The ghosts at the window echo ✘ cicadastar

[SMOKESTAR]

His mouth fills with blood and he lurches upright, staggering to the mouth of the empty den; retching forward and spilling crimson before his paws. The pool spills down the gnarled willow roots, floods the camp and rises in a sanguine tide; the wails of drowning cats fill his ears and he flattens them tight to his skull in response. From the depths a dark figure lifts, blood dripping from its shadowed head and spilling over eyes like ice water; he stares horrified as it steps in slow jerking movements up the root, clambers toward him with a grin too big and teeth too sharp. It lunges, snaps him between razor wire, tightens like a vice; he feels it splitting him apart in locked jaws.

Smokethroat wakes, lone orange eye snapping open and body stiffening though he does not jerk upward or move an inch otherwise.
The sound of birdsong filters in through the den, his ears twitch faintly in response but he does not yet lift his head. Being once more nestled back in the comfort of a familiar nest in the willow tree had almost immediately fixed his restlessness at night; although he still had moments of waking periodically all the same, some habits would never truly die but he could adjust.
The nightmares were not entirely uncommon, but this one had left an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that lingered; he felt he would not shake it so easily.
The warmth of his weariness fades briefly and his head finally raises up from the nook beneath a sharp jawline, his world fades from the patchwork of storm clouds and shadows into the light faintly filtering in through hanging willow leaves; the shadows they cast looking like many serpents dancing across the floor. Smokethroat rolls his shoulders, feels a stiffness settling in the small of his back but does not rise to stand fully like he normally would. Once they were awake, oriented, a moment or two of greeting and peace, they would both resume their duties without much hesitation and he knew he’d not get a moment of time otherwise unless he held the taller tom captive in some way, so his head settled back down on the long stretch of a white and gray patched neck.
The moment he became aware of waking movement he gave an almost impatient sigh, “I think we need to talk.”
​

 

[CICADASTAR]

exhaustion haunts him. a dark hound, head low and tongue lulling — he can almost feel it’s putrid breath against his throat when his lover moves, stirs against his resting flank just enough to rouse him from his restless doze. salt blue slits peel open, band of sunlight crossing the alabaster of his features from the arch of their willow tree . . but there was little time to drift in that timeless space between sleep and wakefulness. the tom sighs, a heave of a thing that has tall ears swiveling upwards at the tone of it. an unspoken question is answered only seconds later and suddenly he is far more awake. the air is crisp with dawn, mist hanging low in the clear wetland morning. we need to talk.

it would give anyone else pause. it nearly does, the mottled leaders pupils blowing just slightly, but his heart does not tick up. his breath does not hitch, despite the way it seems to lodge in his chest. snakelike, his head lifts where they had been curled together, peering down the arch of his aquiline muzzle — chilling curiosity, peering close and unmoving. it was familiar, a cold, expressionless move not oft fixated on his dark lead ; though he highly doubted it would rattle the tom, he cannot help the way icicle luminaries flit, prying about his face. after a steady beat, however, the mottled feline offers a simple, slow smile, " about? " gentle, the tom moves to rasp his barbed tongue carefully beneath smokethroat’s ear, tasting dried river water and earth that peppered his speckled pelt.

moonlit memories claw at him already, but the leader merely closes his eyes, keeps his body lax regardless of how he wishes to stand all too suddenly.

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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"
  

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

If he had much sense he might’ve thought the words were too pointed and sharp, that he should have added on a ‘it’s nothing bad’ in regards to the statement but he had and always would be rather blunt and forward without much consideration for softening his comments; not even Cicadastar was spared it, unfortunately.
There is a strange, predatory sharpness in the ice-colored eyes that hone in on him, but he simply disregards it as exhaustion and the edges of sleep still clinging fast; it always takes a moment to fully awaken, especially after such a restless sleep.
Smokethroat pauses momentarily, head lifted and tilted in an affectionate brush against the side of the black and white patchwork muzzle against his cheek and he considers his words with the same amount of care as he does his own life in a battle; next to none.
“What do you think…about kits?”
It's so callously asked, thrown out there with little hesitation or regard to explain; he tilts his head lazily and focuses instead on the tortie tom’s expression to gauge a flicker of reaction, wonderment; thinks about clarifying but decides not to. It is a topic that has been on his mind so immediately he just assumes others think on it as well, the nursery will empty soon; apprentices filling the clan once more like the earlier days where the smaller figures outnumbered their warrior counterparts by far. He thinks of the legacies built that continue onward through bloodlines, family ties stronger than any shimmering wire coil or nested claws could be. Something to remember, something to keep.
​

