I have two requests, both with the Bayverse turtles. This is the first:
Leonardo x Female Reader.
Angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort.
She is a vigilante like the turtles and they met while they were saving New York from yet another enemy, after this meeting they all became friends. Some time later all of them undertook another mission together where the Reader was seriously injured and Leonardo blames himself for it + Some introspection from Leo on the dangers of their job and how actually easy it is to lose the person you love forever. You can decide if they are already a couple or if they haven't confessed their feelings yet ;). Thank you so much in advance if you decide to write it!
A/N: Hey, anon! I ended up going with Leo and the reader having not yet confessed their feelings. I think I subconsciously wrote it that way as an excuse to inject more angst 😂 (Also, I hope this is a happy enough ending for you 😅)
Enjoy! 💖
Cost of the Fight (angst)
💙 Bayverse Leonardo/Female Reader 💙
CWs: Description of injuries, blood mention, near-death experience themes, anxiety/guilt, angst, hurt/comfort. All characters are aged-up.
Pain is the first thing you register.
It’s a vicious, grinding ache deep in your left side, stealing your breath with every attempt to draw it in. It radiates outwards, a hot, throbbing map of injury beneath layers of gauze you can feel pressing against your skin. Cold sweat has plastered strands of hair to your temples.
The second thing you register is the smell—a sharp antiseptic clashing with the familiar, damp scent of the sewers. You force your eyelids open. They feel heavy, gritty like sandpaper. The low, ambient light of the lair takes a moment to resolve into familiar shapes.
You’re lying on a cot, tucked beneath a thick, worn blanket that feels surprisingly soft against your clammy skin. And as you take in your surroundings, your gaze snags on the figure sitting beside you.
Leo.
Though he’s not sitting so much as slumped, his frame coiled tight with tension. His hands are clenched into fists on his knees. Dirt smudges his skin, and a fresh scratch runs along his jawline. His gaze is fixed around your heavily bandaged torso, his brow ridge drawn together in a knot of worry … and something else.
Guilt.
Memories of the mission surface in jagged pieces. Rain, cold and stinging, slicked the rooftops like black ice. Chaotic clashes against remnants of the Foot Clan. You were covering Leo, trying to keep the smaller, more agile combatants from swarming him while he dealt with a heavier brute. Then, a blur of movement from your blind spot—and you shoved Leo out of the way, taking the brunt of the attack yourself, which sent you flying and hitting something hard.
The world exploded in agony as Leo reached you first. You remember his panicked voice, distorted by the rain and your fading consciousness, calling your name. You recall being lifted and him shielding you with his own body as he yelled orders, coordinating a retreat under fire.
Then darkness.
Now, in the relative quiet of the lair, his silence is deafening. You try to shift, a wince escaping your lips as pain flares. Instantly, Leo’s head snaps up, his eyes finally meeting yours. The shadows under them are stark, evidence that he hasn’t been sleeping properly—and you wonder how long you’ve been out.
“Hey,” you rasp, your throat scratchy. You try for a weak smile. “Didn’t think sewer tunnels came with room service.”
A small, humorless sound escapes him. “Don’t,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, tight with suppressed emotion. “Please, don’t make light of this.” As he leans closer, you see the maelstrom of emotions in his gaze: relief, fear, and a layer of guilt so thick it feels like a physical weight in the air between you. “How … how do you feel?”
“Like I argued with a freight train and lost,” you admit, wincing again. “But I’ll live. Donnie patched me up, right?”
“He did,” he confirms, but his gaze drops back to your bandages. “It … was bad. Cracked ribs, internal bruising, minor concussion … You also lost a lot of blood.” He swallows hard. “It was too close.” He reaches out, his hand hovering hesitantly over your uninjured arm before gently settling on your shoulder. His touch is warm, grounding, but you can feel a slight tremor in his fingers.
You see the self-blame etched onto his features, the way his jaw tightens. Know him well enough by now, after months of fighting alongside him and his brothers, sharing late-night pizza, and stealing quiet moments on rooftops just talking. You know how heavily the burden of leadership weighs on him, how personally he takes every setback, every injury.
You’ve seen him shoulder blame before, but never like this.
“It wasn’t your fault, Leo,” you insist, trying to project conviction through the pain. “You know it wasn’t. That attack surprised us all. My choice to move, my risk.”
“I should have seen it,” he counters, his voice tight with frustration as he lowers his gaze to your torso. “I’m the leader. I’m supposed to anticipate threats, protect the team. Protect you. I couldn’t react fast enough.” He balls his fists again before looking you straight in the eye; the vulnerability there makes your heart clench. “I watched you go down. I thought …”
You see the storm raging within him. The fear, the regret, the frightening realization of what could have happened. This life you all lead, with the constant danger, the line between success and catastrophe—it’s thin. You see him grappling with the stark reality of that one wrong move that could mean losing someone permanently.
Losing you.
The unspoken feelings that simmer between you—the charged glances, the lingering touches, the way your orbits seem to naturally pull towards each other—make this unspoken fear even more potent. He almost lost you before he ever had the chance to tell you … well, whatever it is he feels. Whatever it is you feel.
“You thought what, Leo?” you press gently. You need him to say it, to voice the fear clawing at him, because only then can you start to dismantle it.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers, the admission ripped from him, raw and frayed. “Watching you fall, seeing you just lie there, so still … the blood …” He breaks off, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the image burned into his memory. “I thought you were gone. Because of me. Because I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t good enough to keep you safe.”
The weight of his words settles heavily in the quiet lair. This goes beyond leadership guilt. This is personal, deeply felt. He’s not just mourning a tactical failure; he’s mourning the potential loss of you.
You reach out, your fingers brushing against the back of his hand where it now rests on the cot beside your hip. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand turns, a silent invitation. You lace your fingers through his, the contact sending a small jolt through both of you.
“Listen to me. What we do comes with risks. We all know that. Every time we go topside, we know things can go wrong. It wasn’t a failure of leadership. It was the enemy getting a lucky shot.” You squeeze his hand. “You got me out, got everyone out. Under fire. That’s leadership, Leo. Protecting your team even when things go sideways. You brought me home.”
