-green tears- 緑の涙 {TMNT Oneshots}

graffiti -落書き- donatello x reader

When you were but a mere child, your mother used to read to you the age old myth of the Shēnghuó huà, or, the Living Paintings. The story began about a little girl who had been told by her mother to put away her parchment and her quill, for it was time for daily prayers towards their deities. The little girl disobeyed her mother, for she wanted to continue her fantastical drawings of monsters, beings from other vast civilizations, and not spend quality time offering up supplication to the gods and goddesses that had placed her on this very earth.

The Gods up in heaven were considerably angry by the disobedient attitude of one girl, seeing that if one rebelled, others would soon follow. Knowing this, the Gods contracted a demon to place a curse on the drawings that she had drawn on her parchment. The paintings came to life that night and murdered her entire family- including the little girl's mother. It left the girl alive, to live out the consequences and grief due to her disobedience. Never to draw again.

You had always hated the story that your mother had told you. You had felt bad for that little girl, and for a year after you had heard that story, you had not even dared to touch a crayon or a marker. Even as a child, you had never been that great of an artist, but the thought of your drawings coming to life and murdering your mom was enough to make you stop. You weren't sure of the real reason that your mother had told you such a traumatizing story. A probable reason being to force children to obey their mothers, to never abandon their studies in favor of drawing, and to never pursue an artistic lifestyle. Luckily for your poor mother, you had never cared much for art. Instead, you had pursued a lifestyle of becoming a chemist, much to the horror of your traditional relatives. It may have had something to do with the support of your boyfriend, a man of science who had supported you in your endeavors. From taking blood samples from a mutated mouse that had tried to bite his neck once in vengeance and anger, to poor Leather-Head, who had promptly panicked at the prick of the needle and thrown Donnie across the room. You would never confess to him how difficult it had been to hold back your tears of laughter when it had occurred.

So when Donatello had raced off with his family and friends to stop the spread of Graffiti Monsters, as Mikey had dubbed them, you had almost had a panic attack. The four white bucket of paint that Raphael and Leonardo had dragged home had looked menacing enough already. Each bucket had a combination of colors, swirled around, with specks of blue green mutagen littering the top, winking at you menacingly.

Mikey, of course, had been the one to knock over a beaker of mutagen against a table that towered above the buckets, effectively dumping its brightly color content over the ledge, splattering into those four buckets lined up in an easily accessible square. Thankfully, most of the mutagen had spilled onto the floor, but Donnie had immediately began to worry about the ramifications behind this dangerous mixture. Would the paint itself come to life and eat everyone? As if it was some sort of cliche knock off of the Blob? Or would it just lay peacefully inside of its bucket, glowing each night like a blue-green alien nightlight?

Donatello had found out the hard way of what exactly the paintings could do when you had, to Donnie's embarrassment, pointed out why he hadn't just used the paint for what it was originally proposed for. Painting. He had taken your advice, rolled out his white board, and tacked up some canvas over it. Together, side by side, you both had started to paint, almost as if you two were on a cute date together, and you had genuinely begun to enjoy yourself. Donatello was a great artist, much to your muted surprise. Sure, you had seen him sketch out inventions and the anatomies of mutants and humans— but this, this was different. When you had pointed this fact out, he had blushed, and only muttered that he rarely did draw anymore, as he had always been embarrassed about his skills, or lack thereof. You noted that compared to you, your stick figure drawings were preschool level; Donnie was in a league of his own.