled.
The guards outside shifted uneasily.
Y/N stood too, pressing both palms flat against the glass.
“I’ll come back,” she promised quickly, even though she wasn’t sure she could.
Pamela moved closer until only inches separated them.
“You will not disappear again,” she said, voice low and intense.
It wasn’t a question.
Y/N’s chest tightened.
“I—”
The door behind Pamela unlocked with a mechanical click.
Time was up.
Pamela’s composure fractured.
“You do not belong in his world,” she said urgently. “You belong where things grow. Where you are understood. If they ever make you feel unwanted—”
“They don’t,” Y/N said quickly.
Pamela searched her face.
She did not look convinced.
“You are mine,” Pamela whispered fiercely. “Before Wayne. Before Gotham. Before anyone.”
The guards stepped inside.
Pamela resisted for half a second — not physically, but emotionally. The plants along the corridor walls creaked faintly, responding to her pulse.
Y/N felt it.
That power.
That fury.
That love twisted into possession.
“I’ll come back,” Y/N repeated, even softer.
Pamela allowed herself to be led away, but her eyes never left her daughter.
“Next time,” she said calmly, “I will not let them take you from me so easily.”
The door shut.
The room felt colder.
⸻
Outside Arkham, the sky had darkened into bruised violet.
Y/N walked toward the gates in a haze.
Her mind replayed every word.
You are mine.
You cannot erase it.
You are the garden.
Her powers felt different now.
Less like a curse.
More like something unfinished.
But underneath that—
Fear.
If her mother was this intense through glass and steel…
What would she be without it?
Wayne Manor — Batcave
Tim Drake’s screens never slept.
He hadn’t either.
Lines of code blurred across multiple monitors as he combed through databases for the thousandth time that week.
Then—
A notification chimed.
Arkham Asylum — Visitor Log Update.
Identity confirmed: Y/N Eloise Wayne.
Tim froze.
For a split second, he thought exhaustion had finally broken his brain.
Then he opened the file.
Timestamp: 17:42.
Visitor: Y/N Eloise Wayne.
Inmate: Pamela Isley.
His heart dropped into his stomach.
“She went to Arkham,” he breathed.
After months of nothing—
Arkham.
His chair screeched backward as he stood.
“Dick,” he snapped into the comm system. “Jason. Damian. Now.”
Within seconds, the cave began to fill.
Jason’s boots hit the metal floor first. “You found her?”
Damian’s eyes were already sharp, searching Tim’s screens.
Dick stepped forward, hope and dread colliding on his face.
Tim turned the monitor toward them.
Silence.
Jason swore under his breath.
“She went to her?” Damian hissed.
Bruce’s presence descended into the cave moments later — silent, controlled, terrifying.
Tim didn’t need to look to know his father’s jaw had tightened.
“She used her real name,” Tim said quickly. “Which means she wasn’t thinking about surveillance. She’s either desperate or—”
“Or she needed something only Ivy could give,” Bruce finished coldly.
Dick ran a hand through his hair. “How long ago?”
“Thirty-two minutes.”
Jason was already moving toward the Batmobile platform.
“Then what are we standing here for?”
Bruce’s eyes were unreadable, but the air around him shifted.
“She will not be alone for another day,” he said.
And for the first time in months—
They had a location.
______
Y/N did not feel triumphant when she left Arkham. She felt hollow, as if something inside her had been gently uprooted and replanted somewhere deeper. The sky had dimmed into evening gray, and the air carried that metallic Gotham chill that always felt like a warning. She walked past the gates without looking back, replaying her mother’s words in her mind, not noticing the cameras mounted above the entrance, not thinking about visitor logs, not considering that her real name had weight. She had not come to Arkham as Emilia Forenzi. She had come as Y/N Wayne. She had not even realized what that meant.
Halfway down the road, the reality of something far more practical struck her. She didn’t have enough money for another taxi. The cash in her pocket had barely covered the ride there. She stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, biting her lip, glancing back at Arkham’s looming silhouette, and then forward toward the city. She could walk part of the way. There was a bus stop not far down the road. She folded her arms over herself and started walking, boots scuffing against cracked pavement, her thoughts louder than the traffic in the distance.
The bus ride was long and nearly empty. She sat near the back, forehead pressed lightly against the cool window, watching Gotham blur into streaks of yellow and red. She thought about her mother’s eyes. About the way Pamela had said you are mine. About the way she had not asked for details, not demanded confessions, just watched her like a starving thing seeing light again. Y/N did not know if that made her feel comforted or terrified.
By the time she reached her stop, the city had darkened properly. The Narrows swallowed light instead of reflecting it. She stepped off the bus and walked the rest of the way to her apartment building, shoulders hunched, mind distant. The stairwell smelled like mildew and fried oil. The hallway lights flickered faintly. Everything was as it had been when she left. Ordinary. Small. Safe in its own fragile way.
She unlocked her door and stepped inside.
Darkness greeted her. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a second, exhaling. Her stomach growled softly. She hadn’t eaten since the afternoon. She kicked off her shoes, set her bag down, and crossed to the small kitchenette. The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city outside.
She filled a glass with water and stood there for a moment, staring at nothing. Her head felt heavy with thoughts she couldn’t quite untangle. She moved to the window and touched the potted plant on the sill, letting her fingers brush the leaves. They responded gently, a subtle shift, a quiet acknowledgment. She hummed under her breath, something soft and tuneless, trying to ground herself in something normal.
How I feel ghosting you all for months, being gone from the platform (because of bad times yolo) and then publishing the unedited blossom reverse chapter 10 without any warning or tags😓
Hey, I have a question, but I don't mean to be rude. How old is Sweetpea? Was she rejuvenated when she got isekaid? Or not? (Sorry if the question is silly)
Before she isekaied she was definitely a late Highschool student or a early college student. After that I’m not really sure, to be honest. Most characters, whether platonic or romantic yandere, infantilize her a lot. This does not mean she’s underage per se. I haven’t really made up my mind yet. Therefore, you can choose it yourself while you read the story. :)
Hi! I'm new to your blog I think that what's it called on Tumblr..
I was wondering who sweetpea is? sorry if it sounds dumb
No don’t worry!!🩷 sweetpea is the name of the MC/Reader in my Yandere One Piece story. She doesn’t know her real name, so y/n, hence the crew named her Sweetpea. That name stuck somehow.:)
I apologize, guys 😓 mental health and starting university in a new city has been tough. At least I got a month break now, and I’m back in my home city 😊
Recently I had my birthday and hence I was slightly dealing with a social life crisis lol. But I survived for now 💗 and I have new motivation to write. Maybe start new stories? Also, I have to watch JJK‘s new season finally :)
