meine geliebte ✘ cicadastar

[SMOKESTAR]

It was strange. When he'd lost his eye in that skirmish and been bloodied so badly he'd been out of it for days he didn't remember anything. There was no recollection of things said or done, only the familiar warmth and scent of mottled storm-colored fur encircling him and drowning him in a sense of comfort he hadn't felt since he was a kitten. It was a fleeting, bittersweet feeling that he both despised and wanted more, an uncertainty in how he held himself was always present still and he realized why. They had quietly moved together without a word, twined and close without so much as speaking the obvious to one another. It was embarrassing in a way, that it had just happened and he had spent so long putting off speaking his mind, his heart, just to end up where he wanted in the end without effort. Smokethroat felt foolish, he had not stopped feeling foolish for some time and it was only after Beesong had ensured him the leader was going to recover that he realized something had to be done. Soundless approval and acceptance were his usually preferences, he'd never been a cat of many words and he often prefered it that way.
But he didn't want it here, he wanted it said, he wanted to scream from the depths of his chest until his throat ripped raw from the force of his own devotion. Being reminded his chance could be taken from him at any moment left him staggered and afraid; there was no assurance in lives. Briarstar's death had taught them this, that even nine of them could not spare you the end at times.
Cicadastar could have been lost entirely, freezing and drowning again and again and he feels his chest tightening at the memory once more; thanking the stars Houndstride had been there.
Smokethroat shakes his head, thoughts rattling in his skull feeling more akin to sharp rocks now than anything else; piercing and persistent, he dips his head to grab a nice trout from the freshkill pile to take to the leader's den, makeshift and sequestered away to allow the tom his peace to rest unbothered. It did not take him long to make it back, pausing only to nod to a patrol heading out and unburdened with the need to chat given the fish limply clutched between his teeth; with no further distractions he whisks inside the temporary hollow, blinks that one eye slowly to the adjusting of the dark to set the prey aside and manuever his way past long curled limbs and a sweeping tail where he can slowly settle back down himself in a partial curl at the other's side.
He'd gotten over the worst of it, but the additional body heat would keep the cold from taking him back and Smokethroat had been more than willing to volunteer his time to the task.
"If you're awake enough you should try to eat."
He remembers how much he felt sick at the mere idea of food when he was ill, shaking and riddled with infection so severe he must have dipped a paw in StarClan more than once. But if he had to preshred that fish to help then he would, they had to keep his strength up or those lives would dwindle one by one like water spilling through pebbles.
"And I..." A combination of fear and his own guilt drove him to insensitivity, this wasn't really the time for a talk but if he waited any longer he worried he'd never get the chance; it was selfish, but he was compelled, "I want to talk. If you're up for it?"

- @CICADASTAR
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[CICADASTAR]

recovery was difficult. it was at the best of times, in the best of circumstances, but his was not. it was slow, impeded by the ever - present need to lift, to trail the borders and frozen shoreline. after the thunderclan incident, he could feel it in his paws, in his chest. they were watching his rocks. they were lying in watch, eyeing the prey there that could feed the youth of his clan. beesong had been insistent he rest and he would always argue otherwise, would stand tall should they face him in annoyance, looming and glowering, ripped face and all. but today, he listens. his brain ticks, eyes slitted and glowing amidst the darkness of his temporary den. newleaf is here and he has not yet reaped it’s rewards, if only due to the lingering ache in his bones intensified by his own overexertion. his body had been revived but the cold had seeped in, left him weak and exhausted, longing only to curl warm and comfortable into the short, white - speckled coat of his.. lead warrior.

said lead’s scent filters into his nose and eyes snap towards the den entrance immediately, sees him outlined in the golden halo of morning and his chest burns. perhaps it was his hazy mind, ticking dangerously with madness barely contained, with exhaustion clouding his mind, urging the tom forward to his side. the light of starclan was hazy in his shadow, single eye beaming against the darkness of his pelt and shadow. in his mouth is a trout, fat and heavy with newleaf and, of course. his first true meal of the season. his stomach growls despite the initial repulsion, the moons - long pain of starvation and new injury replacing what would have been riotous hunger with bitter revulsion. survival instinct. survival. still, he tries not to let the grimace show upon his maw, marred and ripped as it already was. they were a sight together, he thinks — as the tom settles aside him in his gentle curl, they are battle - worn. do they deserve softness?

i want to talk.

