seen from Indonesia
seen from Yemen
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Norway
seen from Israel
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Colombia
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from Italy
seen from Switzerland
A Saga.
hiiii
Across the Leoverse
different versions of leonardo hamato x reader
sfw
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(ФωФ): little moments with leos, established relationship, fluff, lil bit of angst here n there, mentions of blood and injuries, domestic fluff
2003 up to 2023 leo.
i love love love love tmnt stawp. i have a vid of 3yo me sobbing over my mom telling me if i dont brush my teeth she'll lure my "husband" out with pizza and hand him to shredder. said husband was leonardo.
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･
MORNING RITUALS
The first few times you stayed over in the lair, you’d awaken to the sound of his breathing—deep, measured, rhythmic—and realize, not without a flutter in your chest, that he was already up, already dressed, already kneeling on the mat across the room with his swords resting beside him. It used to make you self-conscious, the way he’d train before sunrise while you were still tangled in sheets and dreams. But then you realized that he wasn’t trying to be impressive or distant; it was just his way. His version of peace.
Eventually, you started joining him, not to train—though he always offered to teach you—but to sit beside him on the tatami mat, wrapped in a hoodie you kept in the lair, sipping slowly from the cup of tea he’d always have waiting for you. He never said anything during those moments, didn’t need to. Just leaned a little closer, let his shoulder press against yours. It became a ritual: his morning meditation, and yours—quiet, mutual grounding before the world started asking things of you again.
---
AFTER-MISSION CARE
There’s a specific look Leo gets after a rough mission, a tightness around his mouth, a flicker of guilt in his eyes even when no one got hurt. You learned to spot it early in your relationship, even before he admitted how heavily failure—or even perceived failure—weighed on him. He never really spoke about it. Not directly. Not unless you pried.
So you stopped prying.
Instead, when he came back with a split lip or knuckles scraped raw, you’d reach for the first-aid kit without asking, sit him down, and tend to him in silence. You learned the way he winced, not from pain but from being seen, from being vulnerable. You learned the small, silent language of his guilt—the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes when you cleaned the cut across his collarbone, or how he’d clench his jaw when you dabbed at a bruise on his temple. You’d talk softly about mundane things—what you made for dinner, what Mikey said that made you laugh—and eventually, the tension in his shoulders would melt just a little.
The first time he let out a shaky breath and leaned into your touch instead of away from it, you didn’t say a word. Just kissed his knuckles, right over the bruises, and felt the way his fingers threaded through yours in response.
---
WHEN HE CAN’T SLEEP
You woke up to the sound of his footsteps, soft but unmistakable, pacing. At first, you thought it was part of a dream. But when you cracked open your eyes and saw the empty space beside you, the faint light of the hallway casting long shadows across the floor, you knew.
You found him in the training room, of course. Sword in hand. Sweat darkening the edge of his bandana. You didn’t say anything right away—just leaned against the doorway and watched as he moved, fluid and sharp. But there was something off about it. A hesitation in the swing. A falter in the stance.
“Nightmare?” you asked quietly.
He stopped mid-strike and let the tip of his katana dip toward the floor. Didn’t look at you. Just nodded once.
You walked over and took the sword from him gently, like it was a weight he’d been holding too long, and set it aside. You didn’t ask what it was about. You knew he’d tell you if he needed to. Instead, you reached up and cradled his face between your palms, feeling the faint tremble in his jaw.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered.
And he just folded into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, forehead pressed to your shoulder, and stayed there like your heartbeat was the only thing anchoring him to the present.
---
QUIET CONFESSIONS
Sometimes, the deepest things he said came when he wasn’t trying to be poetic at all—when he was halfway between exhaustion and honesty, staring up at the ceiling from the makeshift couch-bed in your apartment while your fingers idly traced the curve of his plastron.
“I don’t always know how to be… just a person,” he murmured once, the words falling like water in a quiet room. “Not a leader. Not a warrior. Just… someone.”
You had looked at him then, surprised but not startled, and slid your fingers up to touch his cheek.
“You don’t have to figure that out alone,” you said simply. “You’re someone to me.”
His eyes had gone soft, distant. “I know,” he said, voice barely above a breath. “That’s the scariest part.”
And you understood, somehow—how terrifying it must be to be seen so completely. But he let you see him, over and over. Let you love him, despite the edges.
---
DUMB DOMESTIC STUFF
There was one afternoon when you walked in on him trying to fix the sink.
He had the most determined expression on his face, wielding a wrench like it was a second katana, muttering under his breath while Donnie hovered in the background, clearly amused but not interfering. You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, biting back laughter.
“Should I be worried?”
He didn’t look up. “I’ve got it under control.”
“You say that like you didn’t once accidentally decapitate a vacuum cleaner.”
“That was one time.”
“That was last month.”
