#Vincent de garmont fanfic

[just-some-random-blogger]

"Well, I've heard that he comes across as a pompous ass, if that's what you mean."

LMMAAAAOOOOOOOOO SAUURRRR GOOOODODDDD

He moves to stand in front of you, finding your eyes. "Dear child, might I suggest steering clear of the Marquis and his associates whilst he is in residence with us here? It would simply be for the best. His reputation does preceed him."

WHAT HER DO THE EXACT OPPOSITE SMH

John Wick hated the name, but he liked you, so the name stayed. Him and his then wife somehow became your second set of parents, with your dad never around and your mother usually drowning in her fancy liquor.

AAWWWWWWW GIMME HIM

I SQUISH MI JOHNNY BOYY

"Whoever this Marquis is, I can handle him," you say determinedly. "I'll just act normal, do my job, go about business as usual."

LMMMAAAAAAOOOOO NO HAHAAHAHAHAHAHAH BUT GO OFF I GUESS

"You know me," you call after him, an impish grin on your face. "I'm only a shadow."

He is never beating those pompous ass allegations. You can't help but smirk from your post behind the concierge desk.

HAHAHAHAHHH

You look down briefly, smoothing out invisible creases on your black button-up shirt. Don't laugh. You roll out your shoulders. Compose yourself.

NNNNAUUURRR 😭😭😭😭😭😭 THATS SO MEEEE HAHAHAHB BSJEJWNWKS ME ASFFFF LMAAAOOOOOO HELLPPP 😭😭😭😭😭😭💳

"What is your name?" He asks, a perfect brow raised in anticipation.

Why he kinda-

A momentary pause, before he repeats your name. You want to hate the way he says it, as if he testing it on his tongue, seeing how it tastes.

SEEE SEEE SHE LIKE ME FR HAHAHHAHAHAHSKEIEJEJSNNSN 🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪

He finally walks away. But of course, of course he has to drive a chill up your spine as he calls over his shoulder, "Have her come up to me in twenty minutes."

🧍

"So much for your being 'only a shadow', hmm?" Charon echoes your sentiment, which has just been apparently disproven.

NAJSHHSHSHHSS IM SORRY CHARON I CANT HELP THAT IM THE MAIN CHARACTER

"Mmm," he hums, and tilts his head. "Tell me, what was so funny?"

NSJSJJSHSJSJSJSB AINT NO WAY THIS PETTY DUNDERHEAD CALLED FOR THIS LMMMMMMBBBBBAAAOOOOOO

"No, sir, I... I must admit, I don't quite remember what you speak of. I smirk to myself all the time. I've got plenty of inside jokes and all that."

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 MEEEE NAUUURRRRRR THIS IS TRULY A YN READER INSERT EXPERIENCE HAHAHHHHAHA

"Are you... well in the head?" He twirls his fingers beside his temple. The bastard.

PLEEEASSSEEE HES SO FUNNY FOR NOTHINNNGGGGGGG ANJAJWNWJKAKAKAS

"Yes, Marquis." You take a deep breath, but you can't help yourself. "But I assure you I'm just as demented as you are."

First of all i would have said no im not HAHAHAAH 🤪🤪🤪🤪✌️✌️✌️ SECOND OF ALL SHE REALLY JUST- 🧍

"Well," you say carefully, knowing the wrong word might set him off, "you could let the fool go. You've already taught him a lesson."

SHES CALLIN THE SHOTS NOW RATATATATTATATATATATTAT

"Leave us," the Marquis finally says. Well, shit.

🧍😗🍵👌 welp

"I hope you aren't busy," he says, walking to the other room.

[tucks hair] WHY HE KINDA

YOU WOULDN'T EVEN CARE THOOOOOO IF SHE WEREEEEE 🤬🤬🤬🤬👹👹👹🙅🙅🙅

You grumble under your breath, "So much for being a shadow."