his chest drops and his mind whirls, wedged head turning from the fish and toward him, searching desperately for any indication of bad news. there is little there, as he’s oft to find. a talk.. talking had never been his strong suit. seeing the mottled leader, one would never believe it — the way he pranced about tall rock, prancing, gallivanting. overcompensating. cicadastar was loud, inflammatory, and pitifully inadequate when it came to speaking of himself, “ of course, always. “ i’ll make time, i will, don’t go. his voice cracks just slightly, and he would blame it on the sickness if it weren’t so obvious. kit - like, almost. nervous, “ is, ah.. everything okay? “ abandonment. it’s his biggest fear, and he hates it, hates the way his ears want to pin back, head racing. almost forcefully, the uninjured side of his maw quirks up in a teasing smile, pale blue eyes half - lidded, nudging smokethroat’s jaw with the tip of his nose, “ you’re not dying on me, liebling? “ like he had. but it’s spoken softly, playfully. a joke, that would help — and it does aid to at least steady his voice, retain control of the way it wants to waver. talk about what?

− ♱ information out of character ⟐ visual reference translated ♱ −

• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
• none.

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[SMOKESTAR]

It was stupid. It was stupid of him to get so caught up over something so trivial when it wasn’t important; it wasn’t even necessary. Smokethroat’s ear flicked to the touch, the worry, the concern when before him in loose curls the man looked as though the next powerful tremor that shook his form would leave him crumpled into ash. “Everything is…fine. Yes, I’m sorry-this isn’t…it’s not bad.” Was it? No. It wasn’t bad, just foolish. Too caught up in his own head to rationalize it as anything but him being selfishly ridiculous.

Liebling. The dark tom’s hellfire eye narrowed briefly, softly, he wondered if Cicadastar knew he understood that word all too intimately now. In his head he could still hear Hyacinthbreath cackling at him as he asked her to translate, chiding him for his embarrassment and subsequent outburst of surprise. “No, I’m not…not right now. Maybe some other time.” A joke, careless.
He had no intentions of going anytime soon, not now while he was finally somewhere he wanted to be and not wandering a loose path without purpose.

Embers caught in a wind, tousled and thrown carelessly above with hope to catch; his one goal in life before RiverClan was to survive and that had never left him. Clinging tight to his frame was a constant hunger and repulsion, demanding selfishness in face of everything else-claws fiercely digging in to stake his claim in this spot in life; unrelenting. But when survival was not so scarce as before, when he could breath and find peace in moments, did not feel his hackles raise when another got too close-it was only then did he know his life’s ambition was no longer just to get by.
He didn’t want to simply live, he wanted to LIVE; he wanted to thrive, he wanted more than the scraps on the floor, the acknowledgement of making it another day. He wanted to look forward to the days to come, he wanted to wake up in the morning content with the path he was on.

Happiness had never been a driving purpose in his life, he chased prey-not the thrill of enjoyment. But what more challenging of a hunt was there than to swiftly dive after hope, to reach your claws for betterment and delight. Having it tossed at his paws felt undeserved.
So no, he wasn’t satisfied just being. He wasn’t happy to just accept that luck had favored him and he had managed to foolishly stumble headlong into the place he wanted. He wanted to say it, acknowledge it out loud, break the dreamy illusion of it to see the rawness of reality.

Smokethroat found himself standing, not for any real reason, but there was an itch in his limbs from nerves coiling tight and he could not simply sit for a moment longer; the fight with his own ineptitude felt too drawn out, he was overthinking and his throat tightened-but eventually the dam would burst and he could be free of the childish worries swelling in his chest.

“I love you." And like that, he was free, the inhibitions gone-unrestrained, he spoke suddenly with an intensity he normally only showed in battle, "I would follow you into whatever darkness you walked to drive you back, I would rip you back from the stars themselves with my own claws, I would rend apart any cat that ever dared challenge you if you gave me the word." Orange eye flashed wild, crazed, sometimes he wanted to be a wild fire and raze the forest to the ground but like most untamed blazes he burned out fast, Smokethroat swiped a tongue around his maw in distraction-the taste of fish still lingering from having carried the trout here, he felt strangely winded, "...I...I have always wanted to thank you. For giving me a chance.." To join RiverClan, to be given a proper clan name, to be considered a trusted member of the phantom's council, to guarding the clan, protecting them, fighting for them, sharing a den with them, sharing a den with him..
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[CICADASTAR]

the tom lifts, moves away from him and ivory paws curl beneath him, on each side of the trout forgotten beneath him. dont go, he begs, he wouldn’t say. he looks pitiful, he knows. lowered ears and wide, staring eyes — following each fluid step closely, intently, waiting with breath hitched in his throat. he’d never been patient. he’d the aura of someone beyond patience, calm, collected.. for the most part. but here he sits now, hair - trigger and drawn taut in his uncertainty. had it been wise to give one cat such control over him? as if he’d had a choice, he thinks, feels claws slip from his sharp paws and tap. tap. tap against the ground beneath him. nervous fidget, one that’s forced scuffs into the great rock at fourtrees and now, in his temporary den, woven by still - learning paws and.. everything is fine. everything is fine, it wasn’t bad — so why did his heart still pulse in panic? why did words he couldn’t say bubble in his throat, why did he choke on them now? the ever - present urge to get a word in first wins out and he lift his head, “ i — “

i love you.

