During the filming of John Wick: Chapter 4, actor Bill SkarsgÄrd portrayed the Marquis de Gramont thinking of him as someone who came from an impoverished background before rising through the High Table's ladder to achieve a high-ranking position that allows him to savor a wealth he didn't have before, hence his tendency to savor the glittery suits he wears in most of his scenes. Whether this backstory is canon or not is unknown.
Yay I was the anon who asked if you watch the new John Wick film, I hoped you enjoyed the movie!
Can I request some yandere marquis de gramont headcanons? (it can be romantic or platonic)
man was the biggest prick that i had seen in a while from a movie lol
Yandere Vincent de Gramont Headcanons
A/N:You read my mind Anon lmaoo - I was literally planning on writing some HCs for the Marquis <3
Despite the initial conception one may have about Vincent's dedication to a lover â that being none â he's actually surprisingly...loyal.
While he has the playboy exterior, enough money to soak up the oceans of the Earth and all the allure that comes with his occupation, he secretly feels as if he has nothing at all.
What he wants, what he really, truly wants, is to feel something new. Something heâs never experienced before.
Love.
Not just for himself - for someone else.
His brush with John Wick made him realise how empty his life was by comparison to the Boogeyman, who lived and almost died for the memory of love.
And that stuck with Vincent. Affected him more than heâd like to admit.
But, his heightened status above most others has left him isolated with few who wish to know him in a capacity beyond acquaintances for fear of incurring his wrath with a misplaced word or an overstepped boundary.
Thus, love is almost an impossibility for the Marquis.
And then he met you.
And grew obsessed intrigued. Fast.
He likely met you in passing completely separate from his usual crowd â which is to say hunters and murderers.
And he's taken aback by you; your beauty, your charm, your personality. In a way that, while many others have tried, have never breached Vincentâs superficial interest.
Or perhaps you nurse that same melancholy void he harbours; the desire for something more. Which, divulging it to him, a complete stranger, the Marquis finds oddly endearing. Vulnerable.
Heâs enchanted. The void in his chest seems to tighten somewhat. Heal.
Youâve given him what no other has before. Genuine, friendly, interested conversation. All without even knowing who he is.
Now, having to rush off, apologising with a smile for taking up his time with âTrivial banter,â Vincent watches your retreating form.
He has his sights set on you.
Over the next few days, while conducting business and going about his everyday life, Vincentâs mind keeps crawling back to you, those fateful minutes wherein he felt he knew everything about you and nothing at all.
Though, he doesn't actually want to admit it at first.
While, yes, he does want to experience true love, he is entirely unwilling to acknowledge the disgustingly human need to feel something.
So, he tries to hide it. Bury it beneath his work, French desserts and luxuries you've never even heard of.
But, over time, you spring back up in the forefront of his mind when you are no longer content with being a voice in the background. A memory of a time where Vincent felt as if heâd truly been seen.
And Vincent, passing off his secret enthusiasm as boredom, a mere meandering of memories, âallowsâ the odd thought of you to trickle in here and there.
You are a form of medicine. Whenever Vincent feels something undesirable brewing in his chest, he finds himself back with you on that bench in the park, your warmth and presence sun rays against his face as heâs transported from one of his many mansions to beside you once more.
And, even if he doesnât want to acknowledge it, you scratch the right spot in his psyche that material gain just canât. Not in comparison to the human touch you have.
Gramontâs so used to people regarding him with favour or fear that it still takes him aback now how kindly you treated him, not knowing who he is or what he does.
You had nothing to gain from your kindness. And yet you still gave it to him.
Healed him with it.
Vincentâs daydreams start to grow more intense the longer he thinks about you.
An emulated conversation. Additions and projections of the recollections of your encounter, no matter how brief. Anything to let Vincent feed off the feeling you gave him when heâs exhausted the phantom of your first encounter.
There comes a point, weeks after you first met, where Vincent spends more time in these memories, both real and fabricated, than in the conscious world. And they strengthen, pulling his focus from his work, from his duties.
At first, this manifests as a glazed look in his eyes, one which, to all those who knew of him, could pen as the typical, uninterested Marquis stare.
He wears the same one in the comfort of his private rooms, one where nobody can see what heâs thinking. But now, people can see Vincent couldnât care less about the projected bounty of this one killer from Wales; he just wants to be left alone with his thoughts.
His men have started to notice, too.
And, one evening, Vincent decides to lay upon them a task.
