Damian Wayne was punk rock.

So were you.

A match made in Gotham. —×— You were the lead guitarist of your band, loud, brutal and incredibly hot. Practicing your self written songs in your ratty garage. It was 2004 after all.

Your band, Sandstorm, had constant gigs at parties and raves, perfect for no good high schoolers like you. You'd grown a liking towards one of these high schoolers in particular, Damian Wayne, popular for the wrong reasons, always skating through school hallways on his graffiti covered skateboard. You knew he liked you too, you'd felt the electricity when the two of you shared a cigarette after a rave, high off your asses.

Damian was rich, his father a CEO, generational wealth, still Damian liked the punk rock style of life, spike studded jewelry, one too many rings, a secret tattoo on his back, a couple piercings. Who could forget his stupid red Converse with your name bedazzled on them?

It was annoying how much he fancied you.

It was annoying how much he flirted with you, at least he was respectful, never touchy.

Damian did make you a flower bouquet out of your favorite monster drink can, his MySpace was full of stuff to impress you. But he was no poser, he took his tastes seriously. He even played the drums.

—×— There the two of you were, in his room, at 2am at night, as he got ready for a rave as you smoked a cigarette. He leaned close to the mirror, focusing on his eyeliner, you sat on the edge of his dresser, cigarette between your lips, your guitar laying lazily on his messy bed as you looked through his band vinyls. Your spike studded heels, ripped tights, wine red nails, and smoky makeup was a sight.

When Damian took too long to get his eyeliner even, you offered to help. Holding his cheeks in your hand as you applied the eyeliner, cigarette loose in your mouth. He didn't mind the view.

"Thanks, sugar, give me a smoke?" Damian enquired, leaning back in his chair, hair messy, eyeliner smudged, legs spread wide.