 

[CICADASTAR]

his slow, rasping groom stutters. there is no time to quell his expression — the dark tom knows him too well, turns his head to gauge the flicker of something that crosses sharp features and the leader lets him. wide, luminous eyes blink a rapid one - two bat, maw open and barbed tongue — for a rare, blessed moment — is remarkably still. for a beat, he nearly convinces himself he’d heard otherwise. what do you think of kits? the ‘ of what? ‘ hangs at his maw, but something keeps him from speaking it. he’d not misheard — the question is thrown haphazardly, something blunt and unrelenting, but cicadastar knows better. words tossed quick and almost bladed, but the fact that he’d spoken it into life.. it was no impulsive thought.

what do you think of kits? he asks, and the chimera thinks .. he thinks of dark fur, white - splashed and ember - eyed. of a pelt tufted with kinked, curling fur and the irritated crinkle of his beloved nose when he grooms them — wild coils sticking awkwardly to the barbs of his tongue. he thinks of a ceremony beneath a blazing sun, pride burning even brighter when he gazes down upon a litter of leggy, dark - pelted kittens. the tom thinks of mudpelt, cacophony of terror when he stumbled upon the mess of fernpaw’s face. the scream of his name, large paws plodding the blood - streaked ground and sparing the great beast of a threat whiskers away no more than a sideways glance.

he thinks of sootstar. he thinks of her daughter, marred about the face from him and his deputy alike. he thinks of her pinned beneath splaying razor claws, a danger she had walked into the moment her patrol had lead her aside their border. he thinks of weaselclaw’s increasing desperation, as rage - fueled as it was — terror and anger, twining to burst from his tongue in the form of frantic, barbed insults. he thinks of the pit of fear that surely swirled low in his belly, eyes wide. how would he tell his mate? if anything happened to her —

a capacity for love means a great capacity for loss. a pressure point, more lives to add to that soft spot ; memories of smokethroat’s name falling from vile, wicked windclan tongues, knowing and dangerous. threatening. weaselclaw will kill your mate, that tortie had muttered, mouth of blood and eyes fading at the edges. he’d leapt from her collapsing throat, let her gasp life back into pathetic windclan lungs — and where had it gotten him? family, he thinks — where would it get him? potentials and what - ifs fire like synapses in his brain, far-away gaze idly exploring the blunt slopes of his lovers face. would they have his blunt, straight muzzle? perhaps his rounded ears, and cicadastar’s high cheekbones, crinkling at the edges of icicle eyes.

" i think.. " he begins, slow — but his voice is soft, carrying on a wistful breath to betray him within moments. the tom casts his tender smile, lazy morning grin of a thing, before aiming a gentle bump of his head against smokethroat’s, ” you would run our queens out of the nursery, liebling. “ a careful admission — a yes to a question not spoken. there was no one else he would lie with, no reason to suspect the tom was not speaking for himself as well. what do you think of kits? and they would be his, dark - coated and strong - willed, ” or the kits, one. mein mudder could attest, these limbs leave little room. “ as if to punctuate, the male stretches his forelimb where is lie lazily over his shoulder, ivory paw hanging over the arch of his spine. despite the way he teases him, cicadastar blinks slow , tilting his head against the ground to better look up at him — eyes soft, pupils blown, ” could you handle that? “ quiet, like a joke despite the way his brow furrows, tilts up at the whiskers. long and stringy as their legs would be, his question strays beyond finding rest amidst their litter. is that what you want? truly?

