Chapter 1

Frank glanced once again over his shoulder, checking for signs of cops or the sound of steps. Although it was pitch dark and his hood was pulled over his head, you could never be sure no one was gonna come. Luckily, he hadn't learned the hard way, but he still liked to take precautions from time to time.

Shaking the black can of paint in his hand, he traced one of the few final lines that would complete his drawing. With a few movements of his wrist, it was finally done, and Frank stepped back to admire his work, not before using his template to paint his trademark sign on the bottom right of the drawing... I guess you could call it a logo.

Grinning to himself, his eyes scanned the Frankenstein graffiti he had just made on the side of the abandoned and beaten wall. Its' dull, blank eyes stared back at him, green skin contrasting the red of the container.

So yeah, Frank was a tagger, as many liked to call his kind. He preferred the word artist, even though he wasn't the best one around, but he liked to leave his art in blank walls he found, even if it would be removed almost as soon as it was spotted. Other people would call him a criminal. Technically, being seventeen and all, he couldn't really be judged as one, but people still liked to talk.

He had first picked up a spray can when he was thirteen, and his friend at the time invited him over with the excuse that his parents had allowed them to paint a brick wall on the shed of his house.

Frank had fallen in love with tagging since then.

Quite some time passed between that first time he discovered tagging and the second one; two years, to be exact. He was fifteen, and he had surrounded himself with not the best of crowds at school. That was also when he picked up the horrible act of smoking, and had never been able to drop it since.

The crew he hung out with had managed to acquire a few spray cans, and had set their minds on writing nasty insults on the walls of their school. Needless to say they were expelled immediately, and their group dissolved.

After that, Frank had learned his lesson, but it had reminded him just how much he loved to tag. So, a few months after that accident, he landed a job at the cinema close to his house, and bought his first three spray cans with his tiny salary. He had been much careful the next time he tagged, choosing a wall in a dumpster and simply making a small unplanned drawing.

His heart had been broken when it was covered in white paint the very next week.

Tagging was a hobby he kept in between himself and his tagger friends. There was no way his mom would ever know, tagging had been absolutely prohibited by her after he got expelled. Hell, he wasn't even allowed to pronounce the word. Not even his few school friends knew, no one but him and the other two members of his small group of taggers.

He liked tagging with them from time to time, working on a big piece, but Frank mostly worked alone.

His friends' names were Pencil and Jawbreaker— well, their names were Wayne and Octavia, but they liked to call themselves those self-given nicknames sometimes. Frank's was Ghoul.

Frank had found them through a website cleverly called 'The Tagger In US', where you basically created a profile, said your location, and made friends from your area who tagged. Their first meeting was quite awkward. Both Pencil and Frank were kinda new to the tagging thing, but Octavia was fucking everywhere with her spray cans and, together, they created a gorgeous gory zombie on the back of an abandoned building. Since then, they continued talking, and got together to either hang out or work on a piece.

Frank had been quite skittish at first, when it came to talking and meeting people off the internet, because, well, you never know who's truly behind the screen... All that bullshit your mom and teachers teach you about. Even after a Skype call, you could tell both Pencil and him were not so sure about all of this, but talking with Octavia sure helped them be more comfortable with the whole situation. Octavia was over all a chill girl, even if her colored hair and strong eyeliner game had intimidated Frank at first, after he got to know her, they quite quickly formed a group.

Of course, their nicknames came from either their tagging or their appearance. Wayne's name, Pencil, came from his looks: he was super skinny, and although not that tall, the nickname just stuck. He always wore this ridiculous black beanie and you would never find him dressed in anything other than a hoodie and jeans, even if it was seventy hundred degrees outside.

Octavia's name came from a mixture of her tagging and her looks. They mostly called her Octavia, but Jawbreaker came from the fact that she had some serious muscle— seriously; Frank had once seen her knock out a six feet tall guy for insulting Pencil at a bar. It also came from the fact that she was an expert at drawing gory ass stuff; literally anything from bloody knuckles in a hand, to an open leg where you could see the bone to a mid-boxing match where one of the two guys or girls were currently recieving a punch to the face and a bloody tooh was flying out of their mouth. It was fucking impressive.

Frank's nickname came from his tagging, but they also mostly called him by his birth name, which was cool with him, honestly. All he could draw/tag were monsters, whether it was a skeleton or a werewolf or just a sea monster. He couldn't draw for shit if you gave him a pencil and asked for something that didn't have fangs or claws or blood.

But the three of them worked, and they hadn't been caught yet, so hey that was a plus.

