Special Promot Valentine day.
How Do Suitors Celebrate Valentine's Day with You? â From grand gestures to quiet moments, how do they show their love? Pairing ; Ikemen Villain (Harrison and Liam) and Ikemen Vampire (Faust and Comte) Bonus Mozart.
Header Credit: Ikemen Series
Pairing: Multi Scenario x gender neutral!Reader.
Tags : Slow-burn Romance, Intense & Unsettling Affection, Dark Yet Tender Love, Suitor Being Crypticâ˘, Obsession Disguised as Devotion, Acts of Service as Love Language, Possessive Undertones, Fluff, Slow-burn Romance, Gothic & Haunting Romance, Mortal vs Immortal Themes, A Love That Borders on MadnessLove Through Music, Soft Yet Awkward Affection, Private Serenade, Love Language, Subtle but Deeply Felt Affection.
Warning : Dark & Intense Romantic Themes, Mild Emotional Repression, Awkward Yet Endearing Affection, Canon-Typical Moodiness, Brief Touching & Hand Kissing. Morbid Imagery & Medical References, Intimate Yet Unnerving Gestures. Lavish Displays of Affection â Expect grand romantic gestures.
A/N : Request from @ike-garden2024, for special Valentine promotion: (1) How Do Suitors Celebrate Valentineâs Day with You? â From grand gestures to quiet moments, how do they show their love?. For ikemen Villian; Liam and Harrison and the vampire Ikemen; Faust and Comte, Bonus, Mozart.
The following is my interpretation of what I believe Liam, Harrison, Faust, Comte and Mozart would say and act, and I kindly apologize if it does not align perfectly with the character or if you have a different understanding. Please bear in mind that it is intended purely for entertainment purposes and should not be taken to heart.
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Valentineâs Day with Harrison Gray â âThe Weight of a Gentlemanâs Heartâ
Harrison Gray is a man of precision, order, and cold calculation. There is no room for frivolity in his world, no space for sentiment. And yet⌠when it comes to you, all his carefully laid defenses crumble like dust beneath your touch.
Morning â A Gentlemanâs Restraint
The day begins in the same meticulous fashion that Harrison Gray governs every aspect of his lifeâpredictably, efficiently, without deviation.
His mornings are usually spent in his study, reviewing documents, writing letters, ensuring that the world he controls remains exactly as he intends.
Yet today, as he stands by the window, the golden light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtainsâhis mind is elsewhere.
The thought of you is an intrusion, a disruption, an irritation.
And yet, as he stares down at the single sealed envelope upon his desk, its contents written in his own careful hand, he exhales slowly.
"Sentiment is a foolish thing," he mutters. And yet, the letter remains.
A carefully penned noteâone that he has rewritten three times over, discarding every word that felt too revealing, too indulgent.
A confession that he cannot bring himself to speak aloud.
The knock at the door startles him.
When you step inside, the very sight of youâ dressed in soft morning attire, your presence filling his private world - unsettles him in a way he refuses to name.
You tilt your head, studying him.
"You seem distracted this morning, Harrison."
He scoffs, gathering his composure."Nonsense. I am precisely as I always am." But thenâhe hesitates.
His gaze flickers to the letter still resting upon his desk. Slowly, methodically, he slides it toward you. "I would have had this delivered, but since you are hereâŚ"
You blink, looking from him to the letter, curiosity flickering across your expression.
And yet, as you break the seal and your eyes scan the precisely written lines of ink, he cannot bear to look at you.
Because the words upon that pageâthough still carefully restrainedâare the closest thing to a confession he has ever allowed himself ;
"You are an enigma to me. A disruption. A force that does not bend to my carefully laid plans. And yet⌠I find that I do not wish for you to leave. I find that, despite my better judgment, I have come to rely upon your presence. I do not know what to make of this feeling. I do not know if I care to understand it. But what I do know is thisâI would rather have you near me than not at all."
Your breath catches. "HarrisonâŚ"
He cuts you off, his expression unreadable, his tone clipped. "That is all. There is no need for a response."