He looks down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your knuckles. “Had I not been there to cover you, what would have happened? What if that hit had been just a few inches higher? What if Donnie hadn’t been able to stabilize you?” He looks back at you, his eyes pools of fear. “We face death all the time. I’ve seen my brothers hurt. I’ve been hurt countless times. But you …”
He takes a shaky breath as you remain silent, letting him continue.
“It’s different. Because the thought of losing you—it’s not just losing a teammate. It’s … more.” The fragile admission hangs in the air. He hasn’t said the words, not explicitly, but the meaning resonates between you, clear as a bell.
Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, blurring his image slightly. It’s partly the pain, partly the medication Donnie likely gave you. But mostly it’s the raw vulnerability in his voice, the confession wrapped in fear. “It’s more for me too,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “The thought of not coming back here—to you, your brothers—it scares me, too.”
His gaze drops to your injury again, but you tug gently on his hand, drawing his attention fully back to your face. “This wasn’t your fault. It was mine, if anyone’s. My choice. My move. Remember?” You try another small smile, this one a little less forced. “And apparently, I have a hard head. And maybe some cracked ribs to show for it.”
He brings his other hand up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering for a moment against your temple. “You scared me,” he says softly, the simple statement carrying the weight of everything unsaid. “More than I’ve ever been scared before.”
“I know,” you reply, leaning into his touch. “And I’m so sorry, Leo … So sorry I scared you.”
His grip tightens reflexively on your hand at your apology. “Don’t,” he says, his voice thick with an emotion you can’t quite place—frustration, pain, maybe both. “Don’t apologize for getting hurt. That’s not … that’s not what I meant.”
“But I am sorry you’re hurting because of it,” you clarify, holding his gaze, trying to anchor him. “I hate seeing you like this. Carrying the weight of the world, plus this.”
He shakes his head again. “I should have expected their pincer movement. I let the flank get exposed while I focused on the brute. If I had just positioned us differently, if I’d reacted a second sooner—”
“Leo, stop,” you say, cutting off his spiral. “You could ‘what if’ this until the sewers freeze over. What if I had hesitated before pushing you? What if that Foot soldier had tripped over his own stupid feet?” You sigh. “We analyze, we plan. But sometimes, unpredictability wins a round. So we adapt, we fight, we survive. And sometimes, we get hit. It just happened to be me this time.”
You watch him closely, seeing the subtle shift in his posture as your words land. He doesn’t immediately refute you this time. Instead, his gaze drifts away from yours, settling somewhere near the edge of the cot. The rigid lines of his shoulders seem to soften, just a fraction. The tension hasn’t vanished, but it’s as if someone has allowed a tightly wound spring a bit of slack.
“It shouldn’t have been you,” he finally murmurs, his voice quieter now, less defensive, more weary. He looks back at your joined hands, his thumb resuming its slow, comforting circles over your knuckles. “That’s all. It just … shouldn’t have been you.”
Again, the implication hangs heavy. Not just anyone getting hurt, but you. It makes a warmth spread through your chest.
“Maybe not,” you concede gently. “But it was. And I’m here now. Sore, probably going to complain a lot about sponge baths, but here.” You squeeze his hand again, trying to inject some lightness. “And you’re here. Not pacing yourself into a trench in the floor, which is good.”
A flicker of a smile, genuine this time, touches his lips. It’s fleeting, but it’s there. “Donnie threatened sedation if I didn’t sit down. Yours or mine, he didn’t specify.”
You chuckle, though it sends a jolt of pain through your ribs, making you hiss softly. Leo’s brief smile vanishes, replaced instantly by concern.
“Easy,” he cautions, his hand tightening on yours. “Don’t make yourself laugh.”
“Noted,” you breathe out, waiting for the throb to subside. “How long … how long was I out?”
“About eighteen hours,” he answers, his expression serious again. “Felt like eighteen years.” He shifts, leaning closer. “Donnie says the cracked ribs will take time to heal. A few weeks of taking it extremely easy. No training, no patrols, definitely no arguing with freight trains.” His gaze holds yours. “He means it. We all mean it.”
You nod slowly. The thought of being sidelined is frustrating, but the alternative … You glance down at the bandages covering your torso. You understand. “Okay. Easy it is. Couch duty?”
“Supreme couch duty,” he confirms. “Mikey’s already planning a movie marathon and stockpiling snacks. Raph’s, well. Raph’s mostly been punching the training dummy extra hard, but he keeps asking Donnie for updates every five minutes.”
It’s comforting to hear, a reminder of the strange, fierce family you’ve found down here. They care.
Leo cares.
You watch as the tight knot between his brow finally smooths out, and you meet his gaze again. The fear hasn’t vanished entirely; you suspect it will linger for a while, a ghost haunting the edges of his thoughts. But the tide of self-blame seems to have receded somewhat. You find him looking at you—really looking at you. His eyes tracing the lines of your face as if memorizing them.
“So,” you begin, “what’s first on Mikey’s marathon list? Please tell me it’s not one of those convoluted franchise superhero movies again.”
Another small smile flickers across Leo’s face. “Knowing Mikey? Probably. Unless Raph hid the remote again. But maybe we can find something else. Something … quieter?”
It seems he’s not planning on leaving your side while you recover. The thought sends another wave of warmth through you. “Quieter sounds good,” you agree, your eyelids feeling heavy again. The adrenaline, the pain, the emotional weight of the conversation—it’s all caught up to you.
Leo notices immediately. “You need to rest,” he says, his tone shifting from worried leader to caretaker. He carefully disentangles his fingers from yours, though his hand lingers protectively on your arm for a moment longer. “Donnie said sleep is crucial right now.”
You want to protest, to keep him close, to hold on to the connection solidified in the last hour. But the exhaustion is a physical weight, pulling you down. You manage a small nod.
