Mixtape (2003!Leonardo Splinterson x Reader)
A/n: This was NAWT supposed to be a full thing, but the ramble evolved more than I wanted so… Posting at 0 dark 30 to add to the atmosphere that’s practically nonexistent-
Warnings: Slight language use, potentially ooc Leo, short silly crack fic, no specified gender for reader
It all starts with your shiny new car. It’s got tinted windows and a paint job that makes car jocks swoon.
It's better than the original hunk of junk you'd been rolling around in before. The air conditioner actually does its job and the engine light isn't a pretty accessory for your dashboard. Casey still does surprise checks under the hood, but they become less and less frequent as the months pass.
After a few upgrades from Donatello, you also seem to find yourself a little too excited to be in your new ride, even going as far as to pester whoever you can to take the additional seats. Actually, pester is a bit of a strong word, given you barely have to ask most times. In all honesty, the turtles seem more excited about your hot rod than you, especially when you happen to suggest taking a ride around the neighborhood during daylight hours. It’s inconspicuous and gives a weird sense of normalcy you weren’t exactly attempting to emulate.
It probably also helps that you let your passengers pick the music…
Most of the turtles have happily brought their own burned CDs and mixtapes to play in your car when you’ve gone riding, consistently bumping heads over who gets to put their disc in first. You’ve tried implementing a potential shotgun rule, but that never seems to quite work out when the playful shoving to the front seat ends with your car getting a little banged up. You’ve become well acquainted with most of the brothers’ musical tastes, from Mikey’s complete memorization of Will Smith’s discography and Jimmy Buffet greatest hits to Raph’s weird obsession with the Paint It Black album to Don’s deeper exploration of the musical tones of the romantic era.
However, your ever present kindness with your CD player has deeper ulterior motives, specifically surrounding the eldest…
Despite being together for a minute, and close for years now, you still, somehow, have no idea what music Leonardo likes. It’s not intentional, he usually let you choose whatever you listen to when you’re alone and his brothers usually put on some middle ground tunes when they’re altogether, so you didn’t exactly get the opportunity to learn through pure osmosis.
You’ve practically been begging and pleading for him to finally clue you in. He gives some simple answers, sparsely ruminating about enjoying the soft tunes Splinter plays during meditations or the background humming of the old cultural discs they’ve collected over the years. You’re growing desperate to have even a smidgen of an idea of what he’s talking about. He’s not exactly open on sharing, however.
In your desperation, you finally mention wanting a new CD to fill the space of the lonelier car rides, maybe something that’ll feel so unequivocally like him that it feels like he’s practically there. He ruminates over it, then affirms he’ll get back to you on that.
And gets back to you, he does, with a shining disc and nervous disposition as he hands the prize over. It’s a random weekday, smushed between errands and patrols into the pocket of alone time you carve through your schedules for each other. It feels so heavy when he pushes it between your palms, over the neutral tone of your car’s console.
You expect to hear the soft thrumming of something out of a yoga tape or maybe the soft humming you’d grown accustomed to during Splinter’s meditation hours. Instead, the soft rumbling of something a little louder sounds from the stereo, followed by the soft hums of rhythmic snaps.
You’d recognize the beat anywhere. It’s practically her signature, “Is this… Aaliyah?”
“May she rest in peace?” He can barely meet your gaze as Rock The Boat fills your car. It’s not even remotely close to what he’d left you to expect and feels so out there that you’re unsure if this is a joke.
“No way…” Your fingers lightly grasp at the knob on your radio, turning it up just enough the base in your speakers makes the seats bounce a little. There’s no way you’re imagining that.
Just as you roll it the other way, another beat flows to something vaguely familiar. Your lips part to name it, but it escapes you just as easily.
Just as you turn to ask, he's presented a crisp sheet of paper filled with his neat handwriting, "Glow from the Tasty album. I made you a list, just in case..."
It's numbered, estimated timestamps lining the sides of each title. Song title, artist, album. Most of them were soft R&B released in the last decade, artists you recognized and didn’t. Simple, efficient-
“It’s not exactly what you asked for,” He adds, thumb brushing the knuckles of your hand laid across your console. You can practically see the gears turning and his words push out a little slow.
You hum, “Oh?”
“I have a few favorites in there, but..." He pauses, head softly moving side to side as he ruminates the next words. Eventually, "It's mostly songs that make me think of you..."
Your cheeks go warm at the admission, “Oh!”
“Oh?”
The ridge of his mask crinkles upward and his bashful neutrality shifts into something more akin to subconscious questioning. His tone teeters insecurity, and you nearly fumble in your speed to respond, “It's really sweet, Leo. I genuinely really like it..."
"But?" Leo still manages to catch the soft disappointment in your tone and you want to bury your head in the dirt. You can only assume you look like a kicked puppy from where he's sitting. His eyes analyze each small movement, from the way your fingers grip the list between them to the overthinking glint in your eyes.
"It's just not...," Your words trail off a little as you avert your stare towards your window. The car's surrounded by the faded brick walls of New York alleyways, shades turning brown as dusk starts to approach. Your lips purse a little before you mumble, "Yoga music? I was sorta expecting yoga music...?"
In the small bout of silence that follows, you chance a glance his way, maybe hoping to gauge what face he could plausibly ber making in response. He barks out a laugh, one he immediately tries to cover up with a balled fist to his mouth. The failed attempt only makes your cheeks burn warmer, twinged in soft embarrassment and a fondness for the relaxed sight that seems rarer and rarer as days pass.
"Yoga music?" Leo finally manages to ask between chuckles, "Why would you expect yoga music?"
"B-Because! You literally said so!" Your hands lunge for his mouth before you can tether the growing shame, "Stop laughing! You said you like that kinda music when I asked... So I kinda assumed you were giving me some zen CD or something..." Your fingers slowly lower once his snickers cease, "Not Kelis and old Debarge tracks."
He seems to ruminate in that for a moment, shell pressing into the covered leather of your seats and knuckles fondly brushing his chin, "Well, I do like that kind of music for meditating and training, I guess. But," You don't miss the ends of his lips curving into soft indentions, "I tend to listen to this stuff a little more often."
"Thinking about me?"
"Sometimes," He teases, but there's little bite to it. Especially not when the intro to All I Do Is Think of You thrums in.
"Is this fucking Troop-"
"OKAY, maybe a little more than sometimes-"
