indie & selective role-play blog for an original universe ERIC "BLADE" BROOKS from MARVEL COMICS. canon-divergent with influences from the original trilogy and comics. content ahead is mature. triggers will be tagged accordingly.
disclaimer: it's important to keep in mind that deadpool v. wolverine isn't part of my canon, and while he has rich connections to plenty of marvel's roster, i recommend you plot with me, because i generally have in mind i'm building my own connections with your portrayal, with little to no inspiration from what has already been written in comics. just check in with me.
dark materials ahead that explore the following: family death, extreme violence, cannibalism, sensitive criminal cases, body horror, identity issues, religion, transhumanism, substance use (drug / alcohol.), identity + psychological issues (e.g., trauma, profiling, etc.), exploitation, and violation of bodily autonomy (e.g., medical abuse, human trafficking, etc.), corrupt governments (e.g., hypermilitarized police states, political assassination, genocide, etc.), and real-world history.
graphics made by @vendettapsds
affiliated with @bladebred (brielle).
updated rules as of 3/10/2025 below
creative choices: in the last couple of years, I've peeped people jackin' my hcs, writing, face claim (very specific choices i might add, because i like being in my own lane and i don't care to look like everyone else). it's high-key corny, especially when some of the same mutuals sit on my blog. this happened one too many times, but all i can say is ya'll need to develop your individuality and stop the nonsense.
mutality "contract": if we're mutuals, great! do not attempt to force me to write with one of your muses, oc or canon, if you're a multi-muse blog. if i choose to interact with a particular muse(s) you have, it is not because your other muses are necessarily uninteresting; it just means you have a muse that holds my attention and i want to direct my energy with.
drama: i just want to point this one thing out: it is very obvious when people send themselves anon hate. tactics like that, just to garner attention? just rile people up and set off a domino effect and now everyone in the fandom is responding to vitriol that you send yourself? i despise it. i do have "ooc" tag filtered, but to know that you're setting yourself and people up when they should be enjoying the hobby aggravates me, and I'll unfollow you. if it is organic anon hate.. well, i can't tell you how to run your blog, but my suggestion is to delete it and move on?
black muses: in the past, i've been biased against non-black writers writing black muses, because of the lack of respect that gets shown toward their characterization, and it was an old rule of mine, that i will not follow a sole black muse blog [if it's multi, then i would prefer to interact with the non-black muses.], if the writers weren't black themselves. i still have those biases, but i will take my chances on people if the portrayals seems promising. it's a case-by-case basis, i'm not interested in delving in any further than that.
update 3/10: real talk, there's two things specific things that's been irritating to me. 1) ya'll need to look into what colorism is. 2) the fetishization of black muses be killing me. i'm tired of weird ass portrayals on here. all shade, because the community is very small, so there's no need to really ask me who. ya'll know who. get it together.
my general rule of thumb: you are the master curators of your own safe space. do what thou wilt. if the aforementioned themes aren’t to your liking, I am not the writer for you. if you cannot stand the thought of being unable to tone police a thirty-year-old man, i will never be the ideal writing partner for you. if low-activity blogs do not suit your preferences, please feel free to block me.
i have no personal issues with anyone, so do not inquire about me to a mutual or personally contact me regarding what you may perceive as '"beef". the only beef i have is with people who perpetuate what i already established above.
many of us say this until we're blue in the face, but yes, all i care about is writing and creating connections with great writers.
ooc interactions: discord is available, but i am a slow responder at times. i'm hesitant on this as of recently because people show weird energy, but we'll see.
@beignetmade said " i just need to go about this a different way, work a little harder. " cont'd.
blade gave a slow, approving tilt of his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he looked her over.
“ at least you’re not gonna cry about it, ” he said, voice low and rough like gravel under boots. “ good girl. ”
he’d rather not spend the night listening to her chew on her failures, popping her gums and second-guessing every step like most people did when things got hard. self-deprecation and defeatist attitudes bored him to death, and blade never made it a habit to entertain boring. the fact that she was already talking about hitting it from a different angle told him she had spine. he liked that. made her worth the breath it took to speak to her.