He hesitates, then reaches out again, his knuckles brushing softly against your cheek. It’s a feather-light touch, tentative yet full of unspoken tenderness. “I’ll be right here,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate in the quiet. “If you need anything. Anything at all.”
You lean into the brief contact, soaking up the reassurance. “Okay,” you whisper, your eyes drifting closed despite your efforts. The pain in your side is still excruciating. But somehow, knowing he’s there, watching over you, makes it feel a little less consuming.
You hear the faint rustle of his gear as he settles back into his vigil beside the cot. The last thing you remember before sleep claims you again is the feeling of his gaze resting on you, watchful and infinitely gentle.
As you fall asleep, Leo watches the tension finally ease from your face, replaced by the slackness of deep exhaustion. He lets out a breath, a long slow release that loosens the knot still coiled tight in his own chest. The rigid posture he’d held for hours eased, muscles protesting the release. Seeing you finally succumb to sleep, the lines of pain around your eyes softening slightly, was like a physical weight lifting from his carapace.
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
He turns your words over in his mind. Part of him—the ingrained leader, the strategist—still rebelled. A dozen tactical errors, a dozen moments where another choice might have avoided this, readily come to mind for him. He should have seen the flank attack. He should have positioned you differently. The ‘should haves’ were a familiar, suffocating chorus in his head.
‘You brought me home.’
He looks down at his hand, the one you had held. He could still feel the faint impression of your fingers interlaced with his. That small act of connection, of grounding him when he was spiraling, had cut through the noise of his own failure narrative.
He flexes his fingers, remembering the fragile strength in your grip, the way you pulled him back from the edge of self-recrimination. He had been drowning for so long in the potential horror of what could have happened, lost in the grim playback loop of the mission gone wrong.
The lingering antiseptic smell is a reminder of the med bay, Donnie working frantically, and the coppery scent of your blood staining the sheets. He shivers involuntarily, pulling his arms tighter around himself. The image of your pale, still form on the rooftop has burned itself into his mind. The terror that gripped him in that moment was unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
Not even facing Shredder had evoked such a visceral, paralyzing fear.
Losing a brother would be devastating. But the thought of losing you—it carved a hollow, aching void inside him that felt terrifyingly vast. Because it wouldn’t be just losing a skilled fighter. A trusted ally. It’d be the silencing of your easy laughter in the lair, the absence of your sharp insights during planning, the loss of the quiet understanding that often passed between the two of you without words.
It’d be the extinguishing of a light that has, almost without him realizing it, become essential to his world.
He watches the rise and fall of your chest beneath the blanket. Donnie had assured him the worst was over. That recovery, while slow, was expected. He resists the urge to reach out again, to brush the hair from your face or simply rest his hand near yours. You need undisturbed rest.
Instead, he lets his gaze linger on your face, taking in the details he rarely allows himself to study so openly—the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes rest against your skin, the faint scar above your eyebrow from a training mishap weeks ago. Each detail feels precious, sharpened by the horrifying proximity of almost losing it all.
The guilt hasn’t vanished; he knows it won’t for a long time. It settles deeper now, a dull ache beneath the sharp relief. But your words, your unwavering insistence that it wasn’t his fault, chipped away at the worst of it.
‘It’s more for me, too.’
He hasn’t dared to hope, hasn’t even fully articulated to himself the nature of the feelings simmering beneath the surface of your camaraderie. Duty, friendship, respect … those are clear. Definable. But the terror that seizes him, the absolute, gut-wrenching certainty that losing you will break something fundamental within him—that goes beyond.
And hearing you echo that sentiment cracks open something vulnerable inside him.
A faint shuffling sound makes him turn. Donnie stands near the entrance to the makeshift med bay, holding a scanner. He approaches quietly, giving Leo a brief, assessing look before turning his attention to the small monitor beside your cot, checking readings.
“Vitals are holding steady,” Donnie murmurs, his voice low. “The pain medication seems effective for now. Sleep is the best thing for her.” He glances back at Leo, his expression softening with fraternal concern. “And for you.”
Leo just nods, his gaze returning to your sleeping face. He isn’t going anywhere.
Donnie hesitates, then places a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. “She’s strong. And you did good bringing her back.” He squeezes Leo’s shoulder once, then retreats as silently as he came.
He looks at the bandages covering your side. The injury is still severe, the recovery will be long. There will be weeks of worry. Weeks of keeping you safe, ensuring you heal. Weeks of sitting beside you, watching over you.
This time, fear won’t paralyze him. Guilt will not consume him. He will learn from this. He will be better. Not just as a leader, but for you. Because the thought of a future without you in it, without your sharp wit, your warmth, your unwavering presence beside him …
It’s unthinkable.
He carefully shifts his weight, trying to find a position that is more sustainable for the long hours ahead. He won’t sleep, not yet. For now, he will watch. He will guard you in your sleep. His gaze stays fixed on you, a silent promise hanging in the air.
Hello! How would the 2003 turtles flirt/ show female reader that they are interested in them? 💖💖💖
A/N: Hello! Here are your requested headcanons. I hope you enjoy 😊
How the 2003!Turts Flirt & Show Interest
💚 2003 Turtles/Female Reader 💚
CWs: Anger issues, possessive/overprotective behavior, and brief mention of touch aversion. All characters are aged-up.
LEO
On patrol, Leo makes you his priority, positioning himself between you and danger. Silent and watchful, he’s always guarding you, eyes sharp for any threat aimed your way.
His days run on strict discipline: training, meditation, patrol. So when he breaks that routine to listen to you or just be with you, it means you’re truly important. He’s sacrificing his order and control, because your company matters more than his schedule.
He offers to train you—not as a favor, but as a responsibility. A quick correction here, a simple move there. Through the discipline of the art of combat, he connects with you and ensures you’ll be safe when he can’t be by your side.
As the leader, he hides his burdens well. So when he starts opening up to you—sharing his worries, asking about your thoughts—it means he trusts you deeply. Letting you see the weight he carries is the rarest kind of vulnerability for him.
