Lawul Evil

Marcus Beresford The King of Arkwright Manor "Sir Marcus Beresford exhibits external chaotic tendencies, always looking to destruct and manipulate anything he can get his hands on. Interestingly enough; however, all his games are calculated. It would appear that his claim to chaos only fuels his true desire -- control."

[anderson-jay-deactivated2015063]

Alex looked around them, a smile plastered on her lips. “You’re cheeky tonight.” She commented licking her lips. She had tugged him away from the party and into the woods and people were pretty hammered what were the chances someone would see them? “Right here?” She asked her eyes instantly filled with lust for him.

[marcus-beresford]

I've had more than enough to drink, is the first instinctive response, but he manages to shut himself up. "I have you." Marcus breathes out against her ear as his fingers thread along her little cheerleader outfit. "You can't be too surprised." Pausing, Marcus runs his hands along her soft thighs, gingerly smirking as he looks to her. "Sexy cheerleader?"

[anderson-jay-deactivated2015063]

Alex smirked against his lips. “You know they have tents around here somewhere…” She suggested chewing her bottom lip at him seductively. Being with Marcus was a thrill for her and even more so when he returned the affection. 

[marcus-beresford]

Hoisting her against the three, he gestures about their vacant surroundings, the party well underway a few feet behind them. "Right here." Marcus confirms in a state of drunken stupor fueled by another stressful week. It escapes him that alcohol and recently, sex, have become his clutch to make it through the week. "Let's fuck right here."

[anderson-jay-deactivated2015063]

"Hey you!"

"…you’re welcome." 

[marcus-beresford]

"Bullshit..." Marcus mutters warmly under his breathe as she pulls away, a playful glint lingering in his drunken eyes -- almost pitiful how he had resorted to cheap theatrics to rid his mind of the stress. "Come here." Pulling her back into him, Marcus presses his liquor tasting lips against hers feverishly.

[marcus-beresford]

"Seriously?"

[elliot-leviste-deactivated20141]

           During his time in Heathfield, Elliot had seen many sides of Marcus Beresford. All unflattering, at least from the point of view of an Ellsworth resident, and while Elliot had been largely fortunate in avoiding the ire and dangerous attentions of the Arkwright head, some of his housemates lacked his luck. So he’d always been cautious, friendly but aloof when they brushed shoulders (figuratively) at parties. But as an artist, he had the ability to admire the aspects many other students feared. It was a detached appreciation, like marveling at a predator from behind the safety of a glass wall, not stupid enough to throw yourself into the pit to be torn apart.

           So when he heard the lines of Poe’s poem of love and loss from an empty classroom, peering in to catch sight of Marcus, he didn’t approach. Simply appreciated from the doorway, because Marcus’ lips wrapped around the words like they were familiar, loved. And when Marcus turned to catch sigh of him, that smile, a completely new and unfamiliar expression in how open it was. How genuine. It caught him off-guard, so he fumbled for the words. “Not long.”  He nodded in greeting. “Poe. A classic example of tragedy being a stunning muse. It’s thanks to his misery that we have his work to appreciate today.”

[marcus-beresford]

"As Fitzgerald put so poignantly, show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy. Arguably, tragedy isn't what creates an enchanting literary piece. Often, its simply its relation to real life circumstances. I find equal pleasure in the joyful, idealistic words of Frank O'Hara as I do with Poe's more grotesque take on humanity." But perhaps his observation was hypocritical in its make, given his mini-series was named The Tragedy of Immorality... But tragedy, he would argue, was not his muse -- it was his struggle to decide whether or not happiness was a solid substitute for controllable misery.

[nari-kohn-deactivated20141125]

"Long enough to enjoy the poem thus far," she answered honestly, honey eyes opening to observe the male in question. In truth, she hadn’t meant to disturb him, only retrieve an item left behind. More than the Blackbourne ‘Queen,’ Sati held a natural contempt for the Arkwright ‘King.’ She thought him a bigot of the worst proportions… an individual capable of only sybaritic and predatory qualities. His smile therefore was unexpected and yet one Sati returned with ease. "My apologizes for the disruption…though I must confess I wish to hear the remainder. To stop there is to paint the story in a different light and somehow, I prefer Poe’s finality to joy."

[marcus-beresford]

"Arguably, Poe's finality is joy," Marcus utters with grand sincerity and sensitivity. When he delved into the rabbit hole of words, a different man emerged, one of greater character and complexity than the man who reigned with an iron fist. He did not hang onto the conventions of his existence, but flourished in the great, uncontrollable unknown. His smile pure, his very presence genuine, as he thumbs along the backing of his limited edition book of poems. "For the moon never beams without giving me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side, of my darling -- my darling -- my life and bride, in her sepulchre there by the sea -- in her tomb by the sounding sea."

