#i think if bramble was written this way intentionally from the start then i would have no issue with him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onlyhereforpdfs · 7 months

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everytime i open tumblr, the world rolls a d20 and if it succeeds im forced to see someone trying to argue that bramblestar isnt abusive or that squirrelflight is the one that perpetuates the abuse, actually

i like bramblestar/claw. but i can also recognize that while he isnt a villain, he sure as hell does bad things. the main issue i have with him is that his actions have been written so consistently that it has become a facet of his characterization. theres no longer the excuse of: "here goes erin hunter with another inconsistency!" once is a mistake, continuing on from 2005 to the release of thunder is... not a good look. it started in the new prophecy when he was angry at her for being annoying and continued through hawkfrost, the secret, omen of the stars, squirrelflight's hope and as recently as thunder. (i dont remember what happened in avos)

the main issue for both squirrelflight enjoyers and bramblestar fans is squirrelflight's hope. im not going to sugarcoat it, bramblestar is straight up manipulative, controlling and dismissive in this book. when i finished reading it for the first time, it caused me (and probably others in the fandom) to look at their relationship in previous books from a new perspective. yeah, she'll play a role in their conflict but does that mean she deserves the shit she goes through? no.

one other point i dont like about bramblestar is that the writing surrounding him never calls him out for what he does, in-universe and in the writing. it always finds a way to skirt around him and never places him at fault. at the end of squirrelflight's hope when he apologizes to her in the medicine den, he says:

" WE should never have let things get so bad." shifting some of the blame onto squirrelflight as if she played an equal role in the events of the book. yes, they held different positions on the sisters that drove them into opposition but this comes after he uses his superiority in an attempt to silence her and take away her independence.

i get it, i like him too, but you can like him without feeling the need to justify him to yourself, or try to downplay his actions by saying "he wasnt THAT bad". but as soon as you try to say these things, you begin to contribute to the issues that surround bramblestar.

#warrior cats #brambleclaw #bramblestar #squirrelflight #theres also the fact that kate cary herself said squirrelflight is her least favorite character #and shes also the one who wrote squirrel's hope.... hmmmm #i think if bramble was written this way intentionally from the start then i would have no issue with him #aside from him being a horrible person #but we cant have that because we need artificial conflict for our books #i just hate seeing people performing mental gymnastics to somehow make squirrelflight the abuser

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bibliocratic · 4 years

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Only a little late!

Written for the prompts: AU and Touch for AspecMartinWeek

Ace Jon / Ace Martin, AU – Daemons, post 159.

They are lying dozy and lazing on the settee when Jon clears his throat and apologises.

Martin's thoughts have been like the unheeded tumbling of water through a brook. He hasn't spoken, he's sure, for a long while, not confident that he's fully awake. Jon's tucked neatly against Martin's graceless outstretch of limbs, mumbling whatever comes to mind against his throat. His breath is hot, mildly damp, condensing Martin's skin like he's fogging up a window.

There is the curiously new, near-dazed feeling that Martin is basking in like the shallow waters of some island beach. Every tension unhooked from him like an unburdened yoke, of having said everything that he has always wanted to say. Digging out the gristle of small deceits from his stumbling mouth was a stop-judder-start of a conversation, and it's been a painful, physical release to bring them up. Martin's held his hands over his mouth and the words have spilled out anyway, scraping his throat on the way up, and Jon had rubbed his back and listened as every emotion he forced down came back in nauseous waves.

It's been exhausting, feeling so much all at once. Martin's snapped and snarled and sobbed and slept a lot. And now he has the blessed relief to lie, feeling like he's dug up all the weeds of his fears, the soil of him loosened enough to allow something better to bloom.

Jon knows Martin loves him. Vast-welled, bone-down-deep. Jon knows that love will never be physical, and had still cradled him and declared him beloved, confessed that it was a form of expression he'd never sought either. Jon reframed question after question so they barely resembled enquiries at all, and Martin laid down all the cards of himself with a trustfulness he is having to practise again.

“Hm?” Martin questions sluggish. He opens a squinting, disgruntled eye, discomforted by the radiance of the room, and sees Jon gnawing on his bottom lip. He is managing to give off the impression of both staring intensely at Martin and attempting to avoid his gaze entirely.

“I'm sorry,” Jon repeats. His words are steady enough, but Emer is fluttering hither-and-thither over his head like an anxious coronet. Landing on his shoulder, antennae bobbing, crawling flustered over to his other shoulder before returning airborne in an overactive bluster of motion.

Martin has always liked watching Emer. The flash of gossamer-white wings circling Jon's head or sat on his wrist like an overly-extravagant watch while he read statements.

“Stop looking,” he used to hiss at the moving lump under his shirt, poking many orb-like eyes over his collar to stare even when Martin stopped. “It's rude.”