In battle, his commands change to keep you out of harm’s way. Later, he might admit, “I couldn’t focus with you that close to the fight.” Your safety isn’t just part of the mission to him; it’s the reason he fights at all.
He carries the weight of leadership with relentless resolve, believing he must never show cracks. When he finally lets you witness his frustration or exhaustion, that’s when he stops seeing you as just someone to protect and starts seeing you as an equal, a true partner.
Leo doesn’t just confide; he seeks your counsel. When faced with a new enemy or a conflict between his brothers, he genuinely asks, “What do you think I should do?” He values your judgment.
RAPH
Raph doesn’t pick fights, but cross him when it comes to you, and he’s all in. If someone so much as brushes past you, he’s right there—growling low, eyes blazing like fire. He’s rough around the edges. But when it’s about your safety, he’s the fiercest, grumpiest bodyguard you’ll ever have.
His biggest tell is how flustered he gets. A genuine compliment or caught glance sends him snapping at Mikey for loudly pointing it out, while a faint blush colors his neck. Genuine affection throws his tough-guy act completely off.
He usually flinches from any kind of touch. But when you put your hand on his arm, he actually relaxes—shoulders dropping, maybe even leaning in a bit. With you, he finds a calm he rarely lets himself feel.
He keeps his soft side hidden, and you are the only one who ever sees it. Maybe it’s the way he’s gentle with a stray cat or quietly patching up one of his brothers’ wounds. If you catch him, he freezes, a scowl returning to his face almost instantly. But that brief crack? It’s just for you.
His room is off-limits. When he lets you hang out there and stay without a single complaint about your stuff, he’s making space for you in his world. If you catch him tinkering on his bike and he just nods for you to sit quietly, that’s when you know: you’re in.
He’s competitive to the bone: arm wrestling or video games, he plays to win. So when he lets his arm drop against you or he loses a fighting game match and mutters, “lucky break,” that’s when you know he’s putting your happiness above his pride.
Raph never says he’s scared. After a close call, he explodes with anger: “What were you thinking?! You could’ve gotten yourself killed!” But beneath that rage is fear. He’s not mad at you; he’s terrified of losing you. And his anger is the only way he knows how to show it.
DONNIE
Donnie remembers every little detail you mention, like your favorite tea or that your laptop’s running slow. Next time you see him, there’s a box of that tea waiting, or he’s already fixed your computer without you saying a word.
His compliments come out a little technical. Instead of saying, “You have a beautiful laugh,” he might say, “Your laugh has an interesting auditory frequency. It’s … pleasant.” Awkward, maybe. But it’s his genuine, analytical way of showing he cares.
He shows care through his inventions: upgrading your phone with military-grade encryption and extra battery power, rigging your apartment with custom security, and building a music player with a never-ending playlist. For him, these gifts are ways to protect you and simplify your life.
His eyes light up when he talks to you about his work. He drags you into the lab, voice speeding up as he dives into quantum mechanics or complex code. He doesn’t simplify—not because he wants to impress, but because he respects your mind and loves sharing his world with you.
He can get totally distracted by you. He might be welding in the lab and suddenly zone out, nearly burning a hole in his desk. Mid-monologue about astrophysics, he catches your eye and completely loses his train of thought, stammering, a blush creeping up his neck.
He loves sharing his world, but what really matters is when he spends hours learning about your passions, digging into your hobbies or interests. Not to fix anything, but to understand and know you, down to what makes you excited.
Donnie’s gifts are usually practical. But sometimes, he likes to make things for you, like a metal rose or a nebula projector. They serve no purpose except to make you happy, a perfectly illogical project he’s happy to spend time on.
MIKEY
Mikey’s always coming up with nicknames for you, tossing them out with a big, goofy grin. He means every one, and it makes you feel like the luckiest woman around.
He’s all about attention, and you become the center of his world. He’s constantly cracking jokes, showing off, or begging you to watch some silly movie with him. His whole mission? To see you smile, no matter what.
He’s always putting on a show when you’re around. Whether it’s chasing a new high score or trying a crazy ninjutsu move, he’s doing it all for your cheers. With you watching, his antics go from fun to unforgettable.
Physical contact is Mikey’s way of saying, “I’m here.” He’s always finding excuses for a playful nudge, a high-five that sticks a beat too long, or casually draping an arm over your shoulders. It seems like it’s all fun and games, but really, it’s how he keeps close to you.
He picks up on tiny details—like a snack you mentioned—and goes all out to recreate it. He plans hangouts around your favorite movies or whatever activity that interests you. Because your happiness? That’s his priority.
He’s always cracking jokes to dodge heavy feelings, but when you’re really upset, he goes quiet. He sits with you, wraps you in a big hug, and just listens. No jokes, no trying to fix it—just steady, warm support.
He is the goofball, but sometimes he worries he’s not as strong or smart as his brothers. In rare quiet moments with you, he drops the jokes and shows the real guy underneath—the one who just wants to be understood.
Pairing: sunshine!Lev "Oz" Ozdil x grumpy!fem!reader
Summary: You and Oz don't look like a typical couple. You're the grumpy to his sunshine, the cloud in his silver lining. But you're more in love than anyone could have guessed. Even the people expecting you to get married.
Warnings/Word Count: grumpy x sunshine trope, r is depicted as being goth/wearing alternative clothing, r gets objectified + protective!Oz reacts, accidental dirty joke, major crimes team is nosy, fluff, physical affection, discussion of marriage. 1.1k+ words, requested
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You enter the kitchen with a groan, your hand shielding your eyes from the sunlight filtering into Oz’s kitchen.
“Good morning,” Oz greets happily. He pulls the collar of your oversized band tee up from where it had begun to slip off your shoulder. “I saved you the last donut with sprinkles,” he adds.
“Ugh,” you grumble, leaning forward until your forehead meets his shoulder. “It’s too early. And too bright.”
“So, you don’t want the donut?” Oz inquires, smiling as he slips his hand past the hem of your shirt to rub your back.
“’Course I want it,” you sigh, pressing a kiss to his neck.
“You going back to bed?”