He paused, gave you a flat look, then—when the pipe under the sink gave an ominous creak—sighed and set the wrench down.
“…Okay, I might need help.”
Donnie burst out laughing. You just smiled and walked over to kiss his cheek.
“I’ll go get the towels.”
---
LITTLE TOUCHES
He’s not very physically affectionate in public. Not in the way Mikey is, with his constant hugs and leaning. But in private, in the soft quiet of shared space, he touches you constantly. Not clingy, not needy, but present—a hand on your back when you’re cooking, his knee brushing yours when you sit beside each other, his fingers brushing your wrist as he passes by.
You started keeping count once, just for fun, of how many times he touched you in a day—twenty-seven before dinner. Thirty-eight by bedtime. Each one said something different: I see you. I’m here. I need you. I love you. He never said the words often, not out loud, but they were in every gesture.
And the nights when he did say it—usually quiet, soft, spoken like a prayer against your skin—you felt it in your bones.
---
WHEN HE LETS GO
There are rare, sacred nights when Leonardo actually lets himself laugh. Not the polite little chuckle he gives when Mikey’s on a roll, or the amused exhale when Raph gets caught in his own sarcasm—but a real laugh, warm and unguarded, the kind that shakes through his whole body and makes you feel like the universe just cracked open and let the sun in.
One night, it was because you were trying to do a yoga pose he’d shown you, and you lost your balance and flopped onto his lap in the most undignified way possible. For a second, you were horrified. But then he looked down at you, eyes wide with disbelief, and burst out laughing—full-on, head-tilted-back laughter that made your embarrassment melt away completely.
“You—” he gasped between laughs, “—you looked like a falling turtle.”
“Wow. I feel so loved right now.”
He pulled you up into his lap, kissed the top of your head, still grinning.
“You are,” he said, and his voice was so full of affection you couldn’t even pretend to be mad.
---
FUTURE TALK
It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, late at night when everything is quiet and you’re wrapped in blankets with the hum of the city in the distance, he talks about the future. It always surprises you, how gentle his dreams are.
“I think about a place,” he said once, voice barely more than a murmur against your shoulder. “Not a battlefield. Just… somewhere quiet. Green. A garden, maybe. Somewhere I could still train. Somewhere you’d feel safe. Somewhere… we could be.”
You reached back to thread your fingers through his.
“We could make that,” you said.
He was quiet for a long moment.
“I want to,” he whispered.
And you knew he meant it. Knew he could, if you stayed beside him.
---
THE MOMENT THAT STAYS
There’s one moment that lives in your mind more than any other.
You were standing on the rooftop one evening, watching the sunset bleed into the horizon, his hand warm and solid in yours. No words. No plans. Just the two of you breathing in the same sky.
And without looking, he said:
“I used to think peace was something I had to fight for. But with you… it’s just there.”
You squeezed his hand.
And in the hush of that moment, with the world spinning soft and slow beneath your feet, you believed him.
The distance didn’t kill your love, but it did stretch it thin across time zones and lonely nights, and it made his return less like a reunion and more like learning how to hold him all over again—learning that the Leo who came back from the jungle wasn’t the same one who left. He was broader now, more serious than ever, and sometimes got lost in his own silence like it was the only thing he trusted. But he looked at you the same way, touched you the same way—tentatively, reverently, like every part of you was a prayer answered.
---
THE RETURN
You still remembered the way his arms wrapped around you the first time he came back to the lair—not in some movie-perfect spin-and-dip hug, but something tighter, fiercer, almost desperate. He didn’t say much, barely got out a “Hey,” before his arms were locked around you and your face was buried in his neck. You could feel the roughness of travel in the folds of his bandana, smell the damp earth and jungle still clinging to his skin, hear the tremble in his breath as he exhaled like he’d been holding it for seven months.
You had whispered, “You came home,” and he’d replied, voice cracked with something brittle, “I had to.”
---
THE NIGHTMARES
He didn’t talk about what happened while he was away—not at first. There were too many ghosts in his silence, too many things he hadn’t processed yet. But the nightmares gave him away. You’d wake to find him sitting at the edge of your shared bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, breathing like he was still running through the jungle.
You didn’t ask what he saw. You just touched his shoulder, climbed onto his back like a child needing reassurance, wrapped your arms around his chest and pressed your cheek to the curve between his shoulder and neck. “You’re not there anymore,” you’d murmur. “You’re here. You’re home. You’re with me.”
And every time, he’d cover your hand with his and hold it like it was the only solid thing in the world.
---
DOMESTIC STILLNESS
The lair was quieter since his return. He wasn’t loud to begin with, but something about the way he moved now was even more subdued—gentle footsteps, careful glances, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space anymore. But you found ways to fill the quiet together. Long evenings reading on the couch, your legs tossed lazily over his lap while he traced slow patterns into your shin with a calloused finger. Sometimes he’d fall asleep like that, upright and still, head bowed slightly, your warmth the only thing anchoring him to the present.