Like i said

BUT GET IMMMMMMM GET THAT MONEY GET THAT DESIGNER SHITTTT EAT HIM DO IT FOR USSS

MORE MARQUIS MOREEEEEEE I LOOOOOOVED IT, L - O - V - E - D ITTT!!!!!!!

le marquis et le moineau - (ill)fated

Marquis de Gramont x f!reader

synopsis: one of several short stories, set up as a prequel to this oneshot of le marquis et le moineau. This is set in the early days, depicting the beginning of what would turn into a dangerous mutual infatuation.

more of moineau: le marquis et le moineau ▪︎ other works

word count: 2.5k ▪︎ themes/warnings: slow burn, mentions of violence (it's the John Wick universe ofc), language

"Welcome to the New York Continental. How may I be of service?" Charon asks in his flawless genial manner.

You stand behind him, his shadow in training. After only 3 short months as the 'Assistant to the Concierge' - (a title you picked over 'Assistant Concierge', in reference to a certain beloved TV series) - you've come to learn the ins and outs of the Continental.

What makes it tick. The demands of its peculiar crowd of usual guests. What is required to keep such an establishment up and running.

In truth, it takes a lot of fucking work. Much and more need to be swept under the rug so as to not attract attention. Guests need to be kept satisfied, their particular requests adhered to. As long as it is well within the rules of the High Table, of course.

The only thing separating you from the animals.

As if everyone in this sort of life has not already become animal. Well, isn't ignorance such bliss.

The man who introduced himself as Chidi says, "I have come ahead of my superior, the Marquis de Gramont. Needless to say, we must ensure that everything is well-prepared for his stay here in New York. Wouldn't you agree, Charon?"

"Of course, sir." Charon tilts his head. "I will personally see to that, don't you worry. Is he still set to arrive tonight at the planned hour?"

"He should be here at 6 this evening. I trust that the... agitator is being dealt with?"

Charon walks in front of the counter, taking a parcel from a bellhop. He keeps his gaze trained on Chidi. "With compliments of the Continental, sir. The proprietor has ensured that the liability will be brought to the penthouse of the Marquis."

"Very good." Chidi taps Charon on the shoulder once, before walking away, a satisfied sneer on his face.

"Just remember, sir," Charon calls out to him, making his stop in his tracks, "that no business may be conducted on Continental grounds."

"Hmm."

After a moment, you move to stand beside Charon.

"So, sir, what was that all about?"

He turns his head towards you fondly. "I'm sure you've heard of Marquis Vincent de Gramont."

"Well, I've heard that he comes across as a pompous ass, if that's what you mean."

Charon simply raises his eyebrows at you, already accustomed to your blunt, sarcastic manner of speaking. "Well, he will be staying with us for a couple of days, as he has some... business to deal with."

"I won't even ask."

He moves to stand in front of you, finding your eyes. "Dear child, might I suggest steering clear of the Marquis and his associates whilst he is in residence with us here? It would simply be for the best. His reputation does preceed him."

You can't help but smile at Charon's nickname for you, one that heralds back to when your family first moved across the hall from him in one of the High Table sponsored apartment buildings in downtown Manhattan.

You had been only 12, but you were already well aware of your father's line of work. One that required him to be away on business to faraway cities each month, and caused him to rub elbows with the dregs of the underworld.

Not all of them were bad though. You grew fond of some of his associates, namely Charon, of course. And the one they called the Baba Yaga, but to you he was just Johnny.

John Wick hated the name, but he liked you, so the name stayed. Him and his then wife somehow became your second set of parents, with your dad never around and your mother usually drowning in her fancy liquor.

More than a decade later, your father met his end on one of his jobs. One that was only supposed to be "quick and easy". He promised he would be back to you in no time, with a box of your favourite chocolates from Paris.

But he never came. And neither did the fucking chocolates, which truthfully, you now hated. Your father lost his life in that city, so you grew to loathe everything about it.

And now comes the Marquis, the man practically in charge of all of Paris. Not to the public eye, of course.

If Charon asks you to steer clear of him, it must be for good reason.

But you've never been good at following orders. Or staying out of trouble. Or keeping your mouth shut.

"Whoever this Marquis is, I can handle him," you say determinedly. "I'll just act normal, do my job, go about business as usual."

Charon takes a deep breath, resigning himself. "Very well. Just try not to catch his eye." A tenant raises her hand, demanding his attention, so he starts to head her way.

"You know me," you call after him, an impish grin on your face. "I'm only a shadow."

The Marquis de Gramont stands in the ornate lobby of the Continental, surrounded by his posse. Clad in an impeccable three-piece cream suit, his hair perfectly coiffed, his polished shoes gleaming to the naked eye.