“No.” You straighten, your lips quirking up when Oz smiles at you. “I have some errands to run. Might as well get them over with early.”
“Anything fun?” Oz asks, holding your face.
“My favorite store is having a sale, so I might get a new outfit. Unfortunately, they’re boring errands like groceries and a stop at the bank.”
“Get the groceries delivered,” Oz encourages. “I’ll make dinner tonight.”
“I love you,” you hum.
“I love you more,” Oz counters.
He kisses your forehead, then nudges you toward the donut box on the counter while he turns to finish getting ready for work.
An hour later, you’re walking out of the house when you see Oz’s lunchbox on the counter. It’s probably past its prime, but he insists on continuing to use it because you doodled all over the bottom of it, black stars and leafy swirls.
“Gotta do everything around here,” you muse as you pick it up. “Eh... What’s another stop?”
You glance down to make sure your outfit looks okay, then lock the front door behind you and walk to your car.
“I never put the visitor’s badge on either,” the woman you share the elevator with confides. “Always clashes with my outfit.”
You nod, frowning at the sticker adhered to the back of your hand.
“Are you going to Major Crimes?” she asks.
“Yes,” you reply shortly.
“Cool. Me too.”
The rest of the ride is silent, you looking at your boots while the woman beside you steals glances at your reflection in the door. When you follow her off the elevator, she shoots Daphne a look, then tips her head toward you. It’s less than subtle, but you choose not to comment on it.
“Sweetheart!” Oz exclaims when you step into the bullpen.
“Sweetheart?” Morgan repeats incredulously.
“You forgot this,” you say, passing Oz his lunchbox.
“Thank you!” Oz takes it from you carefully, then sets it on his desk, and moves closer to you. “While you’re here, want to see Karadec?”
You tap the bobble head on Oz’s desk and shrug. Morgan watches you and Oz, shocked by the stark difference between the two of you. You turn first, walking toward Soto’s office. Oz trails behind you, watching you move.
“Okay, I’ve got some questions,” Morgan tells Daphne.
“You get used to it,” Daphne replies. “She’s a lot sweeter than she seems.”
“I tried to make small talk in the elevator, and she looked like she wanted to jump out,” Morgan hisses. “And then Oz is being super sweet to her and she just- she’s just standing there!”
“Stoicism doesn’t make her mean,” Daphne argues with a chuckle. “You of all people should know not to judge someone on their appearance, Morgan.”
“But, Oz,” Morgan continues, watching you greet Karadec with a terse nod. “He looks like he’s giving a whole lot more than he’s getting.”
Daphne pushes back from her desk and smiles. “You have no idea how wrong you are, Morgan.”
“Nice outfit,” an officer calls, smirking at you. “Is that a kids’ size?”
“Why?” Oz barks, standing behind the chair you’re sitting in. “Looking for one for the kids you’re supposed to be a role model for? Or did their moms finally come to their senses?”
“Easy,” you murmur, barely moving your lips.
“Sorry,” the officer adds, lifting his hands in surrender.
“Huh,” Morgan scoffs when the officer leaves.
She watches Oz give you a hand to help you up, and the smile that stretches across his face when you kiss his cheek in thanks. Your brows furrow as you wipe the remnants of your lip gloss of his skin with a murmured comment that makes him laugh.
“Maybe you weren’t entirely wrong,” Morgan admits to Daphne. “They are pretty cute together.”
“Wow, keep talking like that and they’ll ask you to give a speech at the wedding,” Karadec deadpans.
“They’re getting married?!” Morgan demands.
“Eventually,” Daphne answers. “We’ve been waiting long enough.”
“Morgan thinks I give you more than you give me,” Oz tells you.
You pull your black silk pajamas out of his drawer, where they reside tucked amongst his things. Looking back over your shoulder, you raise a brow.
“That supposed to sound dirty or am I just a lost cause?” you inquire.
“Oh, no, I hear it now, too,” Oz admits. “She’s wrong, though.”
“I give you enough?” you check.
Oz lifts his arm, smiling as you curl against his side. “More than enough.”
You kiss his jaw, then rest your head on his chest. “She doesn’t like me. Which, I know that I probably don’t look like I’d be with you. More accurately, you don’t look like you’d be with me. But I do love you. I hope you know that.”
“Of course I know that,” Oz promises. “And I think you look exactly like someone I’d love.”
“So, me grumbling and complaining and being the black cloud to your silver lining doesn’t bother you?” you ask, already knowing the answer. “My stoicism isn’t jading you to the beauty of life and butterflies and donuts?”
“Quite the opposite,” he answers, interlacing your fingers. “Especially because I know you love me as much as I love you. You and your grumpy outbursts and your cat-like tendencies.”
“Which makes you what? A golden retriever?”
“If that’s what you want,” Oz agrees.
You smile, kissing him again.
“They’re waiting for me to propose,” Oz tells you a few minutes later, his confession whispered against your shoulder.
“You think we’ll have a normal wedding?” you ask.
“No chance,” Oz answers immediately.
“Good,” you sigh, inching closer to him. “And if or when you’re ready to talk about that… I’m in.”
“Yeah?” Oz asks, shifting to see you better.
“Of course. You… you’re the bright spot I didn’t know I wanted, or needed, until you came along.”
“Sweetheart,” Oz mutters, “you’re getting soft.”
“Yeah, don’t get used to it,” you grumble. “You’re not that good.”
ᯓ★ lots of fluff, reader goes by she/her pronouns! (This is late and short— sorry—)
He confessed first.
It came as a shocker to everyone since nobody thought he'd be the type to.
But again he's the type to be like 'If she rejects me then she rejects me'
So imagine his surprise when you said yes. He had a whole script ready for when you said no so he was just stumbling over his words like a mess when you did accept his feelings.
Speaking of, you're the only person in his life he has a hard time of saying no to. Its like you bring out this carefreeness inside him people rarely gets to see.
You once asked him to glitter bomb Raph's punching bag so that everytime he swings at it glitter explodes out of nowhere.
Obviously Leo gave you that stern "No" but next thing you know he's reminding Raph to train.