[marcus-beresford]

"Hear my heartbeat? Just focus on that."

Doctor Chapman dubbed it an “emotional tether.” Someone to rein you back into clarity. Of course, said doctor was full of bullshit and offered whatever advice would guilt Marcus into acting like the perfect Beresford heir. Typically, it had to do with brainwashing him with ideas of control and perfection. But despite his flaws, the singular concept was effective, especially in the midst of what could be deduced to be a panic attack. Shoulders tight, jaw clenched, and cold beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. His mouth parted as he attempted to breathe, all the while maintaining a calmness to himself.

Outside the confines of his bedroom in the Beresford’s sprawling penthouse suite was every formidable name in the global economy; every fortune 500 CEO, every politician, and all of their sons and daughters. Which, in translation, was every Arkwright and Blackbourne graduate. The official announcement of Marcus’ impending role as CEO of the Beresford’s brokerage and the rest of their assets was minutes away. While many knew of his ascent to the throne, very few knew when. But on this evening, the Beresford patriarch will be declaring the date of his retirement; summer of 2017, just one year shy of his senior year in Heathfield.

What was once a distant fear was now here, waiting for Marcus to crack under the pressure. He would fail… Six generations of Beresford men and he would be the first to disgrace his name. An emotional tether, he reminds himself through the haze of his gaze. But Spencer Vanderbilt was off schmoozing alongside his father, and Victoria Adler was most likely entertaining the socialites of Manhattan as we speak. There was no one, save for the girl who had (again) snuck into his bedroom for what could only be a booty call or some failed attempt to worm her way into his heart.

She was relentless in her conquest for his heart and commitment. Her vapid blue eyes practically shimmered with desire and excitement at every turn. It seemed that the more Marcus pushed, the closer she came. Unhealthy, is what Marcus deemed it to be, but he kept his mouth shut because she was his secret keeper. “Why do you do this? Why do you work so fucking hard for someone who isn’t going to love you back?” Marcus asks her above a bare whisper, but he knew he wasn’t thinking of her, even if such words applied. He was just like her, so desperate for love that he would kill himself for it. Breathing heavier, a loud knock on the door goes unnoticed -- but she reaches forward and presses his head against her chest. "Hear my heartbeat? Just focus on that." alexandra-ericsson

[marcus-beresford]

"I'm not going to leave you."

"It’s all over page six!" exclaims a nameless blonde as she holds up the social column to the twenty-seven-year-old Marcus Beresford’s line of view. "Rumors circulate that ex-socialite and Pulitzer nominee, Marcus Beresford, is writing a sequel to the New York Times’ Bestseller and highest grossing novel of the year, The Tragedy of Immortality.” said blonde then giggles giddily throughout the large room filled to each and every corner with fellow writers, investors, and friends of the author in name. It was a far cry from the board room atop the Beresford’s Brokerge firm that Marcus imagined himself situated upon graduation from Heathfield — but it was a life that he wanted, something that made him feel whole and real. Not a vacant man filled with the ideals of his poisonous father.

He turned it around, abandoning decadent suits and spreadsheets for a life he had wanted. Without a cent of the Beresford’s blood money to his name following his resignation of his title, Marcus had to do what he never imagined — create a life for himself. It was difficult, exhausting, and every bit worth it before as it is today. Now known for more than his last name, his words made an impact on those around him. It revealed the affluent lifestyle that poisoned, the mental illnesses and addictions that were deemed “normal behavior” by their parents, and of the virtues of each person despite their vices. An advocate for change and progression, many would deem him, but at the end of the day, he was just a writer.

"Elliot…" Marcus calls from across the room, smiling placidly as he surfed through the crowd before stopping right in front of Pietersz himself. Their paths in Heathfield seemed parallel, with the exception of one or two scandals here and there. But life outside of Heathfield made it so that they were amicable, even friends. "How’s the cover going?" His talents and experience in Heathfield made him the perfect artist to develop the book cover for Marcus’ previous works, including his upcoming sequel. "Can you believe this is where we ended up? No Dior suits or embezzlement charges?" Sighing gratefully, he glances towards him. "Thank you, for doing all this work on my books. I know we were never… close, but, you saw it yourself, you understand… I hope you stick around for the next ten I’ve got lined up.” Placing a grateful hand on Elliot’s shoulder, he smiles.