âI need you to find someone for me,â he says, his chin resting atop clasped hands. There is no jest, nor leniency, in his stare.
The task itself sounded easy enough. But with only a physical description to go on, not even having gotten your name, Vincent, for the first time in his life, is anxious.
Anxious his men wonât find you, no matter how deep his connections run.
Anxious that, while heâs lived in his dream world for the last month, youâve since disappeared. Been killed, perhaps, or exposed to some freak accident.
Vincent pains at the feeling in his centre whenever he considers this a possibility. It tears the scabbing void in his chest wide open again.
Sometimes, while he lies in bed, the thought that might have perished somehow, that his men will have misinterpreted his specific instructions not to interact with you, only report on what youâre doing, plagues him.
He knows his men are loyal â that theyâve never failed a task before now. And he clings to the hope that their winning streak wonât run dry one of these nights.
One day, sat in his office, glancing over a document heâd tried reading for the last half hour yet couldnât because, surprise, you were distracting him, one of his men came into the room.
âWe have them, Sir,â he said, the image of victory. Vincent couldnât help but scan his suit for any sign of blood. Your blood.
To say Vincent was excited is an understatement of epic proportions.
At first, heâs just numb.
Then, a few minutes later, his chest burns and sparks with an electric passion one acquires when meeting an idol.
Vincent wishes to deploy himself immediately. But he knows this is a waiting game.
So, he remains far enough away from your life that you do not suspect a single thing is wrong.
You donât even glance over at the guy whoâs been tailing you for the last few hours.
You donât think twice about the stranger whoâs been sat in perfect view of you in the cafe for the last two weeks.
You donât even consider that the guy you bumped into earlier is responsible for your house key going missing.
Now, with access to your inner sanctum and your daily routine burned into his mind like a holy scripture, Vincent makes his move.
He stages meetings between the two of you.
Starts âbumping into youâ.
At first, you simply recognise him, ask him how heâs doing and what heâs doing in the area.
And, Vincent, the man with an answer for everything, finds himself doing something he never has before.
He fumbles.
Even when he imagined you in a most vivid detail, nothing compares to this moment, where what he says has consequences, where he has one shot at getting this right. Or risk your uncertain stare.
He can feel fear rising in his chest as he stutters. Only once, but enough to knock him down a few pegs in your mindâs eye. At least, thatâs what he thinks.
But, he completes his task, albeit not as pristinely as he wished.
He asked you out to coffee.
And you, with a signature smile, accepted.
And now, your fate is sealed.
Vincent beats himself up over his ineptitude of speaking to you like he did in his head: suave, cool, collected.
And, given the fact that heâs never had to take accountability for anything heâs ever done, he tries to blame it on someone else.
Not you, though.
Never you.
Regardless of this minor hurdle, as Vincent sees it, he purses thisâŠfriendship with you.
He isnât used to the concept. Not in a visceral sense, anyway.
The saying âItâs lonely at the topâ comes to mind when describing Vincentâs relationships.
There is always a power imbalance, no matter who heâs speaking with.
He is always above them, and they are always below him.
But thatâs when they know him. Know his dynamic.
You, you have absolutely no idea who he is, or what heâs capable of.
To you, heâs just Vincent, the owner of a successful manufacturing business.
No, Vincent couldnât quite ditch the theatrics. He still needed an out to impress you â to have a valid excuse as to how he owns so many nice cars, how he never wears the same designer suit twice.
He doesnât tone it down with the suits, by the way.
Heâs too enthralled by the fascinated look you wear when youâre taking in the patterns, the chains, the craftsmanship.
Which, to his surprise, makes his face warm.
People have only ever looked at the label of his outfit, never the ensemble itself.
Thatâs just another of the ways you make him feel seen.
You tell him so much of yourself, yet not enough to break your mystique.
Vincent knows more about you than you think, and he uses this to create another version of himself â one which likes the same records as you (though, he unironically does enjoy them. But, he knows he likely wouldnât unless you listened to them, too), has the same preferences for how you fold your clothes, whether you should brush your teeth before or after breakfast.
And Vincent devours every detail you grant him like a meal, saving them, storing them, testing them out in his newest daydreams when he gets home, his heart thrumming and his breathing short as an unfamiliar feeling of wholeness and anxiety overtakes him.
And yet, there is little he can offer in return.
Nothing that isnât a lie, anyway.
He keeps you as far away from his work as possible, hence he meets you in such public spaces.