Completely walking him into the trap you've set up.
You guys enjoy sharing your food... or more like you eating his food since he eats like an IG model.
He always passes you the soda cans when he's done drinking from it and its like he only took a few sips from it.
He has a strict diet.
So yes he cares about his greens.
And yes he cares about your health.
Voluntarily helps you workout. It doesn't have to be intense (unless you suggest so), he just wants you to be in good health.
He'd hate to see you get sick.
You once got a fever and he literally dropped out of everything (even patrols) to take care of you. Because of that the fever only lasted for a few days rather than a week.
You love being carried and he doesn't mind it at all.
He actually enjoys how giddy it makes you feel.
Would spin you around like a Disney princess if you'd let him.
Has definitely caught you playing with his katana before.
He doesn't say anything, just leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded as he watches you attempt to open your snacks with the katana because you couldn't find any scissors.
So you know the blue ribbon that hangs from his katana?
That would become your signature look.
Either its used to tie your ponytail, shoes, skirts, its whatever.
It was like a discreet way to say you were his.
And he loves it. He goes crazy over it but you wouldn't know because he always manages to keep his composure.
That doesn't mean he won't kiss you and say how beautiful you are.
Loves to smell the heck out of you.
If you're ever passing by, either to get something or talk to someone, he will always wrap his arms around from the back before he buries his face into the crook of your neck.
Your smell is just so addictive to him.
The only way he can put it into words is how the smell of you just calms him down entirely.
Out of everybody, he feels he can drop his strong leader demeanor and be his stupid self when he's around you.
Is very cheeky when its just the two of you.
He loves tickling you when you least expect it and then finds it amusing having to watch you try to fight your way out of it.
Its not like he can help it.
That pouty angry look of yours just encourages him even more.
He definitely calls you baby. Clichés is best after all.
"I've missed you baby" He'd say before lifting you by the chin to kiss you.
Yes he's a huge kisser. There is not a day that goes where he doesn't kiss you.
Either its quick kiss on the cheek or a long passionate one.
However, his love language is basically words of affirmation.
There's nothing better than voicing your love for someone. Well that's what he thinks.
You do call him cheesy for some of the things he said but he just shuts you up with kisses so that you both end up sounding like laughing fools.
Talks about you all the time... especially when he's with the others.
Always mentioning how you would love these flowers, how you would love the bright moon and whatever else it is that you'd love. He always feels the need to bring you up.
I wanted to share something with you all and hopefully bring the community together for a moment.
A lot of us remember when the Bayverse TMNT movies came out, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014) and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Out of the Shadows (2016). They gave us a really unique take on the Turtles: huge cinematic action, emotional brother dynamics, and versions of Leo, Raph, Donnie, and Mikey that many of us still love today.
Originally, there were plans for a third movie, but after Out of the Shadows didn’t perform as well as expected at the box office, the studio decided not to continue the series and the project was quietly cancelled.
But here’s the thing... the TMNT fandom never went anywhere! You all are the proof!!
If anything, it’s more alive than ever. Across Tumblr, TikTok, Twitter, fan art, edits, fanfics, cosplay, and discussions, people are still constantly creating and sharing love for the Turtles. And the Bayverse community in particular is still incredibly active and passionate years later.
That’s why I wanted to bring up the idea of a petition, some sort of signature campaign!
The thing is, I personally don’t know how to create an online petition, so I was wondering if someone in the community might be able to set one up (for example on a petition site) and then send me the link. I’d happily add it to this post and reblog it everywhere so we can spread it as much as possible.
If enough people share it, there’s a chance it could reach a really large audience. And with a bit of luck, it could even reach the people involved in the films and show them that there are still a lot of people who want to see a third Bayverse TMNT movie.
This wouldn’t just be nostalgia, it would be a chance to give fans the continuation they’ve been waiting for, while also bringing new viewers into the TMNT universe.
So if anyone knows how to create a petition and would like to help with this, please let me know! And feel free to reblog this so it reaches as many fans as possible.
I’d love a third movie but I know they won’t do it , the actors that played the turtles were treated so badly and Alan is getting big roles so I doubt he’d do the movie
Summary: In the aftermath of the Game Maker, Oz suffers with nightmares and panic attacks. He can't find the words or the strength to ask for help, but you know him well enough to offer exactly what he needs.
Warnings/Word Count: angst to fluff, nightmares, panic attacks, comfort and hugs and donuts. 1.0k+ words, requested.
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Oz goes back to the pool when he least expects it. He’d regained consciousness briefly while the Game Maker tied him up, and then everything went dark. When he came to again, you were hovering above him, tears running down your face as you held his hand and begged him to wake up.
The nightmares have been frequent, regular occurrences since then. Oz has tried to stay up all night to avoid them, but he eventually crashes, and then he’s back in the Game Maker’s grasp. He hasn’t told you, or anyone else.
When he’s at the station, the fear grips him when he least expects it. He’s hidden in the bathroom, in an interrogation room, everywhere he can find to get a moment’s peace. The last time, he realized too late what had happened and suffered through a panic attack the same way he suffered through the Game Maker’s plan – alone and terrified.
Every time Oz closes his eyes, opens a car door without looking over his shoulder, or is simply near someone moving quickly, he’s back there, trapped in a memory he can’t outrun. He wants to tell you, but he can’t find the words.
You, however, can tell that he’s not himself. When your team found Oz, you hadn’t hesitated to dive into the pool and do everything in your power to bring him back. Your dress was ruined by the chlorine, but it didn’t matter. Still doesn’t. Oz does.
So, you adapt to his needs. You’ve started moving slower, announcing where you are when you move behind Oz, offering a hand or a pen to ground himself with, and getting him out of stressful situations when you can.
Despite what you’ve done, he’s still miserable. You can tell he’s not sleeping well, trying to outrun something in his own mind. The worst part is that he won’t ask for the help he needs, not even from you.
