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😓
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Hello! I just wanted to let you know that I love your yandere batfam story + drabbles! It’s truly the best one I’ve read on here for the attention to detail, writing, and sticking true to the characters. It has also brought me a lot of comfort bc my dad and my brother have not been active in my life to say the least, so I just wanted to say thank you for writing the series and doing drabbles on the side. They make me smile and I reread them (+ all your works) often! I hope you have a happy and healthy life! I wish you nothing but the best and kindest wishes your way 🤍🤍
I know it’s a bit late for me to read that message now but I just want to wish you all the best. Your words really really moved me. Writing is my passion. It’s a way for me to communicate mine or other people‘s stories and emotions.
I am really glad my cracky writing brings you even the tiniest bit of comfort. But I hope you know, you deserve better than what you get. 💗 feel yourself hugged.
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.
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.
I am getting on my knees to apologize for leaving you guys alone for so long….😓 this weekend there will be lots of stuff coming. Tbh just because I am sort of having breakdown because of university and need a outlet.
But I have a small Sneakpeak for the new chapter:)
And also new projects coming soon hihi:)
(Don’t mind me screenshooting writing 20k words on my notes app)
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I am curious: what would happen if reader were to escape? Obviously they’ve tried before and failed, and I’m not sure if she’d try again to that extent but what if she just wanted some alone time and managed to leave school or the manor without telling anyone for a few hours? I feel like that would be necessary for her mental health 😂
Oki so I’m so grateful for your ask because I wrote something and I think I cooked 😓 will post it in two days🩷 -poppy
THE CAT IS OUT OF THE BAG (I LOVED the way you wrote this chapter, them all realising that their negligence and insistence on keeping reader out is what ended up killing her in the end *chefs kiss* may your pillow be cold and your crops be watered!!)
THANK YOU SOO MUCH!!💗
As a matter of fact my pillow was cold enough, thanks to you🥰 but yeah believe me they will suffer moreeeee.
Hey, you haven’t posted in a bit, is everything okay?
HIII!! Thank you so so much for asking sweets🩷 yes i’m just editing chapter 9! Life’s been busyyy. And just so you know whenever I’m publishing a lot I’m going through a procrastination phase lol. And your girly has to figure out her life the next few months. It‘s all about university applications, finding apartments, jobs, going back to my home country, etc.
And I have a soft spot for my Blossom Reverse series so I don‘t want to half ass something there. Therefore it will probably take some time (1-2months) for me to publish the next chapter after chapter 9. I just really want to provide some quality. But I will answer asks! And also write some easier stories down from my brain.
Furthermore, I just love it when you guys give your input or thoughts about the story. I can‘t wait to finally involve Ivy in the story. Or also maybe Silas as a potential love interest?🤭
Many for chapter 9 I’m just figuring out a way to get new pictures 🥲 anyone willing to draw something?
