I WAS B O R N READY MUTHA'FUCKA!

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

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.

@anarkissm

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.

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.

the cradle of an old nursey.

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.

and blade never lost a trail.

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? ❞