You learned to cook simple things together—soups, stir-fries, quiet meals shared shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen while the city buzzed beyond the sewers. He once smiled halfway through chopping carrots and said, “I missed this.”
---
WHEN YOU FOUGHT
It wasn’t frequent, but when you fought, it was like a dam cracking. His voice rarely rose, but his words could cut sharp when he was afraid—“You don’t understand what’s at stake,” or “I have responsibilities you’ll never have to carry.”
And sometimes, it felt like he was still more committed to his duty than he was to you.
But when the silence settled afterward, when the adrenaline was gone and his shoulders dropped under the weight of regret, he always came to you. Not with grand apologies, but with his heart in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he’d whisper, kneeling in front of you, fingers tangling in your own. “I’m trying to unlearn the part of me that thinks I have to do it all alone.”
And each time, you’d remind him—gently, sometimes with your own tears held at bay—that love wasn’t another mission to complete. It was allowed to be messy. To be shared. To be leaned into, not carried like armor.
---
HIS UNGUARDED MOMENTS
There was one rainy evening when you caught him dancing in the kitchen—not good dancing, not graceful or poised—but pure, genuine awkward foot-tapping and hand-flailing while some old soul record played through the static of the lair’s ancient radio. He hadn’t seen you come in, and when he finally turned and saw you, he froze mid-step, one hand still raised like a deer caught in the act.
You laughed so hard you nearly cried.
He groaned, turned around, tried to play it off—but you ran to him and threw your arms around his neck and kissed him right there, half-bent in laughter, rain thudding overhead and the smell of cinnamon from the tea still steeping.
“You’re ridiculous,” you giggled into his skin.
His arms tightened around you, his voice low and happy. “I know. But only for you.”
---
WHEN HE’S SICK
He is the worst patient.
Absolutely the worst.
He tries to train through fevers, insists he’s fine even while coughing into his arm, and refuses to rest until you threaten to sedate him. You have to wrestle him onto the couch and pile blankets on him like you’re trapping a wild animal.
“You’ll overheat me,” he grumbled once, flushed and pouty under two comforters and a quilt.
“You’re a reptile,” you replied, adjusting his position.
He gave you a look that was mostly amusement and slight betrayal. You kissed his forehead before he could argue again, and he melted instantly, limbs going soft under your touch.
“Okay. I’ll rest,” he mumbled.
And he did. Because if nothing else, Leo always listened when you asked him gently.
---
HIS LOVE LANGUAGE
Leo was quiet with affection, but he showed it in the way he memorized everything about you—the way you liked your tea, the angle you curled into when you were cold, how you always tilted your head when trying to decide something. He’d hand you your favorite mug before you asked, pull a blanket over you without a word, step into the space behind you and wrap his arms around your waist like it was second nature.
When you were stressed, he’d set up a bath for you, light candles (awkwardly, because Raph always teased him for it), and sit nearby while you soaked, reading out loud from whatever book you were working through, voice calm and low.
When you were sad, he didn’t try to fix it. He’d just hold you—sometimes in silence, sometimes whispering little truths against your temple: “You’re not alone.” “I love you.” “I’m here.”
And somehow, that made everything bearable.
---
THE MOMENT THAT STAYS
There was one late night—city asleep, lair humming soft with the sound of distant subway cars—where you both lay tangled in a nest of pillows and leftover warmth, your head on his chest, his fingers trailing up and down your back with thoughtless devotion.
And he whispered, like it hurt to say, “Sometimes I don’t know if I deserve this.”
You didn’t move. Just rested your hand over his heart and whispered back, “But you have it. Every part of it. Every part of me.”
And he pulled you in like that answer was the only thing keeping him whole.
---
THE PATH FORWARD
He still struggled, sometimes. With balancing duty and love, with forgiving himself, with remembering he didn’t always have to be perfect to be worthy. But you stayed. Through every stumble, every silence, every moment where he thought he had to carry it all alone—you stayed.
And every time he looked at you, you could see it.
The peace.
The gratitude.
The quiet, relentless love that built itself up in the spaces between missions and memories, in every little moment you made together.
THE FIRST TIME HE REALIZED YOU WERE IT
It wasn’t even a grand moment. No sweeping music or slow-motion realization. Just you, one late afternoon, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the lair, a bowl of popcorn on your lap, humming some dumb song he didn’t even recognize while watching a show he didn’t really care for. Your hair was a little messy. Your shirt was one of his, worn and soft. Your fingers flicked popcorn into your mouth between laughs.
He was supposed to be training. Supposed to be focused. But something in his chest squeezed—slow, gentle, like his heart was blinking. And he knew, then and there, watching you in the glow of the TV, feet wiggling in time to the opening theme, that this was it. You were his person. His future. His home.
