Competition | ❧Damian Wayne X Reader☙ |

Part 31

The (L/N)'s dining regiment was composed of two essential articles: the first and foremost being the unaccommodating silence that enduringly echoed, and the second, three individuals seated in assigned seats in front of hot meals. In addition to that, there was also a very strict “No Phones” policy; though you figured it only applied to you, for your father moreso than your mother, would regularly be accompanied by his cellular devices at the table–often to indulge in the most outlandish videos known to man.

Being of your nature, you'd naturally inquired as to why this rule only applied to one member of the family, your mother enlightened you with a substantial retort of, “He's not my daughter, however, you are.” Gods, why couldn't she simply admit that playing the role of puppeteer and exploiting her powers as your legal guardian, brought her all too much joy?

You'd kept your head bowed as you ate, your eyes trained on the plate of food before you with the intent of boring a hole into the ceramic; you couldn't specifically recall when you'd developed this habit, but you surely knew why it'd formed: you'd hate to catch anybody's eye. Occasionally you'd see your mother glancing at you, a blank expression on her face per usual, but her unwanted staring wasn't the most unsettling bit—no. Her gaze to you, her own daughter, was that of one that mirrored a look she'd spare a stranger while running errands. Sometimes, if your father wasn't too closely eying his phone while he devoured his food, he'd give you that same look.

Needless to say, when the words regarding the school outing and your partner escaped your lips, along with the breath you weren't aware was caught in her throat, your parents were flabbergasted—no, outraged.

It was rare for both of your parents to act in such a manner; historically, one member of the pair would remain calm and collected while the other went on a rampage. Not now though, not this time. They'd blown the mere idea of signing the permission slip to proportions because evidently traveling with the opposite gender was frowned upon–not that traveling with (B/F/N) would've pleased them anymore, since she was a ‘bad influence’.

Your mother, in particular, preached about experiencing unfamiliar things; about how her parents constantly allowed her to participate in school outings that would take her a great deal away from home, but now that you finally have the opportunity to do just that, she denies you of it? Classic. “I'm going to grow old knowing I wasn't able to experience new things when it really mattered,” is all you say before taking your leave from the dining room. Though it was melodramatic, the point was conveyed.

Unbeknownst to them, however, Gotham Academy wasn't just filled with socialites and Gotham's elite, but with certain individuals who'd meet with you in ill-lit, secluded areas to fulfill specific deeds when given a good sum of money. It certainly wouldn't be a difficult task to forge a signature—you wished it wouldn't come to that for you'd never dabbled with people of this sort before; the mere thought of it was much too reminiscent to a drug deal. Nevertheless, you weren't missing this trip, you couldn't bear the thought of your peers living while you were sat at home, your youth withering away.

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Much to your dismay, tomorrow would be the last official day it was acceptable to turn in your permission slips; you'd given your parents every possible chance to sign it, leaving it plastered on the fridge for them to see a multitude of times throughout the day. Your blatant placement of the sheet of paper, however, had been neglected.

Nonetheless, you were sat in your room, formulating a list of the primary items you'd need to accommodate with you onto the trip. In the ideal world, Star City would've been a satisfactory six to ten-hour drive, at the longest–Dick would blare Britney Spears on the radio, pit-stops at gas stations for snacks would be a must, and you could even possibly detour a bit to hit road-side tourist attractions–in contrast to the whopping forty-four-hour commute it was in actuality.