A pause. And then, in a voice softer than you have ever heard from himâ "Simply⌠stay."
Afternoon â A Gift with No Name
Harrison Gray does not entertain frivolities.
And yet, the mere idea of todayâ a day dedicated to meaningless sentimentâ has left him restless.
He is a man of practicality, of precision. If he is to offer you something, it must be worthy of you.
Thus, as you walk into the drawing room, your eyes widen at the sight before you.
Upon a velvet-lined case, laid out with immaculate care, is a necklace unlike any you have ever seen.
"A trinket. Nothing more." His voice is firm, dismissive. And yetâhis hand twitches at his side.
A beautiful sapphire rests at the center of the piece, deep as the ocean, its facets catching the light with every movement. The chain is intricate, woven with the finest goldânot ostentatious, but impossibly elegant.
It is, in every way, something carefully chosen.
Something that could only belong to you.
Your fingers brush against it, reverent.
And then, his hand ghosts along the nape of your neck, gathering your hair to the side.
Your heart pounds as he clasps the necklace in place, his fingers brushing the bare skin at your throat.
The contact is briefâfleeting.
And yet, the silence between you is thick with something unspoken.
The way he says itâ so quietly, so finalâmakes your breath hitch. He steps away. "That is all."
Because if he lingers, if he lets himself soften any furtherâhe may not be able to stop himself.
Evening â A Dance with the Devil
The ballroom is grand, filled with music and movement, the glittering elite of society swirling in an endless waltz.
And yetâthe moment Harrison steps into the room with you upon his arm, the world stills.
For Harrison Gray does not dance. He does not entertain, he does not engage in pleasantries.
Yet here he is, his posture impeccable, his hand firm at the small of your back as he leads you onto the floor.
"They are staring." His voice is low, edged with irritation.
You smirk. "Perhaps they are wondering if you will finally crack a smile tonight."
And yet, as he spins you in perfect time with the music, his gaze never leaves yours.
There is something in his expressionâsomething raw, something unsaid.
And when he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "I should not have allowed this."
You tilt your head. "Allowed what?"
"This." His fingers tighten at your waist. "You."
"You have ruined me, you understand?"
The words are a confession, a damnation, an admission of defeat.
And yet, as he pulls you impossibly closeâhis breath warm against your ear, his heart beating in tandem with yoursâ
You know that he would not have it any other way.
"Happy Valentineâs Day, my dear."
Harrison Gray does not indulge in love.
And yet, for youâhe will allow himself this one moment.
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Valentineâs Day with Liam Evans â âA Thiefâs Most Precious Treasureâ
Liam Evans has spent his life taking, stealing whatever he pleases without a second thought. Yet, when it comes to you, he finds himself wanting to giveâthough he knows a man like him should never dream of keeping something so pure. But just for today, he will pretend that he can
Morning â A Thiefâs Softest Hour
The morning drifts in softly, slipping through the heavy curtains in thin streaks of pale gold. The fire in the hearth has long since dimmed to embers, leaving behind a quiet warmth in the room.
But warmer still is the presence beside you.
Liam Evansâa man who moves through life with the ease of a shadow, yet here he is, bound to the bed by nothing more than sleep and the slow rise and fall of his breath.
His hair, always so neatly combed when in public, is a little tousled now, dark magenta strands catching the light as they spill against the pillow. His face, hardened by a life of crime, is at its most unguarded.
A low, lazy hum escapes him before his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.
"Mm... And where do you think youâre sneakinâ off to, dove?â
His voice is still thick with sleep, a slow, indulgent drawl as his lips brush against the delicate skin of your temple.
You smile, amused. âI wasnât sneaking off anywhere.â
His grip tightensânot enough to hold you captive, but enough that you can feel the heat of his body against yours.
"Stay a little longer.â His voice dips lower, almost hesitant. "Ainât often I get to wake up with somethinâ good beside me.â
And there it is. Liam Evans, at his most honest.
