Path of the Vampire forum

Lincoln King, true to his name, lived well within the ring of privilege and popularity. As cruel as he was handsome, cold as he was beautiful; he had an air of snobbery that only seemed to add to his power and prestige. Many described him as charming, somehow those flashing green eyes and wicked sharp sense of humour had people fooled that he was something more than the pretty but twisted rich brat. Idiots. They wanted to see some great heart buried beneath that devious grin and razor tongue, like it would make him worth more to be kind and loving. It didn’t. He didn’t care to meet the expectations of how he should behave based on societal standards, nor did he allow the pressures of his peers to impact his choices when it came to his particular moral code.

You see for this roguish devil his name, and the prestige and power that went with it, meant he had to do no such thing. Lincoln had no interest weighing his worth against vile plebs that waxed lyrical about what he should do with his wealth, with his intelligence and time. **** that. Those impudent upstarts were always in his ear, trying to impress upon him the importance of his station.

It was one such pathetic pug faced imposter that lay beneath the heel of his prada boot, wheezing and spluttering on his own blood after it was brutally wrung free under the weight of feet, fists and fury. The broken table leg he’d found had done it’s work too; credit where credit was due. “******* peon.” He hissed. His tongue ran around his mouth and came away tasting copper. Pearly whites were painted a wash of red as he swiped his tongue consideringly against a cut at his cheek, the cause his own teeth impacting with spongey flesh after the initial cheap shot. The peon hadn't even dared to fight Lincoln face to face, had tried to surprise him from side on.

He spat, eyeing the blood tinted spittle, using the back of his hand to wipe away the evidence from perfectly pouted lips. “Oh my god, if this bruises… I will ******* kill you, I mean seriously. Legitimately dead, you complete cretin! LOOK at me!” The snivelling man’s head was lolling, trying to raise eyes in the quickly swelling sockets before he earned more of Lincoln’s wrath. “You feeling smart now, huh? Look at you. You're going to lay there, and you're going to bleed because I want you to. If you survive you're going to go home and get packed, then you're going to **** right off back to whatever hole you crawled out of. Got it?” The groan was weak, but it was enough of a show of comprehension to appease Lincoln’s blood lust.

The socialite discarded the makeshift weapon, letting it thud cruelly by his victim’s ear, using the sickly yellow glow of nearby streetlights to appraise the damage to his knuckles. Limited, the wood had done most of the work, his fists only sinking into the coward’s soft underbelly. Fingertips slicked back over his dirty blonde coloured hair, rearranging it back into place and peering down at his suit, straightening the jacket as he were simply righting himself after a playful tussle. Around the corner from this dank alley a party still raged, and Lincoln sure as hell wasn’t going to miss out over an achy jaw or a cut cheek.

Champagne would wash away the crimson from his lips, and designer drugs sniffed or swallowed could soothe any niggling aches. Lincoln King’s name felt like destiny, he was born to be royalty, and the young man had plans to make the world fall to their knees for him.

He was ready to break the chain, destroy the links and bring about a new monarchy. Lincoln was born to be King.

It was all just a matter of time.

Two halves of a whole, an inner war paused on a shaky truce as Lincoln King pressed the champagne glass between his lips with trembling fingers. He was Lincoln King, he said his name over and over in his head, trying to ignore the aches and pains that were evidence of his actions, the darkness barely held back at the corners of his vision. Inside his head there was a dull roar, a gnashing of teeth and flurry of fists between against the bars of a poorly constructed prison, a cage that couldn't hold the brute for long.

Kingsley.

Dissociative Identity Disorder, the doctors had said, they had explained his blackouts with it. Initially he remembered what had happened, he would watch it but be unable to do anything, trapped behind his own eyes struggling to break through. Then it had gotten worse, each time it happened more alarming until he seemed to turn his back on it, to shut down when Kingsley took over. Cruelty, merciless and swift, a sharpness to the edges of the other boy's smile. Kingsley loved to move, to feel the power in every step he walked and wore confidence like an impenetrable armour. He spoke in a faster pace, his tone more clipped and constantly holding a mild sense of agitation as if he had somewhere to be. It was only when he was in his deepest anger, enjoying the release of it that he slowed, a dark drawl slurring from his lips as he mocked and belittled whoever it was that had incurred his wrath.

He was wrath, he was flame and fury. Kingsley was reckless abandon, anarchy and outward aggression. Fiercely protective he'd push his way forward when he felt they were being threatened, Lincoln was the more laid back type, he was quietly confident and didn't feel the need to respond to every small slight. Why would he? Kingsley would, Kingsley was there whenever he failed because their pride demanded it. Their pride, he insisted, even as Lincoln would protest.

Sometimes he'd wake up with a patchy memory, or strange aches and cuts that were evidence he'd turned a blind eye. Other times he would remember and be unable to stop it, or hell, there were very occasional times when he couldn't deal with what was happening so let Kingsley and hid behind him as if he were a shield.

One important difference between them tended to be their taste in romantic, more like sexual, partners. It wasn't unusual for Lincoln to wake in his bed beside someone who was quite clearly more of Kingsley's taste and it made him feel a faint sense of being used. His body, used in acts he didn't fully consent to. They'd had discussions about it and come to some mild agreements, but Lincoln insisted he was in primary control and eventually they had formed their uneasy truce. Of course not before Kingsley had gone out and insisted people start calling him by that name, bought a whole new set of clothes closer to his preference, gotten his septum pierced and dyed Lincoln's hair a dark brown. He'd declared it compromise in the note he'd left before Lincoln had fought his way back into control, insisting that he wanted to go sleek black though acknowledged that it would have been too harsh on his complexion.

It wasn't pretty.

Lincoln wasn't innocent, not by any means, but compared to the other man that dwelled within his head he was Prince ******* Charming. The party went on around him as Lincoln reached for his mints tin, tossing a pill from it into his palm and pressing it between his lips. Bubbles helped it down, the champagne sweet compared to the bitterness of powdery pill that seemed to stick in his throat. Kingsley had just been standing up for them, and Lincoln had let him, but it had gone too far. It always went too far and there Lincoln stood with a cool smile plastered across his face, knuckles red raw. Another body to the list, another care basket to send and hush money to be handed out from his deep pockets. After all, he was just another rich brat with anger issues...

Kingsley laughed, the sound sharp and echoing in his ears, Lincoln's smile faltering momentarily. He was the Mad King of HR, with a temper like a whip, cracking sharply across the backs of those who dared challenge him. Within his head lived his very own attack dog, his body a weapon waiting to be used and his growing strength a threat unto himself. He'd thought it might help, to harness his chi, to learn to use it and to find a grounding energy in the earth beneath his feet but Kingsley had taken an interest in the more aggressive aspects of his nature.

Two Kings, but only one throne to share.