Oz disappears for the second time in a single afternoon, and when he comes back his cheeks are red, and his hair is tousled. You refuse to watch Oz run himself into the ground, determined to find a way to give him the comfort he needs. You’re not sure if he wants company, but you know what he likes. So, when your shift ends, you rush out of the station and start gathering items. You get dinner, fresh donuts, and a bag filled with calming tea, his favorite snacks, and a sweatshirt you think he’ll like. Then you drive to his apartment silently, no music, just your thoughts.
Oz opens the door after your second knock, soft and tired as he lets you in. There are blankets and pillows on his couch, evidence that he’s been sleeping there. If he’s even sleeping at all. Your heart breaks at the realization that he’s fighting so hard and still losing.
“I brought dinner, donuts, some other goodies,” you say. “If you’re up to company-”
“Please stay,” Oz interjects, looking at you with lidded eyes. “I don’t want to be alone again.”
You nod, then ask him a single question. Not the dreaded inquiry about if he’s okay or if he feels bad. You ask, “What do you need?”
Oz doesn’t reply. He stares at you, shifting his weight from left to right until he mumbles something you can’t understand.
“A hug,” he says, clearer. “I… I don’t remember what it’s like to be touched by someone that’s not him,” he admits.
You don’t move forward, but nod and raise your arms. He wraps his arms around your waist, then drops his head to your shoulder. Holding him close, you rub your hand against his back.
“You’re not alone,” you remind him. “I’m here, we all are.”
“You’re here,” he whispers.
“Come on,” you encourage. “Get comfortable.”
He takes a minute to release you, then falls onto the couch. After you make two cups of tea, you carry the bags to the coffee table and sit beside Oz. When he leans toward you, you invite him into your space. Then, you ask him about the last movie he saw.
As you and Oz fill the silence, drink your tea, and eat dinner, he starts showing the Oz you know. The Oz you love but haven’t told yet.
Hours later, Oz sags against your side, embracing your comfort like he’s just come back from decades of being alone. You expected to distract Oz for a while, but he got something even better. Your comfort, your skin against his, it silences the thoughts in his head.
With you, he’s not trapped by the Game Maker, he’s just Oz again. He can be whatever he is, he doesn’t have to hide the fear or trauma.
You shift, welcoming Oz closer before you run your fingers through his hair. Oz grows heavier against you, drifting to sleep without fear in the first time since he was abducted.
Sleeping in your arms, the Game Maker doesn’t visit Oz. Visions of a future fill his mind. A future with you.
Oz wakes, well-rested and content. He’s a little surprised, however, to realize that you’re still under him. You’re asleep, holding him without thinking.
“You saved me,” Oz whispers.
“’Course I did,” you murmur, shifting without opening your eyes. “Always will.”
“You saved me again.”
You open your eyes, grinning when you see Oz’s sleepy smile.
“I didn’t have nightmares,” he adds. “For the first time since- since then.”
“You know you don’t have to hide that stuff, right?”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. Anytime you need me, I’ll be here.”
“Even if I just want a hug?”
“Especially then,” you reply dramatically. “You’re a really good hugger.”
“You are too.”
“I hate to interrupt this conversation, but we either need to call in sick or get to work.”
Oz drops his face against your arm and sighs contentedly. “Your phone’s on the floor. Mine’s on the table. Call away.”
“Oz,” you say. He doesn’t look up, so you take his jaw in your hands and direct his eyes to yours. “I love you. I’m always here. For comfort or donuts or whatever you need.”
Summary: Your new captain has a lot of questions about Morgan and about your relationship with Oz. He may never know what you really have, but you do.
Warnings/Word Count: Nick Wagner gets plotted against and is creepy, brief angst, gross misuse of blood that I didn't explore enough, fluff, confessions, team banter. 1.6k+ words, requested.
Directory | O.O. Masterlist | Request Info | Taglist
“I’m Captain Nick Wagner.”
You step back, startled by his action of thrusting his hand toward your chest. You’re holding a box of files, stressed about a missing couple, and already overwhelmed even though it’s 8 a.m.
“And I’m busy,” you reply, twisting to go around him.
“Sorry,” he offers, following you toward the bullpen. “It’s my first day as your captain and I just wanted to- oh sorry,” he murmurs when he nearly runs into someone else. “You’ll be seeing me around, so I wanted to introduce myself.”
“That’s great,” you say. “But we’re in up to our eyes with this case and it’s just not a great time.”
“I wanted to get together with you,” he presses. “Talk about your experience, what you’d like to see from me, how I can help.”
You drop the overfilled box onto your desk and sigh. With your best friendly smile on, you say, “I’ll call you when we close this case and we can set something up.”
“How about tonight?” he suggests.
You meet Karadec’s eyes over Wagner’s shoulders, unsurprised to see him roll his eyes.
“When the case is closed,” you repeat. “If that’s all?”
You don’t give him a chance to answer before you move to Daphne’s desk, bending forward to review the surveillance footage you waited all night for.
“Detective Ozdil,” Wagner calls.
“Still busy,” Oz replies without looking up. “Look, we’re running out of time to find these people, we can’t talk to you right now.”
“The painting!” Morgan exclaims from the other side of the bullpen. “It looked out of place, remember? It’s because it’s a replica! And I’m willing to bet it’s not your traditional paint.”
“Excuse us,” Karadec tells Wagner, meeting his eyes just long enough to communicate that his departure is not optional.
“Good work, team,” Wagner calls before he steps into Selena’s office and closes the door.
“I don’t like him,” Morgan muses.
“Welcome to the club,” you joke.
“What did you find?” Daphne asks.
“Right.” Morgan points to the painting CSI bagged as evidence. “I think the artist used blood instead of paint.”
“Whose blood?” you question.
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
It’s nearly midnight when you return to the station. The young couple that was snatched from their apartment complex is being treated at the hospital and, because of your team, still have all their blood in their bodies.
“Good work,” Captain Wagner applauds, perched on the edge of your desk. “Ready for that conversation?”
You look at Selena, desperate to get out of whatever this is. She shrugs, then mouths an apology.
“I guess,” you murmur. “Your office, or?”