Love, for him, has never been something gentle. It has been stolen, clawed at, fought for. But in this momentâit is simply quiet.
Afternoon â A Gift Only a Thief Could Give
Liam is not a man of grand gestures.
There are no roses, no sonnets whispered beneath the moonlight. He does not deal in things so fleeting.
But when you step into the drawing room, there it is.
Laid across the tableâa gown.
A masterpiece of silk and lace, its color deep as the midnight sky, its embroidery silver like the stars.
Before you can even form a question, his voice cuts in from the doorway.
"Donât ask how I got it.â
Thereâs a smirk in his tone, but his eyes watch you carefully, as if bracing for your reaction.
Your fingers brush against the fabric, marveling at its softness. "Itâs beautiful," you murmur.
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, perhaps.
"Had it made for ya." His voice lowers. "Wanted ya to have somethinâ thatâs only ever been touched by your hands."
And thatâthat is what he truly means.
A thief. A man who has spent his life taking.
But for you? For you, he wants to give.
Evening â A Dance With the Devil
The grand hall is filled with soft candlelight, the air humming with the murmur of nobility.
It is a place of power, of wealthâa world Liam despises.
Yet tonight, he stands at your side.
Dressed in a sharp black waistcoat, his cravat slightly loosened, his gloved hands resting in his pocketsâ he looks every bit the gentleman he refuses to be.
But it is only when his eyes land on youâwrapped in the very gown he gave youâthat his posture stills.
A flicker of something dangerous passes over his face. Possessive. Fierce.
"Look at you," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. "Walkinâ in here like a dream I ainât allowed to have."
Liamâs hand extends toward you, palm up, a silent command.
There is no choice in his voice. But his touch, when you take his hand, is reverent.
The moment he leads you onto the ballroom floor, every eye turns to you both.
But Liam does not look at them. His world narrows to you and you alone.
"I ainât a good man, dove.â His breath brushes against your ear as he leads you in time with the music. âBut if I was⌠if things were differentâŚâ
Your heart twists. You know what he means.
But instead of answering, you only tighten your grip on his hand.
And for a momentâjust oneâhis steps falter.
"Damn it, dove." His forehead presses against yours, eyes burning with something raw. "How dâyou always make me feel like this?"
And thenâhe kisses you.
Not like a nobleman. Not like a gentleman.
But like a thiefâtaking, desperate, as if he will never have another chance.
Night â A Thiefâs Final Confession
The night air is crisp as you step onto the balcony. Beyond the estate, the city is silent, the gas lamps flickering like distant stars.
Liam stands there, one foot braced against the railing, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
The soft glow of the embers casts fleeting shadows across his sharp features.
You step beside him, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders.
"You look like you have something on your mind." Liam exhales, watching the smoke curl into the night.
"Thinkinâ âbout how I donât deserve this."
His tone is light, but there is something bitter underneath.
He gestures vaguelyâto the world, to the stars, to you.
"Ainât never had a damn thing that wasnât taken with blood or lies. And yet, here you are."
You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.
"I chose to be here, Liam."
And thenâhe grips your wrist, pulling you between his legs.
"If thatâs true, then promise me somethinâ."
Your pulse pounds. "Anything."
There is no jest in his voice, no smirk to hide behind.
Just a manâbattered, broken, yet willing to kneel before love if it means keeping you.
You cup his face, tracing the scar at his lip, the rough stubble along his jaw.
For the first time that night, Liam Evans has no words.
Insteadâhe kisses you again.
Slow. Desperate. Like a man who has stolen countless treasures, yet knows that you are the only one he truly wants to keep.
And for tonightâfor this stolen momentâhe lets himself believe that he can.
âHappy Valentineâs Day, dove.â
For the first time in his life, Liam Evans does not want to steal.
He simply wants to be yours.
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Valentineâs Day with Faust â âA Heart That Should Not Beatâ
To love is to be human. To be human is to be weak. And yet⌠when he looks at you, when he hears the steady rhythm of your pulse beneath fragile skinâhe wonders if the greatest flaw of his kind is not immortality, but the ability to feel at all.
