#Redacted Vincent

[bubblergoespop]

okay porter solaire Healing Your Injuries audio WHEN??? both sam and vincent had their turns and now i say it’s porter’s. even better if it’s combined with porter’s apology or love confession audio ohhhh i’m begging you erik…

[porcelaininkpot]

Curses I would put on the cast of redacted-

Vincent - He makes the most perfect, runway model worthy messy bun to keep his hair up before showering and then is never able to recreate it no matter how hard he tries.

Asher - He wakes up early but his bed is so comfy he will always fall right back asleep and be late for important meetings.

William - Has a classical song stuck in his head but cannot remember it's name and has absolutely zero musical talent so he can never find it again no matter how hard he searches.

Alexis - There will always be a piece of food stuck in her teeth while she is in public and she cannot remove it with her tongue despite her greatest efforts and it makes her tongue hurt.

Gavin - The ability to grow perfect, long, healthy natural nails but whenever he has an important event or party he wants to attend and take pictures at one of them breaks and he has to chop them all off.

Kody - He experiences that chest pain you get when you swallow water wrong every time he swallows water.

Morgan - One of his nostrils will always be blocked.

Milo - Wears only gold and when he goes shopping he will find pieces of jewellery so perfect it was like the divines forged them specifically for him to don, but the stores will never have them in gold, only silver.

Treasure - Has a Polaroid camera, but they will always use up their Polaroid film one shot before finding the most perfect photo op, and will have to watch the moment pass by knowing that if they hasn't taken polaroids of silly things, they could have taken the most beautiful picture ever. No one believes them when he says that they saw this beautiful thing happen.

Lovely - Everything they buy always goes on a crazy good sale a day after they buy it.

[porters-fangs]

do you think Porter has his maker's eyes?

do you think he dreads looking in the mirror, because it would mean seeing the same eyes that shone above him while he was tortured and tormented?

do you think despair and fear and self-disgust coils within him when Treasure tells him his eyes are beautiful?

do you think he dreads them wearing his eyes, if the day ever came?

do you think Porter hates his eyes?

sigh

i’ve been trying to ignore this all day but i guess i’ll finally dignify you with a response 😒

when he looks in the mirror, porter sees the eyes of his maker. and he hates those eyes.

he sees the man who tackled him in an alley on his way home from work. he worked the night shifts, you see. he had lectures during the day - studying for a philosophy and literature degree - and when he wasn’t cooped up in his dorm, consuming every book he could get his hands on and scribbling pages upon pages of careful, rigorous analysis for each and every text, he was working.

it wasn’t much, just a position as a receptionist at his local library, but god he loved it. spending his hours buried up to his eyes in weathered parchment and books with spines so crumpled they must’ve been read a thousand times. he knew where everything was. though his true dream was to become a lecturer himself - or perhaps even journalist for some obscure newspaper - he could see himself living out the rest of his days within those same four walls and never getting sick of the smell of paper and ink.

as he bled out in the alley, the sharp metallic tang of blood stinging his throat with every shuddered exhale, he wondered if he’d ever finish his thesis paper. an odd last thought, he was well aware, but as his vision went dark, he could only think of his laptop sat in his room, the screen still casting a faint glow over his bedsheets just how he left it.

one of his books had fallen from his bag, he realised with a jolt, though he couldn’t make out the title from here, his lungs rattling, eyelids fluttering as he lost the fight to remain conscious. his blood stained the open pages, and he wondered if that would be his legacy.

it almost made him laugh.

all that remained of porter, the sad boy who had more books that friends, who’d choked himself with solitude until he’d suffocated. how tragic.

a cold hand wrenched his gaze from the pavement, and he was forced to meet a startling pair of flat grey eyes, cruel lips curled up in a sadistic smile, sharp teeth dripping with his gore.

he hates those eyes.

the same way he hates the very same eyes when he catches them across the table of a clan meeting. william had always told him they were a symbol of his new life, his new station, his new strength. porter had never cared. and neither had vincent, though he certainly adapted well.