"Can't say that I have, no." Try as he might to compare notes, nothing that could be fetched from memory came close to being similar to the dreadful torment that the daywalker had just described. Thus, enduring the look that his ignorance had earned, he jumped to the next logical question to ask.
"All taken care of now?" Loosen ends caused problems in his experience, and whilst he presumed the other to be a competent slayer, it never hurt to check. "If not, I'd be willing to help you settle matters."
“ yeah. the thing is ash in a storm drain two blocks over. took its time screaming on the way out. wasn't much of a singer, i tell you that. ” he rolled his shoulder once, the leather coat shifting, the silver coin pressing cold against his ribs.
“ appreciate the offer, spider. But this ain’t your web. loose ends like that one don’t get tied neat—they get burned. and I don’t need backup for the burnin’.”
blade’s head canted a fraction, calculating. “ you got your own parasites to worry about. keep your fangs out my hunt. we clear? ”
he didn’t wait for an answer. just turned, his boots crunching over broken pew wood, already moving like the conversation had expired the second it stopped being useful.
"Anyone ever tell you you've got the grace of an elephant with rabies?" Kwannon grimaced at the new pain radiating up her tailbone; getting her out of danger was one thing. Chucking her limp body into a corner once the gunfire started was something else.
"The bad guys don't need the help trying to off me..." She grunted as bloodied fingers curled around the kunai embedded in her upper leg and pulled it out of the meat. No excessive bleeding. Good. They'd missed her artery.
blade moved through the foul guts of the alley, his boots silent, save for the few puddles he stepped across. even with the dead weight he carried. kwannon’s body was slung across his chest, as if she didn’t weigh anything at all, leather coat creaking, one arm locked across her knees, the other across her back.
the bitter taste of miswak and his special formula filled his cheek and gums, holding hunger at bay while the scent of kwannon’s blood filled the air, copper and crushed orchids. It was she who spoke, voice tight with pain and that razor edge to her attitude that he found he kind of respected.
blade’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile, but close, a creature scenting blood traversing the wind.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ you a little too messed up right now to be talking shit, ain't you? ” his voice was low, gravel and dry smoke, the kind that came from too many nights chewing on worse things than insults.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ don't forget i can drop you here. ❞ he didn’t slow down, didn’t change his hold. just kept cutting through the dark like the alley owed him money, crimson lenses catching the faint glow of distant streetlights. her blood was already drying on his glove, warm and sticky against the leather.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ you were twitchin’ like road kill back there. figured the corner was safer than catchin’ a stray round between those pretty eyes. ” he looked down at her for just long enough for her to see amusement, and the boredom with the complaint.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ but next time I’ll practice the good samaritan laws by the letter and ask permission before I save your ass. ” his thumb pressed once against her side, not gentle, just checking the wound without making a show of it. the night swallowed them both, and blade never lost a trail—even when the trail was mouthy and bleeding all over his new trench coat.
the fog clung thick to the entity’s forgotten chapel like wet rot on old bones, stained glass long shattered, moonlight bleeding through in thin silver knives. claudette’s back pressed hard against the cold altar stone, wrists pinned loose in one of blade’s gloved hands above her head. not tight enough to bruise her dark skin—yet. just enough to remind her our daywalker didn’t need chains.
he leaned in slow, leather coat creaking, the scent of gun oil, faint hint miswak bitterness, and old blood rolling off him like smoke from a fresh kill. crimson lenses reflected her own wide eyes back at her, twin pools of fear and something she didn’t want to confront. her voice came out small, trembling.
blade's mouth twisted, a mixture of smirk and predator scenting the wind. his thumb traced a slow path over the frenetic pulse that leaped in her throat, reading what was painfully plain in the cadence of her pulse beating against his skin.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ like it? ” the words slithered low, gravel and velvet and rust entwined. “ you're about to feel every inch of your soul get fucked open and stitched back together with my curse. ”
his mouth nipped the tender flesh just below her jaw, a light, testing bite, and then he was pulling back, just enough for her to glimpse the insatiable black wolf stalking behind the red glass.