Walking together down the street, without their cans, they simply looked like your local teenage punk squad; a pale girl with a nose ring and orange hair, a thin guy with his hands always in his pockets and who continuously flipped his brown fringe away from his eyes and a short, illegally tattooed boy who also played the guitar.

And there you had their group.

Getting together to tag was almost always easy since their age difference wasn't much: Pencil was an awkward sixteen year-old, a year younger than Frank, and attended a small school which ended at like midday, Frank's ended at three pm, and Octavia was nineteen and out of school, studying to become a tattoo artist.

Gradually, they had begun tagging in more visible places, and some people were even begging to recognize their—

The sound of police sirens filled the air.

"Fuck," Frank muttered under his breath. "Oh, shit, shit shit shit," He chanted as he slung the bag filled with his spray cans over his shoulder, and the run began.

He held onto the bag with all he had, careful not to let his hood slip down, as he run as fast as his short legs would carry him. The sirens were not so far behind him, but he hoped to God he would be able to outrun them.

He knew he could never outrun a fucking car though.

And that's when it dawned on him. He didn't have to outrun it, he had to avoid it, do shit cars couldn't, like... As he sprinted, he took a sharp turn to the right, his breath already coming out in short puffs of air as he saw what he was looking for: a fence.

Frank's hands latched onto the top of the fence as he reached it, pushing himself upwards and launching over to the other side, where he fell on his feet, but continued running. Damn his shitty lungs, he thought as he ran through this person's garden, probably trampling some flowers as he did –whoops- and then once again climbing over the fencing to get to the next backyard.

But Frank's relief was short lived as he realized he reached the other street, he was supposed to stay down in one of the lawns, but the adrenaline had caused him to continue moving, fucking Hell.

And so he started running again, crossing the street and once again using his method of fence-jumping to get to another garden. This time, he stayed on the floor where he landed, not moving a muscle as he heard the sirens go past him.

From his sitting position on the floor, Frank allowed himself to exhale the breath he was holding, and then laugh at the whole situation. He had barely escaped, by the fucking hairs.

Still grinning like a maniac, he fished his phone from his pocket, and unlocked it, going straight to the Phone app, dialing the one person he knew would be awake at three in the morning. After twelve rings, he finally picked up.

"Frank?" Pencil mumbled, annoyance lacing his speech. "What's up?"

Frank chuckled, his head falling back onto the wooden fence behind him. "Interrupted a fucking jerking off session, fucker? I need a place to crash at; you will not believe what just happened," He heard a rustling sound on the other end of the line, and he guessed his first question was answered.

"Where you at, Ghoul, need a ride?"

Frank smiled to himself, he loved his life.

--

Adjusting his dick through his boxers, Frank typed out a text message with his free hand to his mom, not surprised at the lack of response, since it was clearly four am, as the numbers of Pencil's Spiderman clock read in bright, bold red.

staying at wayne's mom, i'll see u tmrw after school :) –frank

Frank released a breath and threw his phone on top of Pencil's bedside table. After the latter had picked him up at whatever the fuck the address he had hid in was, they passed by the wall Frank tagged and admired his work for a few minutes, but not so much time that would make them seem suspicious.

He was lying on the floor, on the spare mattress that Pencil kept in his closet for when one of them crashed at his place.

They had had to be quiet as fuck when they entered Pencil's house, since his parents and his little sister were asleep, but they had managed. None of their parents knew they were taggers, of course, so they had settled on the excuse that they met at Frank's job in the cinema, and had become quite close friends since.

Pencil's parents loved Frank, for some goddamned reason, but they thought Octavia was a bad influence, and thought she was into hard drugs. Maybe it was her full sleeves, but then again, Frank also sported a few tattoos here and there. Regarding the drugs, little did they know they often hung out at Octavia's to share a joint, but hey, no one needed to know that shit.

"Frank, dude, go to sleep, I swear," Pencil's nasal voice rang through the quiet air, and Frank glanced at his form on the bed from his spot on the floor, well, he glanced at his back.

"Yeah, yeah, going," He said, stretching his arm to turn off the bedside table, and, unable to help himself, snatching his phone and unlocking it, heading to Instagram to scroll through his feed.

And maybe he wouldn't actually get any fucking sleep at all, and he would be groggy tomorrow, and his group of friends at school would wonder what the fuck happened to him, but instead of telling them he was out tagging, he would give them the benefit of the doubt, and walk into Science with awful bags under his eyes.

--
it was a spur of the moment decision to upload this lmao
pls show this story to ur friends i think it has potential !!

i send love and shitty smut
-blue