he hates when the prince looks him up and down with a silver gaze that mirrors his own, like the assassin is just dirt on the bottom of his shoe. like it’s such an inconvenience to have to humour the heartless executioner of the clan, honed to a fine point and stained so deeply with blood that it’s seeped into his skin and it might never wash out. like he’s so much better than porter. because william chose him.

he hates when the king stares him down with those steely eyes of his, no matter how much he owes him. as he bows before the throne, he’s reminded of how much time he spent on his knees in church, and how far it got him. he’s reminded of how he forsook his faith for this godless existence, where prayer is no more an act of devotion than taking his blade to the throat of whomever his monarch demands. he’s reminded that he was never good enough for this man, not until he proved useful by way of violence.

god, he hates his eyes.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 20: Darlin'

Ao3 | 2k Words | Darlin's POV

t plays like a highlight real in Darlin's head. They're afraid they'll do something stupid. David would do a lot worse than kill for them. Asher has magic blood. Nobody is dead, yet.

TW: medical talk, hospitals, discussions of head injuries and broken bones, discussions of murder.

As the rusty, old as fuck pick up truck rammed into the ambulance at what you thought was the highest speed it could manage, you locked eyes with Quinn. He turned purposefully towards you, as though he knew right where you’d be, grinning in the driver’s seat. 

Sitting in the passenger seat of the rig, you were jolted as Asher slammed on the breaks, pulling the rig to an agonizingly slow stop. Big vehicles like the rig weren’t meant to stop fast, and you were terrified for a moment that Ash would slam right into the truck and ambulance as they tangled together. The only thing that saved them was the fact that the ambulance flipped under the slightest nudge from the truck. Stupid, dangerous, top heavy fucking death boxes. You thought that you probably screamed as the bus was thrown across the intersection. 

That was the moment that rang through your head, even hours later, even after getting Sam to the hospital and confirmation that he really was lucky enough to walk away from a crash like that with nothing more than a broken collarbone and a cut on the back of his head. By all conceivable notions, he should have died, getting tossed around inside a flipping vehicle like that. You didn’t believe in God or miracles, but when Milo dropped his head in quiet, muttered thanks, you thought for a moment about joining him. 

It was the vision of the bus flipping, turning over itself, that replayed like a sick highlight real in your brain. The bus flipped. Fatality rates doubled when vehicles flipped, and that was especially true for big fuckers like the ambulance. Sam had been alive and breathing in your hands, but he should have been dead. He was un-fucking-restrained and the bus fucking flipped and he should have been dead. 

Sam had a broken collar bone. That was it. You kept trying to interrupt your spiral with that fact. Sam had a broken collar bone. His probie had a pretty gnarly concussion. Nobody was dead yet. Yet. 

Hours into the night and still no news about Vincent. The small collection of doctors with his last name embroidered on their pristine, white lab coats would poke their heads into the private waiting room half of Dahlia's firefighter force had been shoved into to give an update ever hour or so. They looked terse and stressed but not hopeless, absent of the hollow, dull look people got about them when they’d just stared down a corpse. You held on to that, the light, the fire, the certainty in them that there would be something on the other side of this, no matter how fucked up it was. 

 “It was Quinn.” You whispered it to David six hours in, eyes heavy with sleep as you settled into the donation chair to spare a pint of blood. Everybody had had their turn, Asher and his magical O- blood going for two rounds. David had waited until you were ready. He hadn’t left your side, sitting by you like a guard, a sentinel, since you’d set boot on the asphalt outside the mangled ambulance. He would probably claim that he was worried about you, that you’d need some support. You knew better, though. He was scared you’d run. 

He was quiet for a long time after you said that, only speaking to thank the nurse that slid the needle in his arm and slipped a stress ball in his hand. 

“You’re sure?” He said eventually. You stared at your boots. You were afraid you’d burst a vein from how tight you were squeezing your fist. 