He’d said nothing. Just walked over, sat behind you, and rested his chin on your shoulder. Quiet. Heavy with feeling. You didn’t say anything either—just reached up and threaded your fingers through his.
---
MOVIE NIGHTS GONE WRONG
He always picked the cheesiest, most dramatic action flicks. You made fun of him relentlessly for it.
“Leo, why do they keep flipping over cars? There’s no reason for this car to flip. It’s a normal road.”
“They’re setting up tension!”
“That guy just caught a grenade with his teeth.”
“Okay, but it was symbolic.”
You spent the entire runtime with your legs tossed over his lap, throwing popcorn at the screen while Leo tried to defend the plot like he wrote it personally. At some point, your arguing always dissolved into giggles, and by the end of the night, you were curled up against him, his arm around your waist, your head tucked under his chin.
He always said, “Next time, we’re watching something serious.”
And then picked another action flick every single time.
---
THE TIME YOU TOOK CARE OF HIM WHEN HE WAS HURT
Leo wasn’t scared of getting hurt. He was a trained ninja. He knew pain. What he wasn’t good at? Accepting help.
“Leo, sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Leo, your side is literally bleeding onto the floor.”
“I’ve had worse.”
You had to push him—gently but firmly—onto the couch, your fingers tugging off his gear while he hissed and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. You cleaned the gash slowly, carefully, your brows furrowed, mouth pressed into a flat line of worry.
He watched you, quiet. Noticing the way your hands trembled just a little. The way your lip wobbled like you were trying not to cry. And it hit him then, hard and sudden, how much you cared.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“Because you’re hurt, idiot.”
He reached up, brushing your cheek with a knuckle. “I’m okay. Because you’re here.”
You sniffled and swatted his hand. “Don’t flirt while you’re bleeding.”
He grinned anyway. Blood loss and all.
---
TRAINING TOGETHER
Leo was a surprisingly patient teacher—meticulous, focused, and always watching you with this tiny smile that said he was proud even when you were just learning how to punch.
He always caught you when you fell. Always adjusted your stance with careful hands, never too tight, just the right amount of touch to send a jolt down your spine.
When you finally knocked him on his shell (with some help, but you never had to know that), you stood over him panting, beaming, triumphant.
“Did you let me win?” you demanded.
He grunted, winded. “I plead the Fifth.”
You flopped down on him, laughing, sweat-slick and breathless.
“Next time, I’m going for Mikey.”
“Good luck,” he wheezed.
---
THE TIME YOU WORE HIS GEAR
You’d been cold. That was the only reason. His chest strap was nearby, and you’d slung it on over your hoodie just for warmth—but then Leo had walked in mid-strut and stopped dead in the doorway.
He stared at you like you’d grown a second head. Or sprouted wings. Or maybe both.
“What?”
“…Nothing.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He walked up slowly, eyes locked on you like you were something sacred.
“You can’t wear that,” he said, almost breathless.
“Why not?”
“Because—because I can’t focus when you do.”
You raised an eyebrow, smug. “Oh?”
He tore it off you in two seconds and kissed you up against the wall like it was the last thing he’d ever do.
You wore it again the next day.
---
RAINY DAYS
You curled up in his bed while thunder rolled overhead, legs tangled together under too many blankets, both of you sleepy and warm and tangled in that lazy affection that only came when the weather outside demanded stillness.
Leo read out loud. A book you’d been working through together, his voice low and slow and a little rough from how relaxed he was. You had your head on his chest, listening more to the sound of him than the story.
He paused mid-sentence and kissed your hair without thinking.
You mumbled, “That’s not in the book.”
“Should be.”
---
THE ARGUMENT
It was over something dumb. Pizza, or missed training, or him not letting you follow during a mission. But it exploded, like everything you’d both been bottling up came out in one go.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I’m trying to protect you!”
“And I’m not just something you can shelve when things get hard!”
Silence.
He stared at you, breathing hard. “I know,” he said finally. “I know. I’m sorry.”
You sat down hard on the couch, all your anger gone in one breath.
He joined you a second later. Quiet. Small.
“You mean everything to me,” he said. “It’s hard to let you be in danger. Even when I know you can handle it.”
You rested your forehead against his.
“Next time, let me decide what I can handle.”
He nodded. “I will.”
And he did.
---
WHEN HE MISSED YOU
He once went away for a training retreat with Splinter. Only a week. But it felt longer than that.
he called when he could. Left you little notes in your hoodie pocket. Texted you every morning:
Morning, Sunshine.
Stay warm today.
Eat something real today, no cookies for breakfast.
I miss you.
When he came back, he held you like the world was ending. His face buried in your neck. His arms iron-tight around your waist. You didn’t speak for a long time. Just held each other, breathing each other in, until the ache of absence finally faded.