“We’re using Soto’s office.” He stands, then gestures for you to lead the way. “I’ll be right in,” he murmurs, then rushes toward his own office, like he forgot something.
“Godspeed,” Oz offers.
“Please don’t quit,” Daphne adds.
Before you can reply, Wagner returns, so you walk into Selena’s office and sit in the chair closest to the door.
“I was hoping to finish my report before I head home,” you explain softly. “Is this going to take long?”
“Not at all,” Wagner promises. “I just want to get a better understanding of Major Crimes, how your team works, what I can make better for you, that kind of stuff.”
Humming, you nod. Maybe the less you say, the quicker this will be over. Since the moment you laid eyes on him, you’ve felt as if he’s off-putting. You want to leave, but he’s your captain. The least you can do it give him ten minutes, you suppose.
“Tell me about how Gillory fits into your team’s dynamic,” he requests, leaning back – almost too comfortable – in Selena’s chair.
So that’s why he’s been hounding us all day, you realize. He only cares about Morgan.
Smiling, you keep your answer short. “Morgan is great,” you say. “She’s incredibly helpful, offers insight and perspectives that we often forget about. She’s an asset to our team, through and through.”
“Interesting.” Wagner twists a pen between his fingers, then leans forward. “I’ve gotten the distinct impression that she’s disruptive, that she interrupts the routine your team has spent months and years building.”
With your thighs pressing your hands to the chair, you resist the urge to clench your fingers into fists.
“Morgan is nontraditional,” you correct, “not disruptive.”
“If the department could no longer employ her, for one reason or another, do you think your solve rate would be negatively impacted.”
“We can solve cases regardless. Morgan makes it easier on all of us.”
Wagner hums, staring at you like he wants more. That’s precisely why you remain quiet and don’t say another word about Morgan. Even if Karadec fought back about her being here, she is an asset, and she’s become a friend. If Wagner wants to get rid of her, he’ll lose more than a consultant.
He pulls his chair to the edge of the desk, far too close for comfort before he asks, “Tell me about your relationship with Detective Ozdil.”
The polite smile you’ve maintained until now fails, your face falling into something more indicative of your feelings toward this meeting.
“We work well together,” you answer simply.
Wagner barks a laugh, leaning closer as he asks, “That’s what you’re going with? Come on, detective, I can see the tension. If your emotions are going to get in the way of what this team can do, I will-”
“My emotions are none of your concern,” you interrupt. You push up against your hands, then stand. “If that’s all, I’ll get back to my report, Captain.”
Smirking, Wagner leans back in his chair. He moves one hand flippantly and murmurs, “Go ahead.”
When you walk out of Soto’s office, taking deep, measured breaths, you shoot Oz a warning look. He steps toward you, but then Wagner calls his name.
Based on the look on your face when you walked out and the glimpses Oz had through the window, he anticipates Wagner to overstep, to make this awkward. Yet, the question about you catches him off guard. He thought all Wagner cared about was Morgan based on his first few questions.
“Everything stays in this office,” Wagner adds. “Right, detective?”
Oz knows it’s bait. Wagner wants Oz to stay quiet, think he’s the only one playing devil’s advocate. Wagner clearly doesn’t know this team.
“We’ve been friends for a long time,” Oz offers, explaining your relationship. “We’ve been partners for even longer. All that time has allowed us to develop a shorthand. If you’re misconstruing that as tension, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I see. Or maybe I’m seeing something that you’re not. Maybe even something you don’t want to see.”
Oz shrugs, not trusting himself to reply professionally.
“If I keep seeing what I think I’m seeing,” Wagner adds nonchalantly, “I’ll have no choice but to remove her from the team.”
“All due respect, Captain,” Oz begins coldly. Which is none. “If you remove her from this team, you will not have a team anymore.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, sir. Just want to manage your expectations.”
Captain Wagner smiles, then tells Oz to send Daphne in. He whispers, “Good luck,” while he holds the door for her, then realizes you’re gone.
“She went home to finish her report,” Soto offers. “Please feel free to do the same.”
You’ve submitted your report and are staring blankly at the television screen when someone knocks on your door. It’s late, you’re not expecting anyone, and after the day you had, you feel justified in being hesitant to open the door.
“It’s me,” the person knocking calls.
“Oz,” you greet as you unlock the door. When you pull it open, you offer a tired smile and wave him in.
“Daphne threatened to quit,” he tells you, leaning against the back of your couch.
“Do you have any idea what he wanted?” you inquire, moving to his side.
“No clue. I tried to find out if Soto knew, but he kept her in the dark. Other than wanting to know everything about Morgan and then asking about us, his motives were unclear.”
“I think it’s mostly Morgan he’s interested in,” you agree. “I just don’t know why. It bothers me.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Oz assures you. “Get through it like we get through everything else.”
You nod, then lean your head on his shoulder.
“If Wagner could see it…” Oz begins carefully.
“The tension?” you clarify.
“That’s the word he used with you?” Oz asks with a chuckle. “He used ‘relationship’ when he asked me about us.”
You lift your head, then move in front of Oz. His hands rise immediately to your waist, holding you close as you smile at him.
“Wagner is using us for something. We are different. We’re more.”
Oz nods, leaning toward you when you raise your hand to his jaw.
“And as for what’s between us…”
You move forward, and Oz meets you halfway. The kiss is perfect, everything you dreamed of and more.
“That’s what’s between us,” you whisper when you separate. “I think it’s what we should focus on now.”
Oz wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you against him. “I agree,” he sighs against you.
“You’re all on thin ice until we figure out this Gillory business,” Captain Wagner exclaims before he storms out of the bullpen.
“At least he didn’t ask when your most recent kiss was,” Daphne jokes.
“About that,” Oz murmurs, taking your hand. “We need your help with something. It’s not exactly… department approved.”
“Will it get us in trouble with the new captain?” Selena asks.
“Almost undoubtedly,” you answer honestly.
“Then we’re in. Tell us what to do, when, and how. We’re a team, no matter what questions he asks.”