“Yeah.” You replied. That was all he needed.

The 10-19 slept, sprawled out on stiff chairs in the waiting room. Asher snored loud enough to keep everybody up, but it was only you and David in the end, sitting with crossed arms and watching the glass doors that lead out to a darkened, quiet hallway. Vincent’s partner had joined you half an hour in, and they were curled, legs to their chest, in a corner, sleeping fitfully. The chief of fucking surgery had drapped a hospital branded blanket over them. In bold, white letters over hunter green fleece; “DAHLIA GENERAL HOSPITAL: HEALING HAPPENS HERE!” 

“He’s hurt.” David said softly. “Quinn. There was blood all over that fucking truck. So he’s hurt.” 

“Yeah.” You replied. You were terrified that your voice would disturb the almost-quiet of the sleeping waiting room. 

“He wants…” David pursed his lips, head tilted away, choosing his words carefully. “He wants to scare you. Force your hand.” 

“He’s doing a damn good job of it.” You snarled. David snorted softly. 

“He’s trying to break you. But you won’t let him.” 

“You sound real sure, Cap.” You sighed. You didn’t feel scared, not really, despite what you told David. There was no pound of panic in your gut, no heart-beat thrum of run, run, fight, kill, run, give in, fight, fight, fight. Instead, the only thing filling up your chest was cool, calm certainty. Quinn was winning. Quinn was chipping away at your defenses. You knew, with a level of inevitability you had never felt before, that you were going to give in. 

It was almost a relief, knowing you’d lost, knowing that you didn’t have to fight anymore. 

“That night,” David said softly, “the night you told me everything, I told Quinn something when you were in the car.” You looked up. You had, in all of the rushing emotions of that night, forgotten almost entirely about that moment, the silent standoff you’d watched but not heard through the closed car door. “I told him that if he kept going down this path that I would kill him myself.” 

You blinked, surprised, and tried to shift that into your understanding of who David was. He was a good man, a public servant, hell, you didn’t think he had so much as a speeding ticket. The idea of him breaking a law, any law was sort of laughable. 

But then you’d seen him a few weeks ago, axe to Quinn’s throat, and you’d known in that moment with that same certainty you felt now that he would strike Quinn down.

“And he told me that I didn’t have it in me.” David finished with a sigh. You cracked your stiff neck, shifted in your uncomfortable chair. 

“He’s right.” You said. “You’re not a killer, David. And you shouldn’t become one. Not for me.” 

“I’d do a whole hell of a lot worse for you.” 

“No.” You shook your head, the long strands of your hair brushing through your eyelashes. You needed to cut it. The months had passed in a blur and it had gotten too long. “No, not for me, David. You can kill for Ash or for Milo or for the love of your life but you don’t get to kill somebody for me.” 

David was quiet for a long time, fiddling with the peeled up end of the tape in the crook of his elbow. 

“I can understand,” he said eventually, “why you’d want to go with him. Just to… make it stop. I get that.” 

“You’re not gonna lecture me about my masochistic tendencies?” You tried for a joke. David’s laugh was low and rough and tired

“No.” He replied, and that was the end of it. 

An hour later, a doctor you hadn’t met poked his head into the waiting room. He had a long, narrow face and just-barely-too-long jet hair that framed his dark face boyishly. He smiled as he stepped inside, adjusting the silver-framed glasses that had slipped down his nose. 

“Good morning,” he said softly, his voice holding the quiet, sleepy quality of a parent coming to wake their children early in the morning. “Just barely. It’s around three. I’m sorry you’ve been waiting so long. I’m Dr. Kyne, Vincent’s neurosurgeon. I have some updates that the family would like to share with all of you.” 

Dr. Kyne shut the door loud enough to rouse a few, and David stood to wake Vincent’s partner. 

“Morgan,” they breathed, hopping to their feet to wrap him in a tight hug, “tell me there’s no new damage, tell me his imaging looks good.” 