Later that night, curled up in bed, he whispered against your cheek, “I love you more every day.”
You whispered back, “I never stopped missing you.”
---
WHEN YOU GOT HURT
He panicked. Like, really panicked.
There was blood. A sprain. You were limping. And Leo was at your side instantly, eyes wild, hands trembling, trying to touch you everywhere at once—your face, your arms, your legs—checking.
“Are you okay? Talk to me. Where does it hurt?”
You tried to laugh it off. “It’s not that bad—”
“You’re hurt.”
His voice cracked on the word.
He carried you home. Didn’t let go once. And when you were bandaged up and resting, he just sat beside you, head bowed, hands clasped.
“I can’t lose you,” he said quietly.
“You won’t,” you promised.
And he didn’t.
---
A PEACEFUL FUTURE
There was one evening where nothing hurt. No fights. No stress. Just the two of you on the rooftop, watching the stars through the hazy New York night. You were sitting between his legs, his arms around you, your fingers laced with his.
He murmured, “Ever think about the future?”
You tilted your head. “All the time.”
“What do you see?”
You leaned back against him. “You. Somewhere quiet. Maybe a cabin. A garden. Peace.”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he whispered, “I want that. With you.”
And you sat there, under the stars, wrapped in warmth and the promise of a someday that felt more real than any mission ever had.
WHEN YOU REALIZED DATING LEO MEANT NEVER BEING BORED AGAIN
It started with a text.
leo: meet me on the roof. urgent.
You panicked. Sprinting up the stairs, heart racing, imagining blood, tears, a krang invasion, a missile falling from space. Only to find him dramatically lying on the floor like he was in a Renaissance painting, hand over his forehead, face contorted in pretend agony.
“What happened?!”
He blinked open one eye. “They... they ate the last pizza roll.”
“…Leo.”
“I was SAVING it. It had my name on it. I wrote it in Sharpie. In cursive.”
You groaned so loud it echoed, but then he sat up and gave you the most ridiculous puppy eyes in existence.
“Only your love can fill the pizza-roll-shaped hole in my heart.”
You still kissed him. Because of course you did.
---
THE TIME HE TRIED TO MAKE YOU A ROMANTIC DINNER AND ALMOST SET THE LAIR ON FIRE
He insisted. “I can cook. I watched a whole two-minute tutorial. I am a culinary legend.”
You should’ve known something was wrong when you smelled smoke before you even got to the kitchen.
You burst in to find him frantically trying to teleport flames off the stove and onto random plates, his apron reading “Kiss the Chef (Or Else),” flour on his face, and one noodle dangling from his bandana like it had tried to flee and died in the attempt.
“I can fix this,” he said, wild-eyed.
“Leo.”
“You love me, right?”
“…unfortunately.”
He ended up ordering pizza. You both ate it on the floor, legs tangled together, sauce on your faces, laughing so hard your stomachs hurt. You never let him cook again.
---
WHEN YOU WERE SAD AND HE TRIED (HIS VERSION OF) COMFORTING YOU
He didn’t always know what to say when you were quiet. When your eyes didn’t sparkle like they usually did, when your words got shorter, sadder, when you started holding your breath more than speaking.
But he knew what to do.
He appeared in your room wearing a blanket cape and a handmade crown (don’t ask where the glitter came from), holding a glittery scepter made of a spoon and duct tape.
“I hereby declare today A No Sad Days Zone,” he announced. “By royal decree, you are required to be adored, pampered, and held like the precious creature you are.”
You blinked at him.
Then you burst into tears.
He panicked—panicked—but then you just clung to him and buried your face in his plastron, sobbing and laughing all at once, and he just held you.
He held you until the tears stopped. He kept the crown on the entire time.
---
COUCH CUDDLES, AKA HIS FAVORITE PASTIME
Leo would always pull you into his lap the second you even glanced at the couch. Movie night? His lap. Game night? His lap. Nap time? Guess what.
He called it “his throne,” and you were “the crown jewel.”
His arms were always wrapped tight around your waist, chin perched on your shoulder, legs tangled beneath you. He radiated body heat like a furnace and always hummed random songs in your ear—off-key, sometimes on purpose.
And if anyone dared interrupt?
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were trying to DIE today.”
---
WHEN HE GOT JEALOUS
He wasn’t mean about it. But he was dramatic.
Someone flirted with you at the hidden city market once and Leo stared them down with the intensity of a thousand suns.
“Hey,” you whispered, nudging him. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice,” he said, arm tightening around your waist. “I haven’t banished them to another dimension. That’s restraint, baby.”
You rolled your eyes, but he leaned down and kissed your cheek in front of them, whispering, “Mine,” into your skin.
You never saw the stranger again. You assumed it was a coincidence. Probably.
