private SUNDAY MORNING ⠀ ╱ ⠀ SMOKETHROAT.

[CICADASTAR]

tragedy has kept him awake. sunrise after blistering sunrise lain writhing in his nest, never quite comfortable enough for lids to drift to a peaceful close. pallid luminaries have long since dried out, angry and red around the edges of rarely seen vein - laced ivory. tragedy has kept him on edge, every hair standing on end each time dark, familiar fur tacks himself to patrols — wounds still bleeding behind his minds eye, gashes still too - pink, too - raw. today, however, his paws ache from the crunch of untrodden paths. from the bite of sticks and twine he traversed to follow the tom in silence. bad habit, like unsheathed claws he has to pick clean at the end of each day. like the tick - tick - tick of nervous tapping, far - away eyes. today, he asks him to join him — a walk along the patches of blossoming flora, towards the arching bridge. to patrol, to hunt.. something to vie his attention from the everyday of camp.

so here they were. slim limbs bring him ever silent through the undergrowth, river flower and moss painting the edges of their walking trail in the blinding color of newleaf. birdsong was alight with the season, nestling admit themselves in the tangle of willow overhead, ever unaware of the losses they’d suffered below. for now, it was the time of giving — time of tiny paws and full bellies, warm stones to bask in the windswept sun. buckgait was due any day, round and heavy with the promise of new life. another generation of warriors, born with muscles already thick and sleek with riverclan blood. if she’d not been such an abysmal excuse for a clan cat, perhaps he would have been happy for her — but he was certainly happy for lightingstone, regardless of how little he could see the brooding blue tom as a father. gruff and ever loyal, he would raise them into warriors to be proud of.. neither parent would so much as think to coddle them in this harsh forest. they were both battle - worn, toughened by time. the river phantom would give them mentors to harness that bud of riverclan passion they would surely be born with, mentors that would not let up.

pale eyes flit down towards his mate, watch him from the corner of heavy - lidded eyes.

newleaf was a time for giving, and cicadastar had always been selfish. he was sure wasprattle could attest, despite the haziness that layers over his memory. he’d a reputation for taking more than he supposedly needed.. perhaps it was the exhaustion, the mere aspect of longing for a life he could not have, but the thought peeks from the corners of his mind like a mouse, timid and quick. what would it be like? the thought alone is reason enough for him to look away, clicks his throat against the budding edge of fear - embarrassment. the tom aims to stand close in lieu of explaining his silent recoil, aims to let the coils of his coat brush the short ends of his mate’s as they walk ; he was all stout muscle and war - torn skin, built on battles even cicadastar had yet to uncover. was there a place in his — in their lives — for children, so little and delicate and easy to break?

life was difficult. life was volatile and dangerous, each turn laden with claws and gnashing fang. he thinks of the calico, the way she spat at him from below. she’s spoken it, the name he’d given to him — the name carved into his chest, left him gaping and raw, exposed nerve endings trapped beneath dirt - caked claws. weaselclaw is going to kill your mate, she’d said, and it was like wildfire. despite the cool tendrils of dread that seep like river stones to his paws, the heat was like nothing he’d felt before. desperation. like flame licking up his limbs, windclan scum forgotten beneath skittering paws. she had been pinned, helpless beneath him, throat open to latch his teeth into and pull and yet — yet — the moor dog had gouged him. in his fourty odd moons, he’d never felt such a biting horror. he’d felt as though he were sinking above ground, watching that damned tabby hobble towards his fallen warrior, lead, friend, mate, his sky of stars, wounds tinging the darkness red. the ruddy warmth of an oncoming storm.

that damned brown tabby had nearly taken everything from him three times he could count. when his paws were burning and new with the grace of starclan, before windclan took that hallowed ground and contorted it to their will. when his coat still smelled of horseplace dirt and twoleg crowfood, ever eager to please the tiny smoke that had claimed the hills. always writhing at her paws, never to raise a claw at her despite her indiscretions — smokethroat would have his head in weaselclaw’s place, would have hung it from the arching branches of their willow trees as a testament. the thought only makes his chest burn hotter, love sinking its claws into him further with each irritable flick of his tail. weaselclaw could not do the same. no, that rat could never, would never lift his tongue from soot’s blood - coated paws enough to stand upon his own.

but he'd nearly taken him again.