“Take a breath,” he instructed, hands on their shoulders, like they’d done this exact ritual a thousand times before, “take a second. I have lots of news, so let’s start with the good stuff okay?” They nodded, taking a deep, full breath just as he instructed. “Vincent’s out of surgery and stable. His heart and lungs are strong and he’s breathing on his own. That’s really good. That means that, not only is his chest working, his head is too. His brain can send the signals to his lungs to move.” 

David slid a hand up your back and squeezed your shoulder tightly, like he needed to hold you down. 

“Now, two grand mal seizures is never good, especially with somebody like Vincent. His previous TBI is always going to make itself known when he hits his head.” Kyne said. “I was able to isolate a bleed in his hippocampus that was causing the seizures. He has a fracture in his right wrist that we just went ahead and set while he was under, which should speed up the healing process.” 

“So he’s okay?” David asked, still gripping onto you. Kyne glanced at him over the frame of his glasses. 

“That’s where we have less news.” Kyne sighed. “His CT following the surgery looks good, very good considering the circumstances. I see no brain death, no necrosis, and there was no dead tissue while I was in there.” He pursed his lips. “This is the part you don’t like.” He smiled down at Vincent’s partner as they scoffed, brushing their hands over their face. “We just won’t know if he’s lost any function until he wakes up.” 

“Function?” You breathed. “Like…” 

“A head injury like this, especially for someone who has already suffered a TBI can be very serious.” Kyne’s doe eyes were locked on Vincent’s partner, guarding their expression closely. “They can result in loss of function in a number of areas. Speech, motor functions, bodily functions, cognition.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Milo breathed, still half asleep. 

“But-” Kyne interjected the panic he could feel rising in the room, “-but, Vincent has recovered from something like this before. Actually something much worse. I won’t reveal more than the Solaire family has indicated I’m permitted to, but I’ll just say this: Vincent has come back from the very brink of brain death. He is a one-in-a-million case. I can only name two other instances of such complete recovery in my career. He can recover from this. He’s done it before.” 

The air in the waiting room was heavy again.

“He probably won’t wake up for a few hours.” He said. “And he’s in the ICU, so we can’t take any visitors.” He smiled down at Vincent’s partner. “I’m already breaking the rules for you. I think Dahlia would appreciate having at least a few of her firefighters on duty.” 

“Thank you, Dr. Kyne.” David extended a hand for a shake. “For taking such good care of him.” 

The doctor left. Half of the room started moving and stretching, like they wanted to leave but weren’t sure if it was rude or not. 

“Go home.” David turned to the room. “Everybody. Let’s go get some sleep. I’ll report back with updates on everybody by 08:00.” 

“I’ll stay with you,” Asher rushed out, standing too fast given how much blood he’s donated. David waved a dismissive hand. 

“Everybody, please.” He sighed. 

“Well, I’m basically living here, anyway.” Milo said. “Come up to the room.” 

David was a steady man, but he always seemed to give under Asher’s puppy dog eyes and Milo’s disapproving glare. 

As the three of them started down the hall, you followed, breaking away from the rest of the house as they made for the front exit. David glanced over his shoulder at you, not accusatory but questioning, although you rarely could tell a difference. 

“I know if I leave,” you said, that looming dread and certainty crawling up your throat and spilling out before you could stop yourself, “I’ll do something stupid.” 

David stopped dead in his tracks. He turned back to you, hands in his pockets. His expression was unreadable. Milo and Ash, his shadows, flanked him on each side. 

“Okay.” David said simply, and that was the end of it. When he started walking again, you followed.

[secretagentsloveblogs]

sorry im relistening to the discussion between vampires audio and cant get over that VINCENT of all people is telling porter how to handle an argument when he has canonically never handled arguing well ever, literally not once. like when have vin & lovely ever argued or fought seriously lol

[tinasvices]

LOVELY & VINCENT'S APARTMENT. 2:00 AM.

or two vamps rent an apartment: one newly turned, the other with a history of reaching covert, whatever could go wrong.

