#skims hand over surface of water. pining leo is best leo u cant change my mind

[desceros]

ajkfljskj I saw you were taking requests now and I lowkey just- 👀 I'm having sexy Bayverse Turtles intrusive thoughts. Imma share a Leo one. Ever imagined Bay!Leo sharing his hobbies with reader after she earned his trust and teaching her Japanese calligraphy? Him watching her skin glow in the candlelight, dreaming to use her naked body as a canvas for a Japanese love poem written in kanji? Sexual tension, mixed with slow, agonizing brushstrokes? Cuz I have 😏 -💙

so i got this and immediately i was like 'omg. this would work So Well as a deleted scene of sorts for tea-verse' so that's what it ended up as. kind of sexual tension but it edges more on pining. also, i'm burning now, thank you everyone for playing, we had a great run here on desceros dot com leonardo x reader; T, GN!reader, 1.8k; leo pining like a TREE. officially takes place after the leaf scene in this fic if you want context for some of the subtler touches but tl;dr reader always makes leo his tea. (the fic itself has a female reader but this snippet is GN)

He wonders if you know. 

You’ve caught him staring, before. It makes his shell feel tight, his skin too-hot. Even with mating season coming up, it’s too soon for him to be reacting like this; the burning ache that comes just from the bell of your voice, the alluring sway of your footsteps as you come to his side. And yet he does. Because it’s you. Just because it’s you.

“Okay, I’m excited for this,” you tell him, teeth biting into a smile as you tuck as close as you can without touching. He knows you do it for him, that you stay away because of his wishes, but it’s an agony all the same. The sweet smell of your soap haunts him, even under the burn of the incense that ghosts the room with smoke.

“Yeah?” he asks, pleased when he sees the happy, easy glow of your face. 

“Are you kidding? It’s so pretty,” you say. “Plus I like how the ink smells. It smells really nice with the tea when I bring it in.” 

Pretty, he echoes, trailing his eyes down to your throat, your shoulders, your hands. The way all your angles and curves catch the candlelight and dance in a softness that makes his palms ache with emptiness.

…He wonders if you know how soft you make him.

“Okay. Tell me the names for everything,” you tell him, studying the tools laid out before him, a gentle eagerness brightening your eyes. He smiles, turning his head and gesturing at everything to share its proper name in Japanese, then English. Grinding the ink, he explains the process, looking to you and your fascinated expression and trying to remember to breathe.

“What do you want me to write?” he asks once he’s ready, causing you to look at him and smile.

“What do you want to write?” you ask. 

Reaching out, he picks up the brush between his fingers. He studies the paper before him, blank and infinite, but his mind is somewhere else. 

…It had rained, a few days ago. You’d come into the lair drenched, laughing as Splinter had sent him off to bring you a towel. He’d returned in time to see you lift your shirt, squeezing it out over the storm drain, miles and miles and miles of skin stretching before his eyes. The curve of your spine as you turned to speak to his father, the arch of your hips as you leaned to twist the fabric, the pull of skin over your flesh. Breathless, motionless, frozen, he’d faltered in the doorway, ensorcelled by the image forever, marked, seared into his mind.

It’s that sight that comes to his mind, now, as he closes his eyes. 

He could do it, he thinks. He could ask you to turn, to pull your shirt over your head. It’s so easy to imagine the way your shoulder blades would curve, the dip of your spine, the way you’d shiver when he pressed the brush to your skin. It would tickle, at first, until you got used to it; then you’d sigh, still, and let him spread his soul onto your canvas.

Oh, all the things he wants to write there, where it would sink into your flesh like a brand. All the little ghosts of you that haunt him, memorialized with love in charcoal: the way your teeth catch your lip, the flash of skin at your hemline when you stretch your arms above your head, the wet press of your tongue to your lips when they're dry, the way your eyes flutter shut when you have your first sip of tea, the hum of pleasure you give when it tastes good. 

…He’d make you feel so good.

“…Leo?”

Leo opens his eyes, feeling the hunger in them, letting them get as far as your mouth before he turns them back to the paper before him. A pointless daydream, a torment of his own making. 

“…Sorry. I was just thinking,” he says, and it’s not a lie, not entirely, but also nothing but. There is nothing just about the way that you consume him.

It’s easy, then, to think of what to write. In long, elegant nine strokes that pull from his shoulder, he glides the brush over the paper. Each inch of ink carries a memory of you, your hands as you pass him a teacup, your care in checking the flavor, your endless drive to perfect the art just for him. 

“…Tea,” you recognize, proving your familiarity with the subject. He smiles; of course you’d recognize it, what with how often the two of you share.

“Tea,” he echoes, waiting until the ink is dry enough to handle before he takes the paper and hands it to you. “Here. For you.” 

“Wh—Really?” you ask, eyes wide. 

“Of course. It’s about time I gave some tea to you, after all,” he says with a smile that makes you laugh. He tucks the sound into his heart, next to all of the others. 

“It’s beautiful, Leo,” you compliment, holding it before you. Your eyes take in every stroke, awe open and genuine, before they meet his own and your smile goes warm like the sun. “Thank you. I’m going to hang it somewhere nice in my apartment.” 

And oh, but you are the sun, he thinks, heart pounding as he watches your fingers trail down the edge of the paper. Reaching out with warmth, lighting everything you touch, smiling as everyone around you basks in your radiant glow. What is life without you, he wonders, chest aching and so full and so empty all at once it hurts. Madness. 

…He wonders if you know.