" was it obvious, liebling? " his head tucks low, leans against the warriors own — personal space did not exist in this world, along this weaving trail of bloom and bumblebee. the river babbles gently, quick glimpses of scale dotting the surface in rippling iridescence. despite his soft voice, low, rumbling honk of a meow, the question plagued his mind. how did she know? how did she know? ” how i adored you? before? “ were they watching me? was this my fault? the babbling grows closer, and he purrs, lets it rumble low in his throat, lets his eyes slip closed over a thousand yard stare. he thinks of snakeblink, thinks of words muttered quiet in the depths beesong’s den — if they could get their paws on one of sootstar’s own brood. would they know? he thinks of a future with dark - coated kittens, long limbs and jutting curled coats. he thinks of white - speckled fur, showered in stardust. eyes like fire and ice. they would know.

but cicadastar was selfish. bitter mutterings at a gathering to too - manic whispers into the moss of his nest, it was no secret. how doomed would they be? pallid eyes flit down, never lingering too long upon the marred broadness of his chest. could he handle more lives in his paws? lives born as targets — ” how are you feeling, by the way? i do hope beesong cleared you before iciclepaw kicked your tail, hm? “

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i. @Smokethroat
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

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[SMOKESTAR]

He tried not to think of things like his own morality, but it was difficult when it was constantly pushed into his face. The scar on his belly pinched at times when he moved, sometimes he lowered a paw to it expecting to feel the damp coating of blood still and occasionally a sharp pain would remind him of its presence but it was the new scar on his chest that did not hurt that caused him the most grief. The deliberate mark, the showcase of WindClan’s brutality; careful grooming had covered it for the most part but HE knew it was there and that was all that had mattered. Hare chaser, he would flay that tabby alive the next time they crossed paths, StarClan as his witness those moors would burn.
A smooth brush to his side had his head lifted to the carefully rolled remarks, almost purred out with a slight strain as though forced.
Was it obvious? How I adored you before?
Smokethroat pauses, breath catching and uncertain to the questions true meaning. Was it obvious? It couldn’t have been if even he didn’t see it until they’d spoken directly, until they had actually said the words with no for them to be warped or misunderstood. He was a blunt tom, always, even in his thoughts and oftentimes things such as subtleties went right over his head but it was true wasn’t it? Cats knew before he did. Maybe he was just ignorant.
"Perhaps to everyone but me, but I'm glad I can see it well enough now."
He leans to the side, black and white and spotted gray a seamless blur and his he'd tilts into a careful nudge to the side of the long-muzzled tom's face in a subdued nuzzle of affection; Smokethroat was not a very actively intimate partner, still adjusting to the very idea of it all but more than willing to make an effort all the same. Eventually, he hoped, the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach would fade and he could be more open about his own adoration.

A smile danced across his maw, eye narrowing in amusement to the gentle chiding.
“Of course, he did. I’ve been on my best behavior for him, I promise. He has enough on his paws with-” The dark tom faltered, not wanting to say it, not wanting to breathe it into the world and so he caught his words and swallowed them back. With so many cats having been injured, with Buckgait just having had kits, the vigil, Sablepaw nearly drowning…it was a heavy burden, being their Medicine Cat. He often wondered if Beesong was capable of bearing the weight or if he would soon be crushed beneath it. Smokethroat’s head shook, black and white-speckled pelt shaking out alongside it in one rippling motion to dismiss the thoughts, to keep them at bay.
He didn’t want to dwell on their hardships right now, he wanted a moment to themselves. Selfishly even.
“...and how are you? You seem distracted lately.” Or maybe this was a poor topic as well, maybe he was opening the door for more grief, it was hard to tell. The inkspill of a cat tilted his head to the side thoughtfully, maybe a more lighthearted topic.
The nursery had been empty for some time, and now it once again bore life as a pleasant reminder that RiverClan would thrive despite the hardships brought upon them. They have survived much these past moons, attacks from both cat and creature of the wood; losses heavy and a weariness settled over the clan as a whole but birth was a new beginning. A statement that they lived, that they’d keep living. A declaration of their tenacity.
“Lightningstone told me the kits will be here any day. He seemed nervous. I wonder…about what exactly?” Buckgait was healthy, it shouldn’t be a difficult birth. If anything her company was probably the most unbearable part about the whole affair. Was it about being a parent? He couldn’t begin to grasp what that entailed, what it meant. Having an apprentice was a completely different experience and it was the closest he could come to understanding what it meant to oversee a small life.
Part of him wondered what it’d be like, whether he liked to accept it or not being a parent for him meant having to carry kits and the thought on its own was unwelcome but the idea of it wasn’t immediately rejected outright in his thoughts.
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