---
THE TIME YOU GOT HURT
Leo tried to laugh it off.
At first.
“You’ve had worse papercuts than this,” you groaned, clutching your arm.
“Yeah,” he said, voice too high. “Totally. Totally fine. Not freaking out. Nope.”
He teleported you to Donnie so fast you almost threw up, and then paced like a caged tiger while Donnie worked.
When Donnie said you’d be okay, Leo collapsed onto the floor in a heap of relief. “Sweet merciful pizza gods,” he moaned.
You stared at him. “You good?”
He reached for your hand from the floor. “You’re not allowed to die. That’s, like, the one rule.”
“I just sprained my wrist.”
“The ONE RULE!”
You had to climb down to kiss him where he’d melted. He didn’t move, just sighed dramatically. “Your love resurrects me.”
---
PILLOW FIGHTS TURNED WAR ZONES
It started innocent. A little bop to the head while you were both making the bed. He smirked. You smirked.
Then he jumped behind you like a villain and whacked you square in the back with a pillow so hard you went flying onto the mattress.
“You DARE challenge the champion?!” he cackled.
“YOU’RE A COWARD.”
War was declared. Pillows were shredded. A plush turtle went flying and broke a lamp. Mikey walked by once and got caught in the crossfire. Raph had to confiscate your pillows for a week.
But your laughter echoed through the lair long after the feathers settled.
---
LATE NIGHT CONFESSIONS
It was 3 a.m.
You couldn’t sleep. And Leo… well, Leo never really slept unless he had to.
You were lying on the rooftop, side by side, the city humming beneath you, stars barely visible through the glow.
“I don’t get it,” you murmured. “Why me?”
He turned to you slowly.
“What?”
“You could have anyone. You’re Leo. You’re cool, and funny, and handsome—”
“Go on,” he said, waggling his brows.(or..the bones..that were there..)
You laughed, but looked away. “Seriously. You’re you. Why’d you pick me?”
He was quiet. Then:
“Because I’ve never met someone who looked at me like I was more than the jokes. Like I could be something... real. And you make me feel like I’m not pretending all the time.”
You turned back. His eyes were so soft.
“I love you,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said. “I love you more.”
And then he kissed you slow, under the stars, like the city was just background noise.
---
THOSE TINY, SILENT MOMENTS THAT MEANT EVERYTHING
Like when he always waited for you to walk through portals first, just to make sure you’d land okay.
Or how he’d draw little doodles on your arm with his fingers when you sat beside him, absentminded and sweet.
The way he’d steal your snacks and then pretend he saved them from “spoiling.”
How his hand always found yours—without even thinking, like muscle memory.
The way he looked at you when you laughed too hard. Like the world had just started spinning again. Like you were gravity.
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THE MOMENT HE KNEW IT WAS FOREVER
He had been scared. Of being serious. Of committing. Not because he didn’t love you—he did, deeply, wildly—but because sometimes he felt like a spotlight with nothing under it. All flash, no foundation.
But you believed in him. Always.
And one morning, you were curled up on the couch, your head on his lap, hair tangled, sleep-warm and safe, and you looked up and mumbled, “I want this forever.”
And Leo, for once, didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t tease.
He just smiled. Soft. Wide.
“Me too.”
THE FIRST TIME YOU REALIZED HOW HARD HE TRIES TO IMPRESS YOU
It wasn’t loud. Not like most things with Leo. Not like his chaotic flips through the living room or his exaggerated battle cries or the way he used to dramatically flop over the furniture anytime he got a scratch and yell, “Tell my story…”
No, it was subtle—like the way he started fixing his bandana every time you walked into the room, smoothing it out in the reflection of the toaster oven or tugging at his elbow pads like they were fancy suit cuffs. Like the way he stood a little straighter when you were around, or the soft flush that crept up his cheeks when you caught him staring too long. You hadn’t realized it before—how much he wanted to impress you, how every quip, every gesture, every over-exaggerated pose was him holding out his heart in his hands, not quite sure what to do with it, but hoping you’d take it anyway.
And when you finally told him, just barely above a whisper, “You don’t have to try so hard. I already love you,” he froze. Blinked once. Twice.
Then smiled—small and bright, the kind of smile that made your ribs ache with how tender it was.
“Okay,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “But I’m still gonna keep trying.”
---
WHEN YOU FOUND OUT HOW PHYSICALLY CLINGY HE IS
Leo was a limpet.
If he was within three feet of you, odds were high he was touching you—elbow against yours while you sat at the table, knee bumping yours when you stood still, arm slung around your shoulder like he was your personal weighted blanket.
But his favorite thing? Cuddling. Not just cute, little snuggle-in-bed cuddling. Full body clinging. He’d sprawl across you like a blanket that talked too much, his chin resting on your chest, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, legs tangled with yours like you’d both get blown away in a storm if he let go.