His men are always stationed nearby, disguised as civilians. Should the need for bloodshed ever arise.
Eventually, your weekly coffee meet-ups evolve into something else.
Vincent, after asking one of his men (under strict confidentiality) âWhat do you do when youâŠlike-like someoneâŠ?â starts taking you to restaurants.
He tries not to scare you off with anything too fancy, but he canât help but feel part of himself die whenever he thinks about how dull the food here in this 5-star restaurant is compared to his usual dining preferences.
But youâre happy, thanking him for the meal with a gratitude that isnât borne from a life-or-death scenario.
Youâre not paying for these dates, by the way. Vincent wonât let you.
âI brought you here; Iâm paying.â
He also has a tendency to go overboard with the gifts.
You tell him your watch is broken ? Here are five designer timepieces imported from a selective brand whose clientele is vetted and chosen by the CEO himself.
Of course, you can try to refuse these gifts â tell Vincent that you âCanât possibly take them from you; itâs too much !â
But he plays the guilt card well.
âNo, I insist,â he says, pushing them into your hands. âIâd be offended if you didnât.â
If you actively wear or use anything he buys you, heâll be overjoyed. Prideful.
Youâre wearing something he got for you. That basically means youâre saying you belong to him.
Of course, he does get a little carried away with hisâŠdelusions. But he means well !
Heâs just territorial.
Vincent can be a gentleman when he wants to be.
And can also be a vicious creature when he doesnât.
He only presents one of these sides to you.
The other is reserved for his moreâŠprivate affairs.
When he started feeling more intensely about you, his mind wandered to some rather unsavoury places â places that, usually, VIncent would walk through without batting an eye.
So, with the steadily growing number of these thoughts, these images of you, piercing his mind, he decides to take matters into his own hands.
He beds people who look like you.Â
The two of you arenât dating yet; havenât even held hands (though Vincent agonises over finding the right opportunity to do so).
But he still feels wrong. Like heâs cheating on you.
His sanity tries to prevent him from thinking like this, tries to keep itself intact by urging Vincent to pursue another mindless conquest.
Your name does slip out between his panting, though.
Much to the chagrin of whoeverâs beneath him right now.
He wonders what youâd look like, what youâd feel like in this same position. What your preferences are.
Thereâs only one way to find out.
He tries turning up the boyfriend factor after he decides nowâs the time to pursue you. Properly.
He sits a little closer to you whenever you invite him over for movie nights, holds you for just a little longer whenever you engage in your traditional parting hug.
And he canât help but think about how much he wants to stay with you like this forever.
And permanence is a rare commodity for people in his line of work. No matter how many bodyguards he has, or how skilled he is.
Nothing is certain.
Which is why, one evening, lying awake in bed, he decides to act.
He knows itâs a risky manoeuvre, but he canât deny how careless heâs been with you these last few months.
Not that youâd know, but his men have intercepted five people whoâve tried to kill you, take you â or worse.
All just to get to him.
He canât leave you in the wide open world like this. He canât let you be at risk. Not because of him.
So, that night, his heart in his mouth as he commands his men to âFind (Y/N). Bring them to me.â Vincent awaits your arrival.
And, eventually, he hears you. Clamouring in the halls outside his office, screaming and fighting. Resisting.
Vincent canât help but crack a smile, knowing how defiant you are â how stubborn you can be in your method.
As the heavy footsteps of his men come to a stop outside his door, your screeching is blunted only by the thick wood.
And, doors open, here you are, shoved into the room.
Your captor revealed.
You look at him with what you could construed as almost-neutrality, your bewilderment a damper to your anger, your fear.
âVincent,â you say, breathless. You take a staggering step towards him. His men take a step towards you, reaching for weapons concealed by their coats.
Vincent raises a hand, and they retract.
He looks at you.
His eyes are filled with nothing less than adulation, misplaced happiness in a situation you view as dire.
âSit,â he tells you, casting a glance to the seat before his desk.
With little else you can do, you obey.
And your world begins to unravel.
Vincent, in the lamest, most gentle of terms, explains that he is âNot who you thought I was,â â that he does âMore for a living than make vases and luxury dishware.â
âI,â he says, watching your eyes carefully, glassy and holding no less potential for terror. âAm the Marquis.â
Vincent stands, and when he sees you flinch, something in him withers. Hurts.
He shoves it aside.