it hits him like crashing waves, hits him like river stones dragging him underneath and suddenly he is too light - headed, too dizzy. floating, he thinks, bleary through the haze of adrenaline pulsing through his veins, it’s like floating.

his mother had spoken of love with such disdain, such disbelief — scorned and left to her own devices, burdened to raise a litter of two gangly, coil - furred kits on her own. too much like their father, born of empty promises, of a life beyond the hard, grey stone of the twolegplace. it’s blurry now. moons and moons past, a lifetime. many lifetimes, in his case.. he can hardly remember the angles of her face, but the sharpness of her voice had remained, ingrained into his skull, “ you will self - sufficient. the world will not be as kind as i. “ stars, but she’d not been kind, “ there is no one in this land you can trust, know that. these streets are cruel, the cats here even crueler. “ street - hardened. she had provided them a space to live, scavenged food where she could, ensured they lived to see their adolescence before.. something he could not remember, something that rested in blurry memories of spit and fear. she had scraped by for them, had kept her spawn alive, but her love had always been conditional. born of necessity, obligation.

but i love you he says, and the tom had never said a thing he didn’t mean. honest to a fault, blunt, he says it like a fact and he is inclined to believe. oh, he had made a believer of him yet, “ smokethroat.. ” uttered like a prayer, devout to the stars that dot the darkness of his fur. the man lifts, still crouched low, the space between his brows quirked and eyes soft as those pale ice chips could be, his ears still tilted back. smokethroat, named by him, named long ago — named for the low timbre - growl of his voice, so familiar to him now.. but it doesn’t stop. he continues, and with every word his chest burns, the kindling beneath his ribs igniting into riotous flame. it smogs his lungs, coils up his throat until it tightens, cuts the words he wants to say into something akin to tears. a ball of emotion he swallows against, feels his esophagus click with it. it’s intense, fiery orange eye locked on him and cicadastar was a confident tom — held himself high despite the way his paws have shaken, but here now? so - called river phantom is struck, holds himself close to the ground with the force of it.

he is passion, wild and untamed. a flaming tongue that lights him ablaze from the inside, forces through his veins. that single, luminous hue fixes on him and it shakes the breath from him. unshaken — the leader always been unshaken, but he makes him quake, “ smokethroat.. “ low, sloping vocals plead, would do so with his last breath of it ever came to it. he lifts finally to full height, moves towards him. he would do so for no one else, had never, but he goes to him like a kit, lost and stumbling. safety. safety. he’d longed for it his entire life, had carved it for himself by force, by necessity. he’d run with hare whisker’s gang for security, had leaned upon his colony mates for what they could provide, kept at an arms distance for his own sake. that old, not - quite distrust, ever present fear of betrayal — he’d felt the burn of it before, had seen cinderfrost spit and gnash at those he’d cared about, had felt the pain of severance once close. but never had someone forced themself so firmly into his heart, had forced past the barriers he kept, walls high and thorn - guarded. it was scary, he realizes. fear. it pulses in his chest, rises panic to his throat. he was afraid. they’d been unspoken, moved as one with not a word said — not one that the lead could hear, at least.

it had broken something in him, the infection. the reek of sickness that haunts him still at night, the one that had nearly sent his love to the stars. he would have given him all the lives he had, should he have been able. he would have screamed, ripped them open himself to drag the tom back by the scruff. he’d spoken it in smoke’s feverish consciousness, when the fear of him never waking again had been too much for him to ignore. he had to get it out, to speak it into existence, said he would have no other choice.. and he’d not slept without him since, had fallen comfortably into never knowing if he’d been aware of just how it had affected him. but now, he approaches him, lowers his head, and.. he’d never been good with words that mattered, ever lost in his dramatics when all eyes land on him. what did he say now? what could he say, to explain the way his voice ignites him in ways that he’d never felt? was there a word?