You couldn’t move. Not without hearing a soft little whine and feeling him grip you tighter like a sleepy octopus. “Don’t gooo,” he’d murmur into your shirt, voice muffled. “You’re my favorite pillow.”
Even if you peeled yourself away, you’d find him crawling after you five minutes later like a needy little cat. “Come baaaack, I miss you already,” he’d say, despite you having only gone to grab water.
You stopped fighting it after a while. Not just because it was cute (though it was disgustingly cute), but because the way he sighed when you let him hold you—like all his tension dissolved the second he had you in his arms—made something melt in your chest.
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THE DAY HE BROUGHT YOU FLOWERS AND GOT PUNCHED (KINDA)
He’d been planning it for days.
You knew something was up. He’d been suspiciously sneaky, whispering with Mikey and giggling in corners, acting like he was pulling off a heist every time he left the lair. Then, one day, he came into your room holding a messy, chaotic bouquet that looked like it had survived a battle with a weedwhacker—but he was beaming, blue eyes wide and bright, petals in his teeth, leaves sticking out of his bandana.
“For you,” he said proudly, thrusting the bouquet toward you like it was Excalibur and you were royalty.
You stepped forward to take it—and promptly got smacked in the face by a thorny stem sticking out at an unholy angle.
“OH MY GOSH—I’M SO SORRY—I SWEAR I—MIKEY SAID IT WAS A ROSE—IS THIS POISON IVY—ARE YOU BLEEDING—SHOULD I GO GET DONNIE—IS THIS HOW I LOSE YOU—”
You were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe.
He looked so distressed, cradling your face and inspecting the barely-there scratch like you were on your deathbed. “I just wanted to be romantic,” he sniffled.
You kissed him on the cheek and said, “You are. You’re the most romantic person I know.”
He carried that bouquet around for the rest of the day like it was sacred. Accidentally hit Raph with it. Refused to apologize.
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WHEN HE GOT NERVOUS ABOUT SAYING “I LOVE YOU” AND BLURTED SOMETHING ELSE INSTEAD
You knew he loved you.
It was obvious—in the way he always remembered your drink order from that one place, in how he’d travel across five boroughs to bring you your favorite snack, in how he always instinctively stood between you and danger with his arm held out like a shield. But saying it? That was another story.
One night, curled up in a hammock, swinging slowly with the sound of the city murmuring through the lair vents, he was holding you close—closer than usual, his hand rubbing gentle circles into your back, his voice quieter than normal. You looked up, about to speak, when he blurted:
“I really like your face.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I mean—not just your face, I like—you. All of you. I just—you know—your face is—really great—and—uh—”
You stared.
He panicked.
“I LOVE YOUR FACE, OKAY?”
You were laughing before you could stop yourself. You grabbed his cheeks, squishing them until his words stopped fumbling out in a rush, and said, “Leo. It’s okay. I love your face, too.”
His whole body melted.
Later, when it was darker and softer and sleep was starting to curl into the edges of your mind, you heard him whisper it. So quiet it barely existed.
“I love you.”
You squeezed his hand and whispered it back.
---
THE FIRST TIME HE SAW YOU CRY
He didn’t know what to do at first.
You weren’t loud. You didn’t scream or sob or throw things. You just... shut down. Went quiet. Your hands shook when you tried to hold your cup. Your breath hitched like your chest was breaking under invisible weight.
And Leo—Leo, who could attempt to talk his way out of any situation, who could joke through danger and chaos and fear—suddenly had no words.
He sat beside you. Not too close at first. Let you curl inward, pull your sleeves over your hands. He waited until you looked up at him, until your walls cracked just enough to let him in.
Then he opened his arms.
You collapsed into him without hesitation, and he held you like you were something breakable and precious, rubbing your back in slow, even strokes, murmuring nonsense—little sweet words, things like “you’re safe” and “I’ve got you” and “let me carry some of it, please.”
And when you finally fell asleep against his chest, his hand in your hair, he whispered, “You don’t have to be okay for me to love you. I love you anyway.”
---
WHEN YOU GOT HURT AND HE WENT FERAL
He doesn’t remember half of it.
One second you were fine, laughing beside him during a fight, trading jokes and ducking lasers, and the next—someone knocked you to the ground. Hard.
He saw red.
He was not the biggest, not the strongest—not like Raph—but Leo was fast. And when he was angry, when something precious was threatened, he moved like a knife through air.
By the time the others caught up, the attacker was down—hard—and Leo was at your side, shaking, his hands hovering over you like he didn’t know where to touch, afraid anything might hurt you more.
You were okay. Just a bump. Maybe a scrape.
But he held your face in his hands and whispered, “I need you to be okay. I can’t—please—just—stay with me—”
You kissed him. Right there. Right in the middle of the battlefield.
