Naruto isn't mine, and the photos sure as hell aren't either.
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The paint glided on, and the familiar sound and smell of the spray paint was soothing in an odd way.

The bandanna was pulled up on the bridge of my nose, and my short boyishly cut hair was pulled back to keep away from the spray off the wall.

My hoodie had two decorative cat ears that shielded my hair even more from the spray. It's a pain in the ass to get spray paint out of hair, trust me. I learned the hard way.

(It's awkward to put pictures on here.)

I stepped back and admired my work.

The paint was wet, but I had no fear of dripping. Even if it does, the charm of graffiti is how messy can look beautiful. Sometimes I try to get drips.

I threw the cans back in my bag, not minding the stains nor the loud clang it made when it landed among its family. My bag was covered in paint splatters, and the inside was stiff from remaining paint dripping off of the cans.

I zip it up, take one last look at my piece, and walk off.

I walk until I arrive an a bent over stop sign. The same spot as always.

I opened the doors to the seemingly silent building.

Across the room was a dark corner, but you could see a a faint light. I walk over without a second of hesitation.

An old man sat by a light, looking to be a homeless man. But under that seemingly bulky jacket was a buff dude.

"Are you on the list?" Others would think he was crazy.

"I'm here for the adoption volunteering." He turned around, and opened a hidden trap door.

"Welcome back, Black Cat." He gave me a shining grin.

"Thanks Jacob, maybe we can get some drinks soon. I'll try and get Carla to take over." He gave me a nod, and I descended down the graffiti surrounded stairwell.

You could finally hear the blasting music.

I walked into the room, sound hitting me like a tidal wave. I was used to this by now.

Smoke danced in the air like misty-gray ballerinas, and drunks wobbled along the dance floor, falling at every turn. The bar was surrounded by a group like usual, chanting 'chug' at our undefeated champion.

This was my place.

A place full of persistent party fiends, underage drinkers and smokers, druggies, sex addicts, break dancers, strippers, pole dancers, closet lgbt, and graffiti artists.

This is my place. A place where I belong. I am excepted here, and I except everyone else. No one cares what anyone else is here. We don't give a fuck who you fuck. We don't give a shit what you hit. We don't mind what you want to be. That's your business. We don't give a damn about how weird each of us are. Cause we're all freaks.

But this place isn't for everyone. It's only a place for the Sly.