Morning â A Gift Without Words
The first sign of Valentineâs Day comes not in whispered declarations or lavish gestures, but in something more subtle.
You wake to find a single book placed upon your writing desk.
It is aged, its leather cover worn from years of use, the gold embossing nearly faded. When you run your fingers along its spine, it feels almost fragile, as though it has existed longer than your own lifetime.
There is no note. No signature. But you know exactly who left it.
You turn the pages, immediately noticing somethingâannotations, scrawled in an elegant but sharp hand. His notes.
He never does anything without reason, and so you read.
The book is a medical text, one of the earliest theories on alchemy and the human soul. And yet, in the margins, his thoughts have been penned in careful, deliberate strokes:
âIf the soul is nothing more than the product of electric impulses within the brain, does love not become a mere illusion of chemistry?â
âA manâs heart beats only until it ceases. But what of those whose hearts have already stopped?â
The weight of these words lingers in your chest long after you close the book.
Afternoon â The Scientist and His Confession
Finding Faust is never a simple task. He does not wish to be found. And yet, you know where he will be.
The laboratory is buried deep within the estate, its air thick with the scents of ink, aged parchment, and the faintest trace of chemicals.
When you enter, you see himâcloaked in shadow, candlelight flickering against the lenses of his spectacles. His gloved hands move with precision, assembling vials and glass instruments as though preparing for some great experiment.
âYou read it.â It is not a question.
You step closer. âI did.â
Your fingers tighten around the book. âYou already know my answer.â
Finally, his jade eyes lift to meet yours. A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.
And thenâ âDo I?â You swallow.
There is something unnerving about the way he watches you, as though you are not a person but a specimen under his observation. And yet, beneath that sharp, clinical detachment⌠there is something else.
Something far more dangerous.
âWhy that book, Faust?â
His lips curve into something that is not quite a smirk. âBecause it was the first book I read after my death.â
The words settle between you, heavy with unspoken meaning.
The first book after his death.
After he was reborn into something beyond human.
You step closer. âThen⌠does that mean you regret it? Becoming what you are now?â
For a moment, he does not answer.
And then, in a movement so fluid it is almost imperceptible, he is suddenly before you, towering over you, fingers reaching toward your wrist.
His thumb brushes against your pulse point. Light. Testing.
 âI have never regretted it,â he murmurs.
His grip tightensânot enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of what he is.
Your heart pounds beneath his touchâloud, steady, alive.
A sound that he has long since lost.
Evening â The Taste of a Question
The estate is quiet when night falls.
Dinner has come and gone, yet Faust remains. You find him in the grand study, where the glow of the fireplace casts his sharp features in flickering gold and shadow.
In his hand, a glass of red wine sits untouched.
He does not acknowledge your presence at first. But when you step closer, the corners of his lips twitch.
âYou are persistent, little dove.âÂ
You fold your arms. âAnd you are avoiding me.â
A soft chuckle. âPerhaps.â
His gaze flickers to the book still clutched in your hands. âYou should keep it.â
Your fingers tighten around the leather binding. âWhy?â
Faust does not answer immediately. Instead, he leans forward, resting his chin upon his hand as he studies you.
âDo you know the origins of Valentineâs Day?â
You exhale a soft laugh. âA day for lovers?â
âNo,â he corrects, âa day for sacrifice.â
The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.
 âSaint Valentine was martyred. He bled, and now mortals celebrate his death with chocolate and flowers. It is almost poetic, donât you think?â
âThen tell me, Faust. If today is a day of sacrificeâwhat have you given up?â
A long pause. And thenâ He moves.
Too fast. Too fluid. Before you can react, he is standing before you, his gloved hand tilting your chin upward.
âDo you want the real answer?â His thumb brushes against your lower lip. A touch so light, yet so consuming.
âI have given up my peace.â
âMy control.â His lips hover just above yoursâa breath away, a decision unmade.