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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"
  

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

He had the same fears, the same worries, there was a carefulness to his tone despite the question being so nonchalant. Do you want to bring in offspring into a world where the very sin of their blood was enough to make enemies; he had proven it was something to be vilified and scarred already on his own when he had snatched Sootstar’s daughter by her scruff at the bridge. He had made certain that if the idea had not been in Weaselclaw’s head to begin with that it was now, that every border patrol near WindClan, near that bridge, was now a chance for any kit of his to face the same danger that no doubt burned in the back of the moorland queen and her mate’s mind. Any kit born to them would be a target dependent on the clan stances and views going forward, any shift may offer them more enemies or more allies and it was truly left to fate how safe they would be. Even then, selfishly, it did not change anything to him. His answer does not come in the retaliation of a question as he expected, not immediately; it bursts forth in an acceptance, an agreement and the question that follows after all the poking and teasing at his expense and he snaps his teeth non threateningly in reply to the remarks.
Commentary on the fact they might have the spindly limbs of a spider--something he was not pleased with having in his thoughts now, aside...

‘Could you handle that?’ His eye widens and then narrows, pupil pinpricked and iris aflame; it was a challenge uttered and he found himself unintentionally clenching his jaw. There was no appeal to the bounds of carrying kits, lugging around heavy weight and reduced to a useless and soft thing; burdening the clan with his mere existence, contributing nothing. It was the most tortuous existence he could think of, a punishment if anything rather than a privilege or a gift as most queens might often consider having kits to be. He would despise every waking moment of, his claws would lose their sharpness, his form would lose its tone; his edge worn down over several moons. Smokethroat does not want it, the very idea of it is so unappealing he would rather throw himself onto the Thunderpath and lay himself before any incoming monster than reduce his existence to kit-maker.
But… but there is no denying the small part of him that fights its way through the layers of discontent to remind him that he did want kits. He wanted kits with Cicadastar, he wanted to grow old and watch them grow and know that when they left the world a tiny mark would linger behind, like the roots of a tree ever growing and expanding. There was no ignoring the strange surge of desire every time he heard a kitten squeal from the nursery, every time he watched them roll and tumble about the camp. It was just the process of getting to that point was something repulsive to him. Was it worth it? Now that he had the mottled tom’s approval he needed to convince himself once more.

His thoughts are shattered by the gentle push of a head lightly bumping into his and he tilts his down to meet it reflexively. The snort that escapes him is one of annoyance, a scoff of a sound, “I will not be moving to the nursery. I'm staying here.” He did not think he could tolerate being trapped in the vicinity of any other den than here and especially around screaming and mewling hellions who were not his own. His orange gaze narrowed a challenge, daring the king to dismiss him or insist otherwise. “My condition is that a queen takes over for them after the first moon…” He was not staying locked within the confines of the camp for longer than necessary. “...and that this is the only litter you’ll get.”
The dark tom’s expression tightened, he was to throw himself to the fires for this and he would not do it a second time no matter how many there would be. One? One and done. So he says.
Who was to say though, how one might feel upon actually getting to meet them; the future prince and princesses of RiverClan. He does not think he and Cicadastar’s coats will combine to make anything very vibrantly colorful, but there is beauty in simplicity; in night colored pelts dotted with stars, eyes ranging from sunlight filtering through trees to the cool rippling river itself.
​

 

[CICADASTAR]

teeth snap, clicking near the thin membrane of his ear and he grins, lifts a paw to push playfully at his muzzle with a slim paw. contact, any sort of contact — the dark warrior bonks him back and a purr erupts from his throat, a rounded mrrup! of pleasure solely reserved for his mate alone. i’ll be staying here, he says, and the leader couldn’t say he expected much less — the tom had made the willow den theirs before the word mate had left either of their tongues, " special treatment, hm..? i don’t know, " the mottled tom sighs, a dramatic tinge to sloping vocals ; the amused curve of dark lips audible about his tone, ” some may accuse me of favoritism. “ despite his playful words, the thought of keeping his young family secured to their willow den eases a strain in his chest. somewhere safe — somewhere away from prying eyes and paws, away from the older kits, rambunctious and tumbling around the close - set moss nests. then, the tom continues — a queen takes over them over the first moon.