his other hand slipped down her side, a possessive, almost awed gesture, his thumb hooking into the hem of her torn sweater to touch bare skin as if he was already staking claim.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ it's gonna burn like hell and feel like heaven right before it breaks you. there's no delicate way to go about this, sweetheart. ”
by the time the voice dared to invoke his name, his body moved in a blur—swift, silent—a black flash cutting clean through the rank tavern air. he turned before they had the chance to blink.
what met her wasn’t the friendliest face on the planet. no smirk. no charm. just a scowl carved from obsidian and war as old as jesus—meaner than the devil on a bad night. blade leveled his modified mac-11 right between her eyes. the barrel’s death-black maw hovered close enough to fog with her next breath.
one twitch, and it’d repaint the room in a shade of brainmatter red.
❝ you got my name before you even got me a drink. ❞ his brow lifted just a notch. despite the inhuman breakneck speed he’d moved with, his stance was composed—shoulders loose, trigger finger steady. voice cool, dry, and already bored. unless she was here to change that.
❝ skipped a few steps there. ❞ he said, cocking back the cold metal with a click that sparked butterflies in the bartender's gut. ❝ everyone around here’s got a strange relationship with living. that you too, or—❞ he tilted his head slightly, calculating. the black lenses stayed fixed, eyes unreadable behind the glass.
❝ —you think all your screws are still tight? ❞ the muzzle didn't waver. both waited.
what was once soft—rocking chairs, rose-colored lace curtains, muslin quilts—had rotted into wild, withered drapery lathered in drying blood. a violent spatter of flesh freckled the baby-blue and ivory wallpaper, buried between human handprints and something far less forgivable. a headless wooden horse rocked faintly in his periphery, nudged by nothing that drew breath.
our daywalker prowled through the room, sniffing the air like the bloodhound he’d become. old blood baked into every surface—into the gritty grain of the floorboards, into the weave of the drapes. layered beneath it, thick and choking, was a secondary stench: feces and fear, the kind that bursts loose when prey realizes it’s already dead.
whatever sanctity this place once held had long since been scraped out by claws.
only the scent of tender things that died screaming.
downstairs told the rest.
cutlery scattered like it had tried to escape. expensive porcelain shattered. claw marks carved deep beneath wainscoting and drywall, right down to the bones of the house. the piano was cracked in half. so was the coffee table. both of them split wide like they’d opened themselves up to feed the violence. whatever creature caused this had relished the drama of its hunt and took pleasure in prey that fought back.
the slaughter had happened fast, but the trauma soaked deep. this house hadn’t simply died. it had been devoured.
blade didn’t flinch.
he’d seen worse. walked through worse. survived worse.
he just kept moving, paws tracking through floor slathered with dried gore like it was rainwater.
then came her voice. again. sharp. disapproving. as if he should care about what she had to say.
"i dislike people who talk too much."
❝ funny. we share the same pet peeve. and yet you been tailin’ me with your mouth half-open—like a bitch in heat—since we walked in. ❞ he didn't bother turning yet. ❝ and i'm the dog here. ❞
the black wolf sniffed once more, voice as serrated as his name. red eyes narrowed as he approached the broken window. the smell shifted—bloody claw prints overlapping small human ones.
a survivor?
maybe.
didn't matter. the odds were trash, but fate liked playing its own twisted games.
his form began to shift—fur retracting, spine cracking, body reshaping with quiet brutality into the dhampyr once again. he turned to her this time, just as he placed one foot out the window, his shoulder brushing against the jagged glass that started falling across his skin but didn’t break it.