He is never beating those pompous ass allegations. You can't help but smirk from your post behind the concierge desk.

You look down briefly, smoothing out invisible creases on your black button-up shirt. Don't laugh. You roll out your shoulders. Compose yourself.

Winston and Charon had greeted his entourage upon entering, and they've been hashing out the details of his stay for the last minute or two. Apparently, the Marquis has some very specific demands. Of course he does.

Those in the group exchange some final words, nodding to each other, seemingly satisfied. Charon raises his arm, directing the Marquis. "Right this way, if you please."

Hands on his hips, the Marquis makes his way over to the private elevator. Which only means that he will have to pass by your post.

You try to keep your head down, as a practiced sign of cordiality. Also, so that you don't let out an impromptu sneer. But you can't help it. Right when he passes by, you raise your head.

And he is already looking straight at you.

The corner of his lips is in a downturn, as if he is judging you where you stand. Pompous prick.

You don't let it faze you. "Welcome to the Continental. We hope you enjoy your stay," you greet him, eyes not leaving his in some sort of defiance.

"Hmm." He walks by, slowly, and you only want to urge him on. But just when he is clear of the reception desk, he turns on his heel.

"What is your name?" He asks, a perfect brow raised in anticipation.

You answer him, keeping your voice steady. You've learned a long time ago not to allow men like him the chance to intimidate you.

A momentary pause, before he repeats your name. You want to hate the way he says it, as if he testing it on his tongue, seeing how it tastes.

But hell, that French accent can make anything sound heavenly.

"Is there a problem, monsieur?" Charon has moved to your side, wary of the attention from the marquis.

Marquis de Gramont barely acknowledges Charon with a sideways glance, before looking back to you. "Non, no problem at all."

He finally walks away. But of course, of course he has to drive a chill up your spine as he calls over his shoulder, "Have her come up to me in twenty minutes."

You grit your teeth in an attempt to maintain cordiality. "Excuse me, sir?" He could have at least addressed me himself.

Nothing. He doesn't even look back at you as he enters the elevator, head dipped in hushed whispers to his security team.

"So much for your being 'only a shadow', hmm?" Charon echoes your sentiment, which has just been apparently disproven.

Winston draws closer, worried look on his face as he says, "Quite a conundrum, dear one. I'm considering sending someone else in your place, however, he did ask for you markedly."

Your stomach churned. "Maybe he just needs some attending? Room service? Basic cleanup? I don't know..." Basic cleanup being clearing the blood of the surfaces of his penthouse, especially after he deals with the man the establishment had caught and presented to him.

Deals with. But not kill. Never that. Not whilst on Continental grounds, that is.

Winston responds, "Perhaps so. I trust that you will handle it? I know you can, child."

You straighten yourself. "Of course I can. He's just some overgrown French brat."

But what the fuck does he want?

"If anything," Winston adds calmly, "and worst comes to worst, your dear Uncle Johnny would surely be happy to lend a hand."

Of course he will. Feeling much lighter, you shoot a smile at Charon and Winston, before returning to your post behind the desk.

18 more minutes.

The Marquis stays in the biggest penthouse of the Continental. The most exclusive part of the property, made even more opulent per his request.

New pieces of artwork are hung on the walls, requested from some New York Baron's private collection. Not that he had a choice.

The man - the traitor - known as Laurent had been staying at the Continental in the week prior, stupidly believing that he is free of the Marquis.

It only took one phone call, and of course, Winston had to relent. They kept Laurent in one of their best suites, lulling him into a false sense of security, all while preparing for the Marquis' arrival.

Then Laurent's room was filled with nitrous oxide, and he was tied up and taken to the Marquis' penthouse.

Laurent sits in a lone wooden chair, nearly unconscious in the middle of the drawing room as you enter, a gash of deep red on his temple.

Chidi sits directly in front of him, seemingly carrying out the interrogation. His superior, on the other hand, lazily sits on the plush couch on the far side of the room. Looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here. As if there isn't a man being tortured right in front of his eyes.

One of his men announces your arrival, but you sense the Marquis has already noticed your presence.

You clear your throat. "You asked for me, sir?"

"Mmm," he hums, and tilts his head. "Tell me, what was so funny?"

"I'm sorry?"