âBecause of you.â The words are a confession and a condemnation. And yet, as he finally steps back, retreating into the depths of his mindâ
He has already surrendered to you completely.
âHappy Valentineâs Day, my little dove.â
And though his heart should not beatâon this night, for you, it does.
âďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďš
Valentineâs Day with Comte de Saint-Germain â âA Love That Defies Timeâ
Centuries have come and gone, yet no passage of time has ever moved him. That is, until you. Until this single moment, where eternity feels like a gift instead of a curse.
Morning â A Gift Wrapped in Mystery
The estate is still shrouded in early morning mist when a knock echoes at your chamber door.
Not urgent. Not hurried. Just⌠patient.
The way only Comte would knock.
When you open the door, you find no one waiting. Only a single box, exquisitely wrapped in fine silk, resting upon a silver tray.
Your name is written in elegant script upon a folded letter.
âGood morning, ma chĂŠrie. You are cordially invited to spend the day in my company. I do hope you will acceptâafter all, it would be most impolite to refuse a host on such a special occasion. Follow the petals.â
Your lips curl into a smile.
And then you see themâred rose petals, scattered along the floor, leading away from your door and down the grand staircase.
Afternoon â A Courtship from Another Era
The trail of petals leads you not to the grand dining hall nor the parlor, but to the conservatoryâa sunlit haven filled with exotic plants, the scent of roses and citrus hanging in the air.
And there, at the center, Comte waits.
Dressed in his finest, a glass of deep red wine resting in his hand, his golden eyes gleaming as he watches you approach.
âAh, there you are. I was beginning to worry Iâd been abandoned.â
A smirk tugs at his lips as he gestures toward a lavishly set table.
"Come, ma belle. I had the kitchen prepare something special just for you."
The meal is an exquisite array of delicaciesâartfully arranged fruits, delicate pastries, fine cheese, and a pot of your favorite tea.
But the true indulgence is the way Comte watches you.
"Did you know, in my time, Valentineâs Day was not merely an occasion for gifts, but for grand gestures of devotion?"
You arch a brow. "And how did men of your era court the ones they loved?"
"Through poetry. Serenades. Secret letters slipped into gloves or hidden beneath a ladyâs plate at supper. Each act was a declarationâan unspoken promise."
His gaze darkensânot with mischief, but something deeper.
"I fear, however, that mere words may never be enough to express what I feel for you."
Evening â A Dance That Defies Time
By the time night falls, the estate is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight.
You are surprised when Comte does not lead you to the ballroomâbut instead, to the gardens.
A violinist stands waiting beneath the stars, the first notes of a waltz drifting into the crisp night air.
And thenâhis hand is extended toward you.
"Dance with me, ma chĂŠrie." He does not wait for an answer.
He sweeps you into his arms, and before you can even take a breath, you are spinning beneath the moonlight, the world fading until all that remains is him.
His touch is gentle yet unyielding, the warmth of his palm resting against the small of your back, guiding you effortlessly through each step.
"Did I ever tell you," he murmurs, "that once, long ago, I believed love to be nothing more than a fleeting illusion?"
You glance up at him, but his golden eyes are already fixed on you.
"And now?" His lips curve into the faintest of smilesâbut it is not playful. It is reverent. "Now, I know the truth."
The violinist plays on, but you barely hear the music anymore.
Because Comte bends forward, his breath ghosting against your temple as he whispersâ
"You are the only moment in all of eternity that I wish to last forever."
Night â A Promise That Defies Mortality
Later, when the world is quiet and the fire in his study casts long shadows against the walls, Comte takes your hand in his.
And he kisses your wristâ not with hunger, nor temptation.
But with something infinitely softer. With devotion.
"It is a cruel thing, ma belle," he muses, *"to love and yet be forced to watch time steal it away."
"But with you, I feel something I have not felt in centuries."
Your breath hitches. "What is that?"
His lips graze the back of your fingers. "Hope."