“What're you sorry for?” Martin asks. The question comes out squashed, half-sighed. His arm encircling Jon's shoulder, he strokes the skin of his upper arm in a light reassurance.

Jon's forehead is establishing trenches as he deepens the lines on his brow. Emer lands and whispers harsh, insistent words into his ear, but he shakes his head like shedding water, and she goes back to hovering.

“I should have asked,” Jon says finally. “I'd never.... you were always so private about him, so I mean, at first I wasn't sure he was even yours, but then – when you, when you went with Peter, and I – he was so small, and I thought he was h-half-dead and Emer wouldn't leave him. S-so I picked him up and I carried him. And I'm sorry.”

It takes a few moments for Jon's garbling to reach understanding.

“I'd kind of assumed you must have,” Martin replies slowly. “I'm the – I'm the one who left him behind.”

At the hollow of Martin's throat, he can feel the crouched and scratchy weight, still unfamiliar to him. He brings up his hand, uses a finger to stroke the short, bristling fur down his rounded abdomen. He stops, leaving his hand nearby, close but undemanding. A second later, delayed, two probing legs tap affectionately and tiredly onto the back of Martin's hand, before withdrawing again.

He was never so steady before. He used to crawl, scramble, quiver and jump, always in motion under the cover of Martin's shirts, the camouflage of his bramble-coiled hair. If he got excited, he'd jump from Martin's shoulder to ear to get his attention, chatter and chirp animatedly. Most of Martin's life, he's rarely strayed a foot from his side.

Martin doesn't feel him now. Not like it was before. There's no solid anchoring when he concentrates. Like a weak signal, a light seen through fog, a previously taut string scraped threadbare.

Peter had suggested a knife. Had even held one out to Martin with a chummy, encouraging smile. Telling him how clean it could be to slice through.

“It won't even kill you,” he had said. “Best part of it.”

“It'll hurt though,” Martin had replied dully, jaw set, as the spider quivered against his throat.

“Oh, certainly,” Peter had replied, admiring the sheen of the blade. “But you've already given away so much, Martin, what's a little more in the grand scheme of things, hm?”

Martin had refused, and Peter had sighed, pocketing the knife again, responded:

“Pity. You'll have to leave him anyway. It would be so much easier to make the separation quicker for the both of you.”

Aron hadn't said anything when Martin scooped him off his neck, setting him down on top of the tape recorder. He'd stared, resigned but with still enough expectation in him to feel betrayed.

It hadn't made the rending, punch-breathed stretching of their distance hurt less.

It had stopped hurting after a while, like everything else had.

Jon must have carried him all the way into the Lonely and out, Martin thinks, stroking Aron again. Maybe longer. The days, they've not been as clear as Martin would like. It's been as treading through murky water a lot of the time. He's not even sure when he woke up blearily, cosseted by the tight bundle of blankets Jon had barricaded him with, and felt Aron nestled in his hair like the old days.

“You couldn't have asked anyway,” Martin continues. “It's not like, well, not like I was around to say it was ok, was I?”

Jon makes a grunt of agreement, but it's one of those distracted sounds he makes when he's taken something in but not really listened.

“When you got out though,” he says, seeming, if anything, even more shame-faced. “When we got here, you didn't – you didn't even ask about him. He'd be at the other side of the house and you didn't blink at how far that was, he-he'd climb onto you and try and get your attention and you wouldn't flinch. I don't think you even knew he was there. And then Emer talked to him, wouldn't move from his side, and then – it-it was the second night, guess you don't remember but you were – you were struggling to come back to yourself. And he – he crawled onto me, and I didn't – I didn't push him away.”

“I'm not mad at you, Jon,” Martin says. “'s like you said. I wasn't – I wasn't in the right place. You kept him safe, how could I be mad?”

Jon nods stiffly. Looks at Aron. Martin likes the way Jon looks at him, carefully, like something might have changed while he wasn't looking.

“I just... thought I should apologise,” he says, more lamely than before. “It's not right, to go around touching other people's.... Anyway. I won't – won't do it again.”

Aron's chelicerae twitch against Martin's adam's apple.

“What's your thoughts on all this then?” Martin says, directing it lowly at Aron.

He's not expecting a response. Their conversations have been stilted, working through the gap Martin ripped between them. Those last few months, they'd mostly fought. Peter Lukas' arrival had found Aron sullen and petty, argumentative and frightened, and Martin had ignored him or snapped back in kind. Aron had stopped speaking to him long before Lukas dragged him into the Lonely, and it's a slow cautious revival, to find out how to talk to each other again.

Aron unfolds his legs carefully, creeps unobtrusively up to the side of Martin's face to lurk near his ear. Even as a bigger example of his species, he's still about the length of Martin's thumb. He flexes the stubby pedipalps under his eyes like he's kneading something.