[yetdevout]

flirty vampire loses control

[krysial]

redacted headcanons that have been bouncing around in my head for a while and i need to put them somewhere

one of asher’s proudest achievements from high school is that he punched a nazi and broke their nose

david LOVES queen. that’s it

guy plays ultrakill and sucks ass at it and honey LOVES to make fun of him for it (they suck just as much as he does)

freelancer likes making those kandi bracelets for everyone with caelum. everyone in the damn crew has matching ones

lovely dyes their hair a lot and vincent LOVES to help them with it

babe loves to bake in their free time

aaron has to wear a wrist brace often

angel has a back tattoo

darlin crochets as a way to destress. they make sam a lot of little things

gavin has a folder in his phone that’s just photos of freelancer asleep on his chest

[aimedis]

redacted asmr headcanons pt.3

-darlin’ gives sam puppy dog eyes all the time both with or without their own acknowledgement (they bite their lip too and it drives sam fucking insane)

-wolves don’t particularly enjoy being touched around their lower back area, even the most controlled wolf will get uncomfortable and/or shift instinctively to protect themselves

-asher and baabe are literally johnny and mavis 

-vincent and lovely are always together. always. (where one is, the other is not far behind) 

-gavin telling freelancer they’re pretty every single day 

-freelancer telling gavin he has the kindest heart every single day (and that he’s pretty) 

-freelancer plays volleyball (they’re on a recreational team)

-darlin' and milo will forever have beef with asher and asher will always harass them. when milo says "ash, ew.." darlin' says "ash, what the fuck.."

-david ‘hardass’ shaw brought to his knees begging for forgiveness because angel called him david once 

-freelancer and huxley feed off each other’s energy and they’re both adorably loud when around each other 

-gavin and freelancer get violently upset if they’re not around each other for more than a day

-“your eyes are so pretty” was one of the first things coworker said to lasko and he stopped breathing for a solid minute

-under extreme stress, cutie loses control of their powers and it can either make them slide out of someone’s head or into everyone’s head (during the inversion they could hear everyone’s thoughts and they were trying to fight off a panic attack the whole time)

-milo and darlin' make fun of each other’s trauma (milo: “that’s why your dad doesn’t fucking love you” darlin': “your dad doesn’t love you either, bitch”)

[lwdsial]

why was Vincent so surprised to someone showing up in the middle of the night as if it that’s not prime vampire hours

[ashturnedtomist]

TT comments I think redacted characters would use!!

(I think I saw someone do this before but idk who)

Lasko: “I’m gonna scroll…okay?”

Dear: “Maybe the ___ was the friends we made along the way”

Gavin: “big fan of whatever this is”

Freelancer: “I did not place this brick”

Damien: “close enough, welcome back ___”

Huxley: “Yk what, hell yeah!”

Porter: “____! Hope this helps!”

Treasure: “Mind you, this is my first impression of you…”

Guy: “raw, next question”

Honey: “well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine”

Avior: “Hey! So this is actually insane!”

Starlight: “ai could never recreate this”

Vincent: “Oh! That’s not…”

Lovely: “should we throw a party? should we invite Bella Hadid?”

David: “I’m employed, what does this mean”

Angel: “who is this DIVA 💜”

Asher: “Do you do weddings”

Babe: “ho is you cool”

Milo: “I’m gonna hold your hand when I say this…”

Sweetheart: “men used to go to war”

Sam: “on MY cellular device?”

Darlin’: “idk leave me alone”

James: “just put the fries in the bag”

Blake: “this pmo”

Bestie: “oh!”

Aaron: “Flying cars, they said.”

Elliott: “I’m telling a trusted adult”

Sunshine: “All I do on this app is cry”

Geordi: “Rip ___ you would have loved ___”

Cutie: “I’m gonna lie this is fire 🔥”

Echo: “And the crowd…is leaving?”

