I Can't Wait To Read More Of Your Writing - Tumblr Posts

You wrote lil leo perfectly!

All sass and overprotectiveness lol, and you can bet that as soon as he was in eyeline of nardo, he switched it up! And nardo has no clue how mean leo can be to people around him specifically, my poor boy-

Like, imagine if peepaw found out what Leo's been doing for months now?? He'd be mortified! (Even if he'd 100% laugh about it later/in private) And would probably pester leo about apologizing to Eshra

Though as much as he'd like to pester leo about apologizing to everyone else.. that's a bit difficult, lol-

I woke up to this, and it immediately made my day! :)

A short, goofy drabble I was inspired to write featuring my Eshra and @lukas6246's peepaw and Lil Leo. Totally non-canon (call it an AU to both AUs) but the potential for shenanigans was too good to ignore.

"I'm on to you."

Eshra cracks open one eye to study the teenager looming over him where he reclines at the cafe's patio table with his clawed feet kicked up… and how annoying is it that a kid not even half his age can loom over him? The so-called-yokai gives the tufted tip of his tail a mildly irritated flick and doesn't answer. That's fine, because Leo doesn't seem to need one.

"You think you're slick, always touching him and batting those eyelashes." Eshra blinks, and Leo points at him accusingly. "Yeah, like that! Well, I know what you're up to, you-- you hussy, and if you think I'm going to let you get all cozy and handsy with my brother--"

Leo continues ranting, and Eshra lets it go in one ear and right out the other, his honey-gold gaze sliding past the teenager to where the mutant in question is browsing a rack of clothes outside a nearby boutique. The sight of him makes Eshra smile into the over-caffeinated sugar bomb he calls coffee, his heart and crest both giving a little twitterpated quiver.

"Stop that!"

Eshra finds his line of sight abruptly cut off by one supremely irritated teenaged turtle, his eyes narrowed and his arms folded across his plastron.

"Stop what?" the yokai asks innocently, sipping his coffee.

"This!" Leo shoves both hands in Eshra's direction as though indicating the whole of him. "This whole…"

"Situation?" Eshra supplies helpfully.

"Ugh." Leo stomps away to join his older self in front of the boutique, leaving Eshra to observe them both and fight the urge to burst out laughing.

This is going to be the most fun he's had in years.

THIS

THIS RIGHT HERE??

THIS IS PURE SKILL, AND I JUST HAVE TO SHARE IT

What's Your Favorite Flower?

A little thing I wrote after considering what Eshra's answer would be. Takes place during the Bad Future™.

Rating: G

It’s such a minuscule thing, really, and in a normal world, a sane world, he never would have noticed it. Why would he? But the world isn’t normal, and it isn’t sane, and it hasn’t been for years, and so in this hellscape of shattered shades of gray all overlaid with a hellish red sky, the tiny splash of yellow catches his eye.

On feet as quiet as a cat’s paws, the yokai dips and darts across the torn up, rubble-strewn asphalt of… Bleecker Street, he thinks, near 11th, his dancer’s steps carrying him towards that incongruous dot of color. Every sense is in overdrive, like they have been since the invasion, but nothing trips his internal alarm, and he allows himself this brief moment of curiosity.

It’s a dandelion, he realizes after a frankly embarrassing number of seconds. Miraculously, the little yellow blossom is still clinging to life in this broken world, stubbornly reaching for the demonic sky and spreading its leaves to catch what little true sunlight might still filter through the red haze.

Eshra’s breath catches in his throat, an unexpected upsurge of emotion he has to swallow down hard, lest he risk making a noise and giving away his position. He reaches out almost without realizing it, his fingers stopping a hair’s breadth from the sunny petals. Somehow, even here, at the epicenter of the apocalypse, life endures. It persists, in spite of death, in spite of ruin, in spite of the krang.

The urge to protect the tiny flower, to uproot it and carry it somewhere safe, out of the reach of careless hound claws and crushing droid feet, is almost overwhelming. The fear of some mindless krang zombie shambling across this particular patch of broken concrete and heedlessly snuffing out this tiny spark of life has Eshra reaching for the dandelion again, for a moment intent on digging it up and spiriting it to safety. He nearly has his claws in the dirt before he stops himself, something that might be his conscience nipping at the edge of his mind. What right has he to impose his will on this precious, stubborn little thing? Why does he think he knows better? He draws his hand back, clutching it against his chest and instead simply taking a few cherished moments to just… look. Look and breathe and have just a minute’s worth of peace.

He goes back every day after that, each time terrified he won’t remember where the dandelion is, or worse, that something has happened to it while he’s been away. Each time, though, his fears are unfounded, and he finds his flower right where he left it, still as bright as the sun they can no longer see and still as insistent that it is going to live.

The day he spots a puff of white instead of the usual splash of yellow, Eshra’s heart jumps in his chest. Almost without care he hurries the last few dozen yards and crouches down next to the dandelion, which has turned from a sunburst blossom to a tiny cloud, and he's smiling a smile he’s forgotten he has. The yokai cups his hands around the seeded flower, a scrap of cloth in his fingers as a shield between the dandelion and the rest of the world. Then carefully, so very carefully, he blows on the puff, which shivers and quivers and at last releases its grip on its scores of minuscule seeds, allowing them to float safely into Eshra’s makeshift net.

After folding the cloth into a secure little sachet and tucking it into one of his supply pouches, Eshra finally lets himself touch his flower, a single delicate fingertip resting on the now bare seed head.

“Thank you,” he whispers, soft as the dandelion’s seeds, “for reminding me.”