"Don’t worry, I’m not going to leave you." And he wouldn’t, because they had finally made it. They were free. elliot-pietersz

[marcus-beresford]

"You're not going to lose me."

Mr and Mrs Beresford, many would often deduce tauntingly when Marcus Beresford and Spencer Vanderbilt were spotted sitting about Marcus’ dorm room wrapped in fine silk sheets and conversing wildly about Game Of Thrones. It was a ritual spawned off of their first encounter, post Preston Royce fallout. The aspiring First Chair was lingering in the common room alone, engrossed in an episode of (of all things) Grey’s Anatomy when the blonde-haired boy just a year his senior came tumbling in. Love at first sight, Marcus Beresford wrote in his journal later that day with very little shame. One sweep of his brown eyes was all that was necessary to see a kindred spirit, every bit as lonesome and complex as he was. Falling in love with Spencer Vanderbilt was instantaneous. All it took was one arrogant smirk and a scathing comment about the current first Chair to bond them for life.

Marcus rarely spoke with certainty. Despite his secret idealism, he did not fall into the trap of assuming nothing changes. Call him a romantic, call him a fool… But he had quickly fallen into the idea that nothing between himself and Spencer Vanderbilt would ever change. Forty years, two ex-wives, and five resentful children later and they would still be where they were today; wrapped in silk sheets and conversing about television shows.

It was that mindset that made this situation so damn hard.

One last chance… Marcus Beresford decided as he peered his gaze out of the tinted windows of his limousine. One last chance to get it right… Waking up in a hospital bed after a stomach pump and heart resuscitation gave him clarity. His demons would not be silenced by something as simple as deciding he would change. He had to change. Or else the next time he would fall off the key of reason, the chances of him making it out alive was slim to none. And while the notion of that was once ideal, it seemed cowardly. Still, leaving it all behind, leaving everyone behind… Knowing fully well that if he did change, if he did recover, he would lost them all forever. Peering away from the window to look at Spencer warily, he gestures out the door. “Two months…” he whistles out conversationally, but Spencer knew… He had to know. Two months was an eternity when you were from the inner circle. “I’ll see you.” Marcus ends curtly, already tearing his eyes away. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t lose him. Opening the door, he was more than prepared to part ways when those significant words offer him consolation;

"You’re not going to lose me."

spencer-vanderbilt

[marcus-beresford]

"It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me."-- Edgar Allan Poe (x)

Many words were attributed to the eldest Beresford; calculating, manipulative, on occasion psychotic... But there was one anomaly in the slew of hateful, distrusting words used to depict him; Marcus Beresford was an idealistic, a romantic, and on occasion emotional. Especially when it came to the written word. All semblances of the cold-hearted man that reigned his little kingdom evaporated when a book of prose and poems found their way into his hands. Without shame nor reservation, he would read, write, and speak the words with every inkling of passion and complexity. Standing in the brightly lit, empty classroom with the book in his hands, he turns away from the large mirror and offers the person behind him a true smile (one only ever invoked by words that touched him deeply). "How long have you been standing there?"

[marcus-beresford]

calming starter sentences

"Its okay, I'm here."

"I'm not going to leave you."

"Everything is okay."

"I'm going to protect you."

"I believe in you."

"Hear my heartbeat? Just focus on that."

"You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now."

"You're not going to lose me."

"I love you."

"I'll stay right here, okay?"

"Just breathe."

"I'm okay, you're okay, we're okay."

"You're everything to me."

"I don't care what they think, to me, you are perfect."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"You don't have to be alone."

[oliverbeauregard-blog-deactivat]

"It’s good to receive recognition for the things you do," he shrugged, refusing to let Marcus’s words get to him like that had in the past, embedded beneath his skin irreversibly. "Pot, kettle," he snarked, rolling his eyes. If Oliver was arrogant, then Marcus was as good as Narcissus, doomed by his own self-absorption, though it had nothing to do with physical beauty on Beresford’s part. His heart rate accelerated as he thought about the other Beresford, the one he’d much rather be touching than Amelia. He shot Marcus a sly smirk, feeling reckless. “Don’t worry about it. There’s only one Beresford I have any interest in, and he’s neither female nor standing in front of me.”

[marcus-beresford]

"Recognition is for those who do not know how to validate themselves..." Oliver's words were about as sincere as his disposition. Marcus Beresford was born with great privilege and arrogance -- but very little sense of entitlement and self-absorption. Responsibility and duty was the bread and butter of his soul's fulfillment, not something as fickle as an ego. Immediately, his expression tenses as he gapes at the young man. "What are you talking about?"