âI am responsible for making sure that the right outcome is brought to the right people.â
His hands behind his back, pacing the length of your field of sight, he swallows.Â
Youâre judging him now. In a way you never had, youâre judging him.
His desire to display how grandiose his lifestyle is doesnât seem so forthcoming anymore, hiding, shy.
This is more difficult than he anticipated.
âWhat does that mean ?â you say, voice tight and quiet.
Vincentâs fist clenches. He doesnât want you like this. You should be happy heâs rescued you ! Albeit from threats you didnât know pertained to you, but still !
âIâmâŠâ he starts. His gaze wanders to his men, who, with perfect understanding, leave.
You almost donât want them to go.
âIâm a reaper, of sorts,â he says. He draws closer, taking a step in your direction. You bite back the urge to flee.
âA face to a cause.â
When he doesnât elaborate, instead watching you with what you think is scrutiny (but couldnât be further from it), you ask, throat dry, hoarse from your screaming. Crying.
âWhat cause ?â
Vincent bites the inside of his lip. And, for the first time, he can feel himself cracking under your gaze.
Youâre scared. He knows you are. He just wished he didnât have to see it painted so blatantly on your features, downturned with grief should everything end on this night.
Where was your smile ? Your crinkled eyes, your sonorous laugh, your upturned lips ?
âI fix problems,â he says. Thereâs no way he can put his occupation lightly. âI used to do it with knives. Guns, a pencil, perhaps â whatever was at my disposal.â
Heâs closer now, approaching. His arms are at his sides. And he stands before you.
You donât want to look up. You want to look â be â anywhere but here.
But Vincent doesnât let you.
âBut now,â he says, and he gets to one knee. His hands trap you, on either of the arm rests of the chair. Yet he does not possess the face of one who is a captor, instead a mask of total capitulation to a feeling he couldnât even begin to understand before you showed him.
âI do it with diplomacy. With people who are much better suited to that life than I.â
His voice is soft, quieter than before. There is a hint of a smile at his lips, pulling the corners, beginning the total eclipse of his eyes from full to crescent. An offset to the anxiety bubbling in his centre.
Your hands in your lap, he takes them in his, slowly, gently, fingers resting atop yours.
And he squeezes them.
Holds them. Just as heâd always wanted to.
âWhyââ you swallow a sob, turn your head so you donât let him see your face scrunch into the epitome of fright. âWhy am I hereâŠ?â
Vincentâs lips part. His hand slips up to your jaw, urges you to look at him.
Heâs forbearing. A butterfly.
Nothing like how his men handled you.
That in itself could almost convince you that heâs not such a bad guy. Even after all heâs told you.
âBecauseââ your face in his hand, he looks up into your eyes. Barely contained tears fill them.
âBecause youâll be safe with me,â he promises. Thereâs an unencumbered optimism in his eyes. A dangerous one at that.
âBecause I canât trust that my men can protect you when youâre so far away â alone â in the city.â
âWhat do you mean, Vincent ?!â
You donât mean to snap. But since youâd just been kidnapped and the truth behind the matter is no clearer to you, you canât help it.
Vincent almost seems to flinch, his eyes narrowing just for a second. He returns to you with his puppy stare.
âThere are people out there who know who I am. What I do.â
He squeezes your hand again, his other still wrapped about your jaw.
âThe problem now is that they know you, too.â
He swallows thickly, looking down for a split of a second. Guilt.
âAnd itâs my fault. I shouldâve been more careful. Shouldâve just left you alone, let you live your lifeâŠbut I canât undo that now.â
He laces his fingers between yours. And youâre too frazzled to refuse.
âWhat I can do, what I will doââ his hand comes to the point of your chin, holds it gently between his fingers like glass.
His gaze falls to your lips, and you try to ignore it.
âIs keep you safe. Here. With me.â
Youâd have laughed if you didnât believe everything heâd just said.
It all just made sense to you.
The lavish gifts, the people watching you that you hadnât dared notice before because youâre just being paranoid. The hard glares Vincent would grant to all that passed you by in the rooms of higher society.
And now, everything shatters. You cry.
âOh, non, mon Cher, donât cryââ Vincent moves to wipe the tears from your cheeks, but you pull away. Retract from his kindness.
"You're insaneâ" youâre breathless, gasping between sobs
"Not insane.â VIncent tells you. He stands so heâs perfectly level with you, his eyes piercing yours. And, just as he had many times before in your presence, he smiles. Genuine and heartfelt. Then, a statement. A declaration.
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