❝ you hopin' i'll shut you up the hard way, sauvage? ❞ it wasn't a tease or a threat. but it was a promise waiting for provocation.
he climbed through the window, boots hitting the soil like a loaded shotgun being cocked. the night met the daywalker like it recognized him—like it remembered the man who delivered terror by routine and owed him utter silence.
he didn't check to see if she followed.
his focus was forward.
the red tracks ahead were faint now, nearly drowned by the damp grassblade’s glisten from earlier’s rain—but not gone. the scent still clung to the ground, thick enough to chase.
it was never easy to recover from the stupidity of the reckless. there was nothing endearing about a child too smug to fear consequence—too cute, in their own mind, to bleed. she was a bad reminder of every youngblood that got drunk off ego and folklore, mistaking power for invincibility—until death seized their throat and pulled them under the gravity of a bad situation.
our daywalker stepped in closer, boots heavy against the rotted floor of the desecrated church. dust stirred like ash from some forgotten pyre of ancient times. the walls exhaled a strong profusion of rot.
when he spoke, his voice dragged low—gravel buried beneath grave dirt, laced with something older than rage.
❝ then sing your praise songs, kid. i'm not here pick up where your old man fucked off and be your daddy. ❞
the thick black shades veiled the quiet burn behind his eyes, twin suns masked in shadow, blistering with judgment. then he moved past her like she’d already bored him—his leather coat brushing stale pew air, his presence cutting through the residual hauntings like exorcism by proximity.
ahead, the pale, gnarled faces lingered in the shadows—white-skinned and hollow-eyed, ancient ghoulish things crouched in fractured pews and between cracked pillars. their mouths twitched with hunger, the sharp scent of camille’s blood still clinging to the air like perfume on a dying lover.
they hated him for interrupting the meal.
they feared him more.
what was left of their animal minds did the math. they could lunge. tear. claw in hopes for a bloody sheet of dark flesh. but they’d end up as gory shroud and ruined cartilage before his pulse even jumped and a bead of sweat kissed a hair off his brow.
he listened to them hiss, the sound like boiling marrow in old pipes. one by one, they peeled back into the dark. fled into the jagged maws of portals—throbbing masses of black ether, slick like oil and shaped like scalding open wounds. one by one, they returned to whatever bowel of hell had shitted them out.
then the air settled.
just the dhampir and the vampire now. just old sins and the scent of rot—settled deep into remnants of the sanctuary's unholy walls, soaked in the bones of the unburied morbidly curious and unsavory nightmares.
❝ as i was saying—trouble’s easy to make. ❞ he said, no condescension or anger, just a matter of facts. ❝ what good would all that noise’ve done for you, when your little friends were about to have you singin’ like michel’le on your last breath? ❞
@genrcsavvy said "get the hell out, man. you sound like my dad." | cont'd.
blade had little patience for insolence—and gotham was an endless repository for it. they weren't much different from new yorkers, just meaner with worse dental plans. arrogance and pride sewn into their coats like medals, as if surviving their own misery made them untouchable. it didn't. pedigree didn't mean shit when the city's chewing through your guts and nobody's coming to help. everyone thinks they're built for it—until they’re neck-deep in shit creek drowning in their own bullshit, and calling it baptism.
now, playing by one's own rules wasn't a sin in his book. he'd made a career of it. many superheroes resented him from it, and left him out their lumbaya circles. he didn't fault selina for slipping the leash. but she wasn't walking alone. and down here, some things didn't care how well you struck out with your claws or how cute your smirk looked before a kill.
if blade had ever cared about staying clean, he'd be up there playing dress-up with the colorful caped crowd—smiling for the cameras, saving kittens, waiting to be patted on the head by civilians and government officials. instead, he'd been forged in blood and abandonment. raised by monster hunters. every ounce of decency left in him was a defiant act of his human will, not grace.
all complaints could be filed to his maker—for denying his mother the chance to raise him right.
❝ feel free to claw out my tongue if you find out i sold your ass a wolf ticket. ❞ his voice was rough with impatience. ❝ but right now, i need you to tighten the fuck up. ❞ he stared through her like he could already see the crossfire ahead.
❝ this ain’t the world of men. and if it wasn’t already obvious—we’re not dealing with anything human. so before we go forward, you got anything else you need to get off your chest before we proceed, sweetheart? ❞