You close your eyes, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in your soul.
And in that moment, you realizeâ For a man who has spent eternity watching the world change, you are the one thing he wishes would never fade.
"Joyeuse Saint-Valentin, ma chĂŠrie."
And though time will march ever forward, in his arms, you feel infinite.
âďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďš
Valentineâs Day with Mozart â âA Symphony for Twoâ
Music is his language. Silence is his sanctuary. Love is the one composition he has never dared to writeâuntil you.
Mozart is not one for grand displays.
He does not shower you with roses, nor does he whisper flowery words of affection. Instead, his love is quietâfelt in the spaces between moments, in the echoes of melodies left unsung.
When you wake, there is no extravagant gesture waiting at your bedside.
No card. No carefully arranged flowers.
Only a single sheet of music, placed upon your pillow.
The notes are unfamiliar.
You trace your fingers over the staff lines, reading the melody in your mindâa delicate composition, gentle and yearning, as if each note is reaching for something just out of reach.
And at the bottom, scrawled in sharp yet elegant handwriting:
No signature. But there is no need for one.
Afternoon â A Musicianâs Courtship
Finding Mozart in the daylight hours is always a challenge.
But today, you know where he will be.
When you step inside, you find him at the grand piano, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the ivory keys, lost in a melody only he can hear.
He does not acknowledge you at first.
But thenâhis playing shifts.
The notes soften, the rhythm adjustingâas if welcoming your presence, as if rewriting the music to include you.
You step closer, placing the sheet music on the piano beside him.
His fingers falterâjust slightly.
And then, without looking at you, he muttersâ
"Tch. Donât make a big deal out of it."
A man whose affections are buried beneath sharp words and guarded silences.
And yetâhis music betrays him.
Evening â A Private Performance
Dinner is a quiet affair.
Mozart does not join the others at the long dining table, nor does he engage in the estateâs usual festivities.
Instead, when the world outside is dark and the air thick with the scent of burning candles, he finds you.
No explanation. No warning.
Just a command, gruff yet expectant.
He leads you to the empty ballroomâa vast, open space bathed in moonlight.
And at the center, waiting for youâa violin.
"Youâre always complaining you donât get to hear me play," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "So listen."
Before you can respond, he lifts the instrument, settling it against his shoulder, his bow poised above the strings.
Soft at first, almost hesitantâand then swelling, cascading, filling every inch of the room.
A melody of longing and tenderness, of passion restrained, of love spoken in a language older than words.
You are rooted to the spot, unable to look away.
Because this is Mozartâs love letter.
Not whispered in the dark.
But played with every ounce of his soul.
Night â A Love That Transcends Sound
When the final note fades, there is a silence that stretches between you.
Mozart exhales slowly, lowering his violin.
And then, at last, he meets your gaze.
"You⌠liked it?"
His voice is quiet.
Almost uncertain.
You step closerâslowly, carefully, as if approaching a skittish animal.
"It was beautiful."
His jaw tightens. A muscle in his throat moves as he swallows.
And then, in one swift motionâhe turns away.
"Tch. Of course it was. Itâs my composition."
You bite back a laugh. This man.
Even now, he refuses to let down his walls completely.
And yetâthe tips of his ears are flushed.
Before he can move, you reach outâcatching his sleeve, stopping him. "Mozart."
He stiffens.
And then, slowly, he lets you turn him back to face you.
Your fingers brush against hisâlight, tentative.
He does not pull away.
Instead, he exhalesâa quiet, defeated sound.
"You drive me insane, you know that?"
His hand curls around yoursâtight, warm.
"But if I had to compose only one piece for the rest of my eternityâŚ"
He lifts your joined handsâbringing your fingers to his lips.
A kiss.
Soft. Fleeting.
"It would be for you."
"Happy Valentineâs Day, liebling."
And in that moment, you realizeâMozart does not need words.
Because his love is already a melody, written in every note, every glance, every touch.
And it is yours.
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Written by : @eternaldarknesswitch
