private MY LOVE'S GONE &. cicada

[QUIETSTREAM.]

CO-COMPARSION IS SLOWLY KILLING ME, I THINK I THINK TOO MUCH​

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it had been a very long time since they had time alone. when they came back from having gone missing... they just stayed away from him. it wasn't him. it had nothing to do with him at all. but she was scared to face him. what would he think of them? the cat he called a daughter barely could unsheathe their claws without fear making their stomach twist. she tried to hunt, and she could do that well. it was easy to hunt when naturally you were silent, but how useful was it when she couldn't even fight? she wouldn't fight. blood scared them entirely too much. they...

cicadastar might have been scared of battle but he never showed it. he was ruthless when it came to defending his home. how come she couldn't have done the same? why did she have to be so scared? their ears pushed back for a moment before they quickly padded up to the long legged, and rather fast paced, leader. she bumped her head against his leg, looking up towards him with an apologetic look. she opened her mouth to say something but immediately her paw reached up to touch her throat as she winced. she could talk... but it was so painful that she just didn't anymore.

i have so much i wanna say to you.

slowly lowering their paw, they pushed up against his chin, purring lowly and trying to seek comfort from him. hopefully he didn't mind. she was so sorry and she couldn't even begin to express it. they would try though.
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[CICADASTAR]

the tom is battle torn. scars both old and new line the slim contours of his body, cut through the thick ruff of fur that layers him in heavy, tightly - wound curls. fear was something well known to him now, something that rattles him to his very core — only, it never seemed to come out in that way. something inside him had bent long ago ; terror kindling to a bitter, ugly anger in the midst of his chest. to the outside, he was all fury. a mad, red - hot creature, spitting and hissing. unmanageable. he knew the burn of eyes from below, knew the suspicion, the judgement of those beyond his riverlands. he knew not what they thought, but he knew well enough the expression that crosses their features when he speaks. fear. it had many faces, and his had always been twisted into a snarl.

long, aching limbs are carrying him towards the edge of the beech copse. newleaf was in full swing now, sporadic weather layering the riverlands in a thick, smoldering humidity. he wants to rest — feels the pain in his pawpads with every step. beesong tended now to his mate, rested away within the temporary confines of their medicine den. the smell of herbs makes him sick, now. the last time he’d lain so close to him, surrounded by bitter, medicinal reek, it had been laden with infection. filthy windclan claws that had gouged an eye had also seeped a poison into the socket, had left his beloved gasping for life aside him. now, as the medic applies their poultices and remedies, he steps out, breathes the season into fragile lungs. it was all he could do — all he could bear. the dark warrior was a part of him, he swore. he could feel the string between them draw tight the further he ventures.. and so he does not.

quick pawsteps pull him from his self - pitying reverie, instinctually whipping his head around to zero pallid eyes in on the one approaching him. fear. it does not show on his face beyond the fractional widening of his gaze — a split second, alarm crossing the slope of his face before realizing.. oh. oh, “quietstream. “ he speaks softly, in greeting — and their mouth opens, tall ears swiveling instantly forward, inclining to a tilt atop his head — listening hard, just in case. their voice was soft, hoarse when it came, and his attention is rapt in seconds. words are a rarity, and he would silence the entire babble of camp if it meant he could catch ear of their words. a paw lifts to her throat, however, and the taut quirk of his audits relax minutely, understanding dawning clear upon the mottled mask of his features. not today, then.

a smile dances easily along his muzzle anyway, the gnarled left side pulling uncomfortably where frostbite had scabbed him, revealing the shard of his canine. his eyes are heavy lidded, a quiet sadness in the greeting he held just for them, “ hallo, “ it’s soft, eyes slipping closed as she rumbles a purr, soft fur brushing underneath his chin. a familiar scent — one he’d spent nights awake in pseudo-mourning over, pouring the remnants of his heart into his nest and the ear of his beloved. a worry. fear. he tucks his chin down, rubs his jaw against her head just so. “ im so glad you’re home. “ it’s raw — stark truth, heavy sigh riding his words. they’re home.

− ♱ 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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