Cliché

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"Shitty Parents, Amiright?"

Callahan

Tw: None

Notes: My first Callahan one shot. Tell me how I did!

Song: "Smells Like Teen Spirit" By Nirvana

GN!

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The sound of a rattling can filled the air.

Neer after came the fizzing noise of a rusty knob being used for the first time in a while, a chemical smell soon following and spreading its toxic fumes in the air. Behind the source of all this noise was a lanky figure with its fingers wrapped around a rounded metal surface.

They stood at a fair height, their slender legs making up for their stouty torso. A neon-paint splattered hoodie was draped over their upper body, the soft and comfortable hood part pulled up against unruly locks as too keep the nights wind from tousling it any further

A mini gas mask and forest green tinted sunglasses had been set on the unknown person's face, the latter slipping down their nose every now and then. Along with skinny jeans and beaten up sneakers that looked to be years old, they looked to be your average street punk.

And that's just what they were. Standing on their tippy-toes with a mischievous grin- which was being expertly covered by the mask of course -this so called "street punk" was using a spray can to paint over an alley wall.

Cheap colors overlapped each other as (Y/n) worked. Some sweat dripped down their back from the adrenaline rush now and then, and their hand cramped up occasionally from holding a can so long. But it didn't matter. (Y/n) had done this countless times before, so they had gotten used to these minorities.

Snickering to themself, (Y/n) continued to tattoo the peeling brick walls with a signature piece of theirs; an exploding star. Not like a cartoonish, overdone shape being blown up with fire and explosives, more like a supernova burst in the middle of a lone galaxy.

Bright colors from the dollar ninety nine cans had blended into each other skillfully. Drips of too much liquid dye trickled down from their respectable sections of art occasionally, but (Y/n) was quick to fix that in due time so their art wasn't ruined by a few paint streaks

Finally stepping back and resting the balls of their heels against the dirty alley ground, (Y/n) backed away from their masterpiece. This time, they peered at it with a more genuine kind of grin instead of mischief. Like the one you get after completing something that took hours of hard work. Which technically is true in this case.

(Y/n) swiped at their pointy black nose ring with a sniff, still standing just in front of their artwork. Reaching into the homemade denim messenger bag at their hip, (Y/n) discarded the current can of paint they had for a midnight black color.

Walking up, they scrawled their tagline out by the bottom of their fresh work. It looked like the signature on a doctor's prescription, but they didn't care. Anyone who was anyone out in this business knew who ₍𝕱e𝖗𝖓₎ was.

(Y/n) had gotten the unusual nickname from their first day on the "job" as they liked to call it. Just after finishing their first ever painting, (Y/n) had stepped right in the way of an old ladys fern plant falling off her window seal. It had struck (Y/n) on the head with a clay crack, breaking on contact. Soil had been stuck in their hair and clothes for days, but so had the pseudonym.