"When you first saw me in the lobby," he stands, stalking over to you, "you smirked. I wish to know what it was that brought you to react in such a manner."

This is why he asked for me? Because I smirked? Oh, for fuck's -

He steps forward, closer. "Cat got your tongue?"

"No, sir, I... I must admit, I don't quite remember what you speak of. I smirk to myself all the time. I've got plenty of inside jokes and all that."

"To yourself?"

"Yes."

"Are you... well in the head?" He twirls his fingers beside his temple. The bastard.

"Yes, Marquis." You take a deep breath, but you can't help yourself. "But I assure you I'm just as demented as you are."

A gloom falls over his face, and you sense his security team tense up. Preparing for him to say the word.

Your eyes trail around the room, and continue, "And everyone else in this world of ours."

The Marquis stares at you. Half-indignant, and dare you think it, half-amused.

His lips twitch, fighting back a smirk of his own, and his eyes rake your figure. From your uniform shoes to your hands to your lips. Then back to your gaze.

"Fair point." He shrugs, and the room settles once again. His men look away from the pair of you.

He turns, beckoning you to follow. A few feet in front of Laurent, he asks, "What do you make of this?"

Of this? You mean of him? The way the Marquis speaks, as if Laurent is merely a thing to be dealt with and not a person, bothers you. But such is the way of your world.

"Laurent Castillon. French-Italian sommelier. If I understand correctly, he cheated you out of what would have been successful dinner plans."

Sommelier, an arms dealer. Dinner plans, whatever you can concoct with the use of guns. You're more than accustomed to the language, having picked it up over the years.

"Excellent." The Marquis clasps his hands, pleased. "Now, what do you make of this? What would you do, if you were in my shoes?"

He is testing you, prodding you on. Seeing if you would curl back in your shell or flinch.

Is there a wrong answer here, or is this all just some game?

"I would set things right, I suppose."

"You suppose?" He repeats, dissatisfied. "We don't deal in half measures."

"I would - ," you look him directly in his eyes, "I would make him pay."

Something sparks in Marquis de Gramont's eyes. Recognition? Appreciation? Excitement?

"Won't that be a waste?" He takes a step closer, eliminating the space between you.

Stand your ground.

You shrug, "Such is life."

He smiles, "Indeed, petit moineau."

In a flash, without breaking your gaze, he takes a handgun from the inner lining of his jacket and shoots Laurent in the knee. He keels over, screaming.

The familiar sound rings in your ears, making you dig your nails in the flesh of your palm.

The Marquis does not even flinch, does not even look at Laurent who is writhing on the floor in pain.

"And what now?" He rubs an eyebrow with his thumb, still holding his gun carelessly with that hand.

"That depends." What the fuck did he call me? Moineau? "How gracious do you feel tonight?"

"Why?"

"Well," you say carefully, knowing the wrong word might set him off, "you could let the fool go. You've already taught him a lesson."

A long, torturous pause. He does not seem to like that suggestion.

"Take him away." He gives a sudden order, and all his men rush to obey. Seconds pass, and Laurent is out of your sight. Only Chidi and two other men are left hovering in the corner.

"Leave us," the Marquis finally says. Well, shit.

The door shuts behind the men, and you are left alone, with one of the most notorious men in the city. Perhaps the world.

"What's going to happen to him?" You find yourself asking, to fill the silence and also because you're genuinely curious.

He looks at you in confusion, as if the answer is the most obvious thing. "He dies, of course."

You swallow, a picture of forced composure. "Of course."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure, not here on the Continental and all that nonsense. But it does not matter. He dies anyway."

He dies. He says that so easily, like a life means nothing. It probably means nothing to him. Your father would probably have only been another life to spend, just another one in the roster, in his eyes.

"I hope you aren't busy," he says, walking to the other room.

"What did you have in mind?" Why can't he just send me away already?

"We shall dine together. I could use the company."

You grumble under your breath, "So much for being a shadow."

"Pardon?" He asks, just before reaching the archway to the dining room.

"I said, it would be my pleasure."

"Hmm."

Two can play at this game, Marquis.

My HotD series works are not going to be discontinued. The next part to fire like yours will be up next, but don't hold me to it 🖤😉

More Marquis, just as it should be.

And even more to come - taglist open!