“I’m okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
He didn’t let go of your hand for hours.
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SILLY MOMENTS THAT HAPPENED WHEN NO ONE WAS LOOKING
Like when he tried to do one of those “cool lean-in” kisses and headbutted you by accident. You both had matching bruises for a week. You still call him "horny turtle" when you want to make him blush.
Or the time he accidentally turned on romantic music during patrol and started spinning you around like a ballroom dancer in the middle of a dark alley. “For ambiance,” he claimed.
When you were brushing your teeth and he peeked around the corner to rap battle with your mouth full of toothpaste. You lost.
Or how sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he whispers little things into your hair like, “You’re my favorite part of the day,” and “I think I want forever with you.”
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WHEN HE KNEW HE WANTED YOU TO BE HIS FOREVER
He didn’t know how to say it. Not really. Not yet. But he knew.
It was a quiet night. You were sitting beside him on the fire escape, legs dangling, your head resting on his shoulder, the stars barely flickering against the smog. He looked at you—just looked—and felt that ache in his chest that wasn’t painful, just big. Too big to contain.
You turned and smiled at him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you knew he was in love without him saying it. And you kissed his cheek and said, “I’m happy.”
And Leo?
He held your hand and whispered, “Me too.”
But what he really meant was:
I want every tomorrow to have you in it.
What an intimidating group of turtles, gossiping away. Absolutely nobody is safe from this table, not even themselves.
A fun little scene from chapter 19 of The Day the World Broke by @saladmix
I love him so much, I need him to bleed out to death
Hello dear, may I ask somethingfor Leo 2k7? I want some fluff about kisses and consent, the reader had a abusive relationship in the past, so she want give to Leonardo a oportunity but at the same time she is little scare.
I love your content <3
HELLO ANON THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST Im finally getting to the ones in my inbox if my followers could not tell sdkjcndjc Warnings: nothin but FLUFF!!!! remember that consent is SEXY!!!!!!!
"Hey, we don't have to do anything you're not ready for. You know that right?" You know that, of course you know that. Leonardo has been nothing but patient, kind, understanding and every other green flag under the sun towards you ever since you started dating. Hell, even before that, when you first met he was already accommodating to you. He could tell with one look that you had been through the wringer, the way you couldn't look anyone in the eyes for more than half a second and how you always seemed to try and make yourself smaller.
They met you through April, who took you under her wing as her protégé after you approached her at the end of a seminar she hosted. You got along splendidly well and after some time, she decided to introduce you to her friends. Surprisingly, you took it quite well coming face to face with giant turtles and an equally as large rat, muttering a 'hello' and averting your gaze back to the ground. Leo remembers that day clearly and sometimes it amazes him how you went from that to this; cuddling with him in his bed with his hand rubbing up and down your arm. He was propped up on his elbow, eyes soft as he takes in your nervous state.
He calls your name gently, curling a knuckle beneath your chin to lift your gaze to him. "Talk to me." Try as you might you can't avoid his stare, not totally. He's aware of your horrid past relationship for you had confided in him within the first week of getting together. He offered to go and hang your previous partner from the rooftops by his ankle, give him a little spook and although it did make you smile, you told him it wasn't necessary. He was careful with you always, cautious in his movements and always always double (even triple) checking with you if what he was doing was alright. Over time you got more comfortable speaking up and he was proud of your progress. But he knew it wasn't always linear. "I'm scared." You admit quietly. "Am I scaring you?" "No, never." "Then what is it, love?" The million dollar question and one that she could never fully answer. It wasn't that you haven't kissed before-- small pecks here and there and flurries against each others cheek. But this was different wasn't it? Multiple kisses in one go, a make out, even though that term didn't quite fit what Leo wanted to do currently. "I want to kiss you-- nothing more in this moment right now. Your word means everything right now and always. Okay?" His grip changes to cupping your cheek, smoothing his thumb just under your eye and being sure that you're looking directly at him as he speaks to you. It makes your heart clench in the sweetest yet most nerve wracking way. You nod but he immediately shakes his head. "You have to say it, angel." You swallow hard and lift your hand to cover his, curling your fingers against his own and taking a moment to relish in his comforting touch. "Yes." "Yes...?" "Yes, I would like to kiss you too." Even then he still gives you time to change your mind, going slow as his lips get closer to yours. He doesn't move when he makes contact, keeping the pressure light and only continuing to brush your cheek and down the length of your arm. It's when you actively start kissing him first that he reciprocates, moving his lips over yours and letting out a small quiet churr of happiness. You don't know how long you kissed for. What you do know is that you want to do it again and again, memorize the texture of his lips on yours and burn the shape against your own. And eventually, you'll learn to overcome your past ordeals and kiss Leonardo and do more to your hearts content.
2007 HarLeo✨🩵🌸⚔️ oooooo 😭😭