Kody: “Post this on IG reels”

Xavier: “Sorry for looking into your eyes without your permission”

[6-atlas-6]

More redacted tweets ⁉️

I love making these guys

🎀: @capitalisticveins @vilf-lover @xanyiaz @plutobutartsy @morgansplace @kitheking @randomhoneybee @messenger-of-stupidity @samlizdavis @betta-phish @darlin-collins @verbal-static @puffin-smoke @cyc-chilla @themeridian @defnotayonna @pycth @wolfieisacat @shadow-collinss @whensomethingwickedcomesthisway

[porcelaininkpot]

Thinking about how I had an idea for a whole Porter and Vincent heist fanfic where they were forced to begrudgingly work together to pull off a heist and escape uncaught and then develop respect and friendship for one another along the way and it was inspired by the idea of a vampire castle hidden deep inside mountain caves and even had a really cute ending planned out

and then I just didn't write it

[porters-fangs]

I wonder… when was the last time Porter was loved? When was the last time Porter allowed himself to feel love and be loved?

Maybe when he started feeling some affection for Treasure it unnerved him, like he was in unfamiliar territory and didn’t know what to do.

And the moment their argument happened it was so easy for him to fall back on his habits and push them away. They don’t understand him. They never could. It was easier to be alone anyway.

But somewhere along the way Treasure was becoming his “normal”, and now that they’re gone he finds himself rejecting his past habits and tries to integrate himself back into their life. Some part of him doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

(I NEED PORTER WHERE IS HEEEE COME HOOOMEEEEE)

ahahha yesss more MOREE

porter doesn’t need love. porter doesn’t need anything. porter hasn’t needed anything for decades.

all porter needs is to put one damned foot in front of the other, carry out his king’s orders to the letter, and for fuck’s sake, try not to acquaint vincent’s incredibly punchable face with his fist. again.

porter certainly does not need their hands on his body. nor does he need their mouth on his skin. he doesn’t need their lashes fluttering against his neck, he doesn’t need their thighs wrapped around his waist. he doesn’t need their blood settling on his tongue, and he especially doesn’t need their warm breath ghosting his ear as he-

shit. no. he doesn’t need any of that.

he needs a drink. one. and then another.

alcohol doesn’t do it for him anymore. his tolerance isn’t just a product of his impervious constitution - after he was turned, after he’d accepted his fate of being nothing but a enervated puppet for his fanatical maker, he turned to spirits for his sanity. he’d spent more nights than he could count at the bottom of a bottle, and now the stuff hardly makes him sway.

still, it’s all he remembers. the sharp burn of ethanol as it hits the back of his throat, the heady scent making him feel nauseous as his pointer finger circles the rim of the glass, the way every sip makes chest heave with the memories of darker times.

that’s what he needs. better to remember sharp teeth piercing his skin, punching down into his shoulder than to remember the way the skin around their would eyes crinkle when they laugh. better to remember being thrown against the wall and choking on his own blood before crumpling to his knees than to remember the way their face would light up when he showed up at their window, eagerly fumbling with the latch. better to remember collapsing in the forest, lungs quivering with each shuddering inhale as his entire being protested against the notion of clinging to this cursed life than to remember the way their whole body would seem to melt into his as he ran his fingers through their hair-

no. stop it. they’re gone. he made sure of that.

they won’t wind their arms around his neck again. they won’t pout at him with those soft lips again. they won’t call his name, they won’t smile at him.

and that’s okay. porter doesn’t need that.

porter doesn’t need anything.

he has a job to do.

[mythallia]

I thought i would share my master doc of all the redacted audios videos that had to be taken off of youtube for anyone that wants it.

[materialgowrl42]

Per my last post I’ve come to the realization that Vincent could have been NINETEEN when he died

He was born in 1980 and died in FEBRUARY of 2000

At the very least he was BARELY 20 years old oh my god I’m sick