an ear twitches and, for the first time, displeasure flickers over mottled features. a sort of confounded concern, furrowing his brow. ” so long as ravenpaw clears you for duty. “ there is an edge of worry, one that lifts him to a bony elbow to fix his mate with a solid, icy gaze. that would be quite soon, wouldn’t it? ” you’ll be of no more use in the medicine den as you would the nursery — wherever that may be. “ another thought, another glimpse of where they are now — smokethroat sprawled upon a side, him curled to his back and.. kittens. kittens. offspring to be respected, to be feared ; their young would be revered, known to the clans before they’d so much as opened their eyes. the tom’s hard stare flicks about his mate’s chiseled face, seriousness a harsh glint in pallid eyes. smokethroat was stubborn — bull - headed and driven by spite, determination. he’d watched him push himself too far, watched his face rip beneath filthy claws and pour russet to wooden plats below ; he’d seen it, and he would not see it again.

there is a beat in which he simply looks at him, silent. eyes flick about his expression, searching, tail tip flicking idly out behind him — until he sighs, a gust of breath offered towards the ringed ceiling, ” i will not lose you, understand me. “ don’t do anything stupid, in nicer terms. these kits — he would love these kits. kits, or kitten. a culmination of him and his beloved, raised into river royalty. to be born strong, pure.. but his love lie in white - speckled fur and a rasping voice, sturdy muscle and fire - licked eyes. to keep him safe, alive. he would not lose him, his claws had already sunk into him, left gouges where they threatened to slip. bearing kits was dangerous, even more so when one worked themself too hard — willowroot’s litter flies before his minds eye, and the thought of such a fate unnerves his stomach. a single litter is not so bad a fate, he resolves ; the thought of being a parent had yet to truly set in, the gravity. one would be plenty, should they be so lucky.

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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"
  

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

His mouth opens, attempting to bite the paw pushing into his muzzle without any ferocity; a mere clamping of the teeth tight enough to elicit a feeling of discomfort perhaps but not enough to pierce. Smokethroat was not accustomed to play of any kind, not before RiverClan and certainly not often but he would let himself lapse into foolishness with a trusted few; allow himself a brief moment to wonder what life might have been like born in the riverside clan and not left to fight for his survival from day one. “As if you do not already play favorites.” He says, tone light but mockingly accusatory; there was no denying that Cicadastar did show favor to some cats, that he was fortunate enough to be at the top of the list was still a surprise sometimes. He recalls their rocky start, their awkward dance, closing in without a word and when words were finally spoken it was like seeing the world again for the first time; fresh and new, untainted. If he could recapture that feeling again he would, he wonders if gazing upon their offspring might instill a similar sensation. Wonderment and awe were fleeting, nonsensical, but he wished to claim it all the same.

The worry that creases the angled head pressing to his has him stiffen for a moment; unsure.
He remembers Willowroot and Boneripple both, foolishly and stupidly plodding around with kits still in the nursery or working even before then while heavy with them despite protests and demands to rest; one of them had paid for it in kitten blood. He doesn’t want to think the thought that it was expected because it had been a horrible moment, but stubborn queens had been a nerve of his pricked from the clans' very beginnings. How well-behaved and perfect Icesparkle had been, content to rest in reeds and bide her time. The idea of being stationary for so long prickles his fur and nerves in unease but he isn’t a fool; he knows better. Like how he often knew better than most their warriors to wait and let wounds sit before running off to ruin themselves further.
“...I’m careful.” A lie, he was far from careful, but that was his state of being uninjured and with only his own fool life on the line, “...I’ll be careful with them.” And in turn he supposed he would be careful with himself, a necessity to ensure safe and healthy kits.
“You will find it hard to lose me now.” His head tilts up, pushes under a long muzzle and clips beneath a white dappled chin in a gesture that would rattle teeth if unprepared for; his affections sharp and sudden like a battle in its own right. If bringing kits into the world killed him then at the very least he was assured they would be kits well worth his blood and legacy; to defeat him so easily. But he would not share the amused thought with Cicadastar, the very idea of it might shake him with worry given how bothered he already was with the knowledge Smokethroat was not interested in being restricted for too long. 'Maybe I'll give it a few moons...after all, in three they'll be apprentices anyways...'
​