love, he thinks. it seemed not enough, seemed too light for the way he had screamed until his throat ached on the bridge, surrounded by pink - stained stone and wide, watching eyes. too light to explain the way he would even now gut windclan’s lead until his arms were soaked in viscera, would bite and claw through the entirety of those moorland dogs in his name. i have always wanted to thank you, for giving me a chance, “i would give you the stars. “ more to line the darkness of his coat, to trace constellations with his tongue should he allow him close enough — it’s said quickly, conviction deepening the odd curves of his voice. looming patchwork silver circles him halfway, desperate, needy. always so eager for attention, attracting the wrong type.. until now. until now, “ i would give you anything, i would do it in a heartbeat. “ anything, anything. he could have this — this would not be taken from him, “ when.. after.. windclan. after — “ he can’t say it. he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to sully this moment with his name, what had been done. he hopes the tom understands anyway, “ i was.. destroyed. i.. every night, i stayed with you. “ a sharp breath. a look away, towards the halo of light pouring from the dens entrance, “id never been so afraid in my life. i knew i… i knew that i loved you then. i knew i would rip the skies open in defiance if they took you. “ he would still. should they come to his border again, should smokethroat suffer at the claws of another — he would turn his own to the heavens, would use whatever had been bestowed upon him in their name to force him back. he swallows hard and, slowly lets a shaking smile curve his maw where it could. half of his face is still healing — he is still healing, but his head lowers. he wants to touch him, he wanted to be close, needed it where words couldn’t meet, “ so.. i suppose we have that in common, hm? “

− ♱ information out of character ⟐ visual reference translated ♱ −

• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
• none.

​

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

His name is uttered like a prayer, he doesn’t know how to feel-not yet. But part of him savors the sound of it, the name the mottled tom himself had given him that he had cloaked himself in so readily. Most cats had some hesitance in their new names, but not him.
He was nothing once, a scrap of fur lost and aimless. No identity, not sense of self, clinging to the name given him as his only solace; the warmth of embers, the memory of comfort. It was strange to find it again after so long, the same fire but a different warmth; he didn't want to admit out loud that he'd been chasing something similar even if he wasn't aware of it at the time. Constantly moving, running, a moth drawn to flame. Smokethroat was a cat who needed no one, so he claimed. RiverClan had softened him like the pebbles of the river itself; once jagged edged worn smooth by the rolling waters, he'd happily die for it time and time again; thrown himself to fight without inhabitions but lately he'd felt something holding him back. He didn't want to die. Not reckless in battle like he once had, but swaddled in the embrace of another with a gray muzzle and weathered bones. To die was easy, cast into fire and burnt to ashes. Living was more difficult, he had never though of his life in longterm before-always that fleeting ember in the wind that glintered and sparked and the certainty of his life left to fate alone but now he wished to grasp it. Dig his claws into the path he wanted, force his way through bramble and briar to a new purpose, a new reason. He wanted to live for him. He wanted to see him. He wanted to be there more and more. Each life that faded, flickering from ice blue eyes was a piercing agony he didn't know if he was strong enough to continue to witness but he would do so all the same, he wanted to and when they eventually ran out he wanted also to be there. Left to one for two.

“I don’t want the stars. I want you.” It feels childish to say, he wants to curl inward in embarrassment at it and almost longs to return to the time where they existed in silent understanding where words weren’t necessary but he knew this would weigh heavy on his mind otherwise. Knew it would tear him apart eventually to keep it all inside. It had to be said. It had to be brought out, he didn’t want to feel aimless and lost, constantly wondering if his feelings were matched of if he was just a hopeless fool who didn't understand things, read too much into them. Plenty of cats were affectionate with one another, shared nests but not hearts. It wasn't a fate he could handle, he would be torn asunder if left to smolder in his own misgivings. The relief he feels knowing he was not so blind that his one lone eye could see well enough what was real was monumental.

The lanky leader’s form draws close but never touches, ripples receding from a center point and curling outward and he finds himself frustrated despite knowing he is just as likely to be the sort to withdraw uncertain yet not now. This time is different, it rocks him to his core with realization and he has never been more certain in his life now than anything before. Smokethroat dips his head, mimicking the other's gentle bow before pushing it forward to press against the wedge-shaped face dipped before him.
I suppose we have that in common, hm? An almost coy whisper, teasing, pressing at his emotions as if asking him to deny it but he wouldn't. Ever. He had sworn long ago he would cut the man before him down if he fell frame grace, tumbled from the light of stars as WindClan's leader had done so already, but he finds this proclaimation wavering more and more everday. Perhaps he was not strong enough to dethrone mad kings, not when he knelt at their side, not when he played the knight. ”I suppose we do.”
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