“He's the best decision you've made in a long time,” he says resolutely to Martin. “He loved me even when you thought you couldn't.”

Martin's mouth is raw from saying sorry but he murmurs it again. Aron's front legs tap him like a reassurance.

“Would you like to?” Martin turns to Jon, who is militantly trying not to listen to their conversation. Emer is circling the ceiling as though to further compound the gesture of privacy. “Touch him, mean – intentionally this time?”

When Martin was younger and working everything out, he'd diligently done his research on the ways he thought he was failing. He'd watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Romantic stuff, filled with swelling, stirring scores, or purple-prose dramatic declarations of passion. It's quite a common trope in a lot of these; the couples confessing their tormented adoration, their daemons touching, tail in tail or rough-housing in play. Then one half of the couple will reach out, suddenly tender, tangle their fingers in the fur of the other's daemon or scrape along their scales. The other will gasp like they've been shocked, their body rocking with the aftermath of it, before they follow with shaking hands. Martin would replay those moments of intimate connection, fantasising about how someone might hold his own bristled and secretive soul.

It inevitably leads to sex. And Martin would switch it off, then, feeling nonplussed and uncomfortable and wondering if that part was necessary.

It doesn't matter to Martin if Jon doesn't want to, if he never touches Aron again. Jon's already carried his soul so many miles.

It's important to him that Jon knows he can. That Martin wants him to, that Martin trusts him with Aron more than he trusts himself.

Jon's face goes a dark spasm of oxblood red.

“It's – I mean – I'd – course I'd – that's a lot though, are you sure – ?”

Emer chooses that moment to make some quick fed-up comment to Jon before decisively fluttering down and landing on Martin's nose.

Jon gives a squeaking, mildly scandalised gasp. So does Martin, more at the shock.

It doesn't feel like how he expected it might.

There's no rush, no swelling violins or heightened poetry.

“Hey,” he whispers to the white-winged moth. Emer preens, giving a show-off little flap before closing her wings against her back.

“She's beautiful,” he says to Jon sincerely.

Jon's holding his breath like he's trying not to disturb the moment.

“How – how do you feel?” He asks tentatively, his words slightly strangled.

“Warm,” Martin says. There's a steady coil of heat in his chest that matches the warmth of their close-knit afternoon. He feels beheld in the surest of light, cherished and reverential, the same feeling he gets whenever Jon says he loves him.

“Like you expected?”

Martin told Jon about the films he'd watched, the books he'd read, the expressions and sensations he'd thought would make him happier. Jon had listened in the blanketing dark of the evening, and admitted the same in kind.

“I mean, I still don't feel much of an urge to suddenly rip your clothes off, if that's what you're asking.”

Jon's lips hook up in a smile, releasing some of his nervous tension.

“How disappointing,” he intones, and Martin, going a little cross-eyed staring at the speckling spots of black over the fuzz coating Emer's body, laughs.

He reaches up, his hands gone a little shivery, glances over at Jon.

“Can I...?” he asks.

Jon gives a jerking motion, looking like a rather demented nodding dog in his poorly disguised eagerness.

“Er – y-eah – that would be – I-I'd like that.”

Martin strokes a blunt nail from her thorax down.

“Oh,” Jon says, sounding more than a little awestruck. If possible, he sinks even more limbless against Martin. “That's.... that's lovely.”

Martin strokes Emer for a while, rhythmically rubbing the fur with a precise concentrated effort. Jon hums, looking dazed and pleased.

He wonders if it'll feel the same with Jon touching Aron. If Martin will be able to tell, if the sensation will be muted or altered in some way.

Aron, impatient and with apparently less decorum about the whole thing, gives a restless huff and decides to find out himself by jumping onto Jon.

Jon, jolted from his near-soporific state, rather valiantly does not shriek or flail the way he might if an actual spider flung itself onto him. He jerks but makes a serious effort to hold himself ramrod still.

“Stop it,” Martin warns.

“You are absolutely no fun,” Aron answers back playfully as he skitters down to where Jon's hands are. Jon if anything holds himself even more still.

Aron reaches his wrist and taps the skin there, waiting. Slowly, Jon cups his hands together, and Aron clambers delicately onto his palms. Jon's face is making another one of those wowed expressions. Martin feels another pulse of that settling warmth, not as dulled as before, strengthening as Jon rubs a self-conscious finger down Aron's abdomen.

Martin feels Emer flutter up and settle against his hair as he hums and closes his eyes, his soul held in the safest hands he knows.

#AspecMartinWeek #tma #the magnus archives #daemons au #Martin's daemon is a jumping spider #Jon's daemon is a white ermine moth #martin blackwood #ace!martin #jonmartin #I have a lot of headcanons about Martin's daemon and they need to go SOMEWHERE

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