 

[CICADASTAR]

the accusation earns him a grin ; sharp - toothed and soft all the same, ice shard eyes squinting affection. pressure aches at his pad, and claws extend from slim, fragile - toed paws where smokethroat gnaws light at him. so encaged is he already — enraptured in vortex swirling flame around a single slitted pupil. despite everything he feels at his mercy, burned alive from the marrow, ensnared now in the bars of his teeth where bones are most fragile.. but his arching claws are not. tinged weapons, soaked ruddish from the tender insides. his love had always been shatter pointed, broken teeth and claw — something protruding from an open wound, excruciating both to be lodged and to be separated. pain bound, red string of fate blood - dyed.

smokethroat did not love gently, but the phantom could not be loved gently. he was all flint and edges, and his mate is just as bladed. his words drip something sarcastic, something loving in his way, and it receives a trill in response — sugar - coated, he was. soft words and purring amusement, his gentleness rests heavy on the tongue. smokethroat’s does not. as if you do not already play favorites, ” oh? i’ll try to be more subtle, mein liebling. " he responds breezily, silver - tongued and wicked - grinned. wolfish now, the curve of his maw : houndlike in his confidence, in the lazy stretch of spidery, mottled limbs. it was a blatant play, however ; subtly had never been a strong suit, and he doubted it would ever flourish within him. many a full - mooned night could attest. his favoritism was earned. his words, his strength, his support — it was earned. what other option was there, truly?

the moment passes, a concern taking place the respite of their nest. willowroot, boneripple. he thinks of litters lost before, queens too stubborn to lie down until birth and then.. then.. his throat clicks on a swallow, an ear swiveling and — im careful. pale eyes instantly snap upward to give him a look, a single whiskered brow quivering. despite the skeptical expression that crosses his bicolored features, the tom gives pause. smokethroat continues, despite the trailing pause in growling vocals, i’ll be careful with them.

” any litter of ours will be revered beyond words, know this. but i love you — “ imploring, ridden on an alert, meaningful half purr — and it’s almost shattering, the way his skull bonks into the underside of his jaw ; and the gentle waves of pain rocketing from throbbing temples is laden with love. a forceful affection, and he tilts into it just as roughly, silk - touch curls no longer concealing the sharp, fragmented self he saves for their willow nest. how would it feel, to choose between one’s mate and kits? here was always a chance, and the thought creeps up the back of his arching neck. litter loss. death. red runs beneath his dark vision and he only presses harder against his mate, tucks him close against a swan - like neck, ” and i trust you will make the right decision when — when the time arrives. “ its a quiet persuasion, a worry — there was no harm, he thinks, surely. it bites at him, but those words still ring in membraney ears. a legacy, but what was a legacy to raise alone? could he gaze upon dark and white - mottled fur, sunset gazes, should something go awry?

but ill be careful with them, he’d said. them. them, a litter. and when? the thought feels electrifying, it feels as though hornets batter at his stomach. it feels as though butterflies and wide - winged moth threaten to burst from his chest, to flood the capillaries through his limbs. he felt like a apprentice with a training grounds crush, kicking ivory paws through the dirt. how would they change, he wondered? the insects in his stomach riot, wings beating. giddy - sick, he blinks slow, ” i.. like flutterkit. “ a breath, almost timid. something unnatural upon dark, sloping tones.

but just then, movement sounds outside the willow, a mumble hum of slurring voices and waking yawns. the clan stirs, and he knows he must as well. a sudden thought, cinnamon - striped, sparks his mind and he swallows, casts a glance towards the split den maw, ” we should rise before they come to find us, ja? else cindershade will drag us both by the ear. “

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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"
  

​