[cassandravdbrandt]

"You sound surprised." She muses with her voice drawled – leisurely calm with only a hint of possibility for a storm, given the circumstances. The tilt of her head is ever so slight and matches with the curious arch of her eyebrows.

She slips the pack into the coat but not without managing a stick for herself which languidly find its way between her lips.

[marcus-beresford]

"Can you blame me?" Marcus Beresford asks rhetorically as he enjoys the wafting scent of expensive smoke waft around them. "Cassandra van der Brandt's gossip mongrel expertise are not my favorite branch of manipulation and control, as you may very well know." And it was true -- unlike Cassandra or Oliver, Marcus did not build his empire out of secret keeping. He built it with a firm hand and calculated chaos that forced many to cower in fear. "But..." He considers as an after thought, smirking at her with the infamous half-smirk that betrayed anything but raw emotion, "It does have its uses. What has dearest Vic have you setting on fire this week?"

[hellraisingstclair]

 Piper waited, stiff as she anticipated his reply. Her eyes were no longer locked on the thing in his hands and rather at the soles of her muddied up gladiators, miming nonchalance. When it’s extended, the motion too similar to the peace offerings she’s received in memories of Christmas past and Spring Breaks where a particular ‘friend’ had stabbed her in the back time and time again, she pauses briefly and accepts it with nothing more than a short, thankful sigh. She appreciates the attempt at casual humor––at least that’s what it feels like to her and stuffs it into her jeans more forcefully this time. It would be a foreshadowing of the fun she’d have shoving it through the shredder and using it as paper mache for a construction paper pinata. “Speaking out of experience?” 

[marcus-beresford]

Expression completely at ease, even as she gruffly stuffs the letter in the backside pocket of her jeans, Marcus' attention extends back towards the sprawling field of Heathfield Private Academy with a melancholic expression sweeping across his face. Six Beresford patriarchs roamed these luxurious halls and tumbled along the freshly mowed grass, building their legacy brick by brick. But from the looks of it, Marcus would be the first to throw a sledgehammer to their golden brick dynasty and ruin it all -- according to his father via last night's e-mail, anyways. "We are the heirs to the ninety-ninth percentile of the richest one percent -- we are all well versed in parental disapproval. I just happen to have a PhD."

[aseaofquotes]

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

[anderson-jay-deactivated2015063]

Alex snickered. “That’s true. I guess that’s nothing new around here.” She said leaning against the same wall he was. His smirk was contagious. Alex didn’t exactly want to be a little puppy following him around all the time but she was kind of enamoured with him. When did that happen and why was she striving so hard for his attention and praise? Alex sauntered up close to him not at all minding the smell of smoke, expensive smoke no doubt. “I could always have you earn it back.” She said tilting her head to the side her smirk matching Marcus’ suggestive one. 

[marcus-beresford]

The look gleaming from her lively blue eyes provokes a churn of his stomach. She was falling into something dangerous; not simply "love" or "infatuation" but an alternate state of reality wherein he could be rid of his demons and be the kind of man to reciprocate. But he was not. It was almost terrifying gaping into those eyes, but he stomachs his discomfort and disdain with a charming smile befitting the King of Heathfield. "Based on my recollection of past activities, I'd argue you have yet to earn my shirt." Flicking his cigarette, he glances at her with a mischievous gleam purposely shining from his eyes. These conversations seemed idle to him, forced given what she knew... It seemed he always tumbled back to something mutually beneficial. Placing his cigarette between his fingers, his lazy fingers trace along her blonde locks and pushes them away from her neck, leaving her vulnerable to his warm kisses void of affection, but fueled with desperation.

[cassandravdbrandt]

"Why did you do that?" Her sweet voice rang like a melody lined with an underlying curiosity. Hands move into the pocket holes of her coat – Burberry, €7,500 – only three days old, slim graceful fingers wrap around the box. With nothing but digression (such habits were almost dirty –– tainted) she pulls it out enough to offer him and no one else a look. The words blue and capitalized, the box white; On it, it reads ‘P A R L I A M E N T’. She abstains from saying any more after her head deems it unnecessary. Intentions are clear if not only to herself. She is making a silent offering: A cigarette in place of a lost one.

[marcus-beresford]

The subtlety of her movements earns her one of equal discretion. The game of perfection was not merely his expertise, but a game designed by the Beresford heir himself. Included in the game was the burial of one's vices. But with his current circumstances, it seemed that his forte was currently concealing his vices. With a quirk of his brow, he maneuvers to take one from her pocket, leaning closer as if secrets were being exchanged. "You certainly have your uses." comes the wry comment whispered into her ear.