Special Promot Valentine day.
How Do Suitors Celebrate Valentine's Day with You? – 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 Cryptic™, 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 – Expect grand romantic gestures.
A/N : Request from @ike-garden2024, for special Valentine promotion: (1) How Do Suitors Celebrate Valentine’s Day with You? – 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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Harrison Gray
Valentine’s Day with Harrison Gray – “The Weight of a Gentleman’s Heart”
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 – A Gentleman’s Restraint
The day begins in the same meticulous fashion that Harrison Gray governs every aspect of his life—predictably, 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 curtains—his mind is elsewhere.
You.
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 note—one 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.
"Come in."
When you step inside, the very sight of you— 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 then—he 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 here…"
A beat of silence.
You blink, looking from him to the letter, curiosity flickering across your expression.
"May I open it?"
His jaw tightens.
"Do as you please."
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 page—though still carefully restrained—are 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 this—I would rather have you near me than not at all."
Your breath catches. "Harrison…"
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 him— "Simply… stay."
Afternoon – A Gift with No Name
Harrison Gray does not entertain frivolities.
And yet, the mere idea of today— a day dedicated to meaningless sentiment— 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.
"Harrison, this is—"
"A trinket. Nothing more." His voice is firm, dismissive. And yet—his 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 gold—not 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.
"Why?"
A sharp inhale.
And then, his hand ghosts along the nape of your neck, gathering your hair to the side.
"Turn around."
Your heart pounds as he clasps the necklace in place, his fingers brushing the bare skin at your throat.
The contact is brief—fleeting.
And yet, the silence between you is thick with something unspoken.
"Harrison…"
"It suits you."
The way he says it— so quietly, so final—makes your breath hitch. He steps away. "That is all."
Because if he lingers, if he lets himself soften any further—he may not be able to stop himself.
Evening – 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 yet—the moment Harrison steps into the room with you upon his arm, the world stills.
The murmurs begin.
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."
A scoff."Fools."
And yet, as he spins you in perfect time with the music, his gaze never leaves yours.
There is something in his expression—something 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?"
A pause.
A hesitation.
"This." His fingers tighten at your waist. "You."
A sharp inhale.
"You have ruined me, you understand?"
The words are a confession, a damnation, an admission of defeat.
And yet, as he pulls you impossibly close—his breath warm against your ear, his heart beating in tandem with yours—
You know that he would not have it any other way.
"Happy Valentine’s Day, my dear."
Harrison Gray does not indulge in love.
And yet, for you—he will allow himself this one moment.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Liam Evans
Valentine’s Day with Liam Evans – “A Thief’s Most Precious Treasure”
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 give—though 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 – A Thief’s 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 Evans—a 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.
And yet—he stirs.
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 you’re sneakin’ off to, dove?”
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. “I wasn’t sneaking off anywhere.”
"Liar.”
His grip tightens—not enough to hold you captive, but enough that you can feel the heat of his body against yours.
"Stay a little longer.” His voice dips lower, almost hesitant. "Ain’t often I get to wake up with somethin’ good beside me.”
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 moment—it is simply quiet.
And so, you stay.
Afternoon – 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 table—a gown.
Not just any gown.
A masterpiece of silk and lace, its color deep as the midnight sky, its embroidery silver like the stars.
Your breath catches.
Before you can even form a question, his voice cuts in from the doorway.
"Don’t ask how I got it.”
There’s 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. "It’s beautiful," you murmur.
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, perhaps.
"Had it made for ya." His voice lowers. "Wanted ya to have somethin’ that’s only ever been touched by your hands."
And that—that 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 – 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 wealth—a 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 pockets— he looks every bit the gentleman he refuses to be.
But it is only when his eyes land on you—wrapped in the very gown he gave you—that 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. "Walkin’ in here like a dream I ain’t allowed to have."
A waltz begins.
Liam’s hand extends toward you, palm up, a silent command.
"Dance with me."
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 ain’t a good man, dove.” His breath brushes against your ear as he leads you in time with the music. “But if I was… if things were different…”
His words trail off.
Your heart twists. You know what he means.
But instead of answering, you only tighten your grip on his hand.
And for a moment—just one—his steps falter.
"Damn it, dove." His forehead presses against yours, eyes burning with something raw. "How d’you always make me feel like this?"
And then—he kisses you.
Not like a nobleman. Not like a gentleman.
But like a thief—taking, desperate, as if he will never have another chance.
Night – A Thief’s 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.
"Thinkin’ ‘bout how I don’t deserve this."
His tone is light, but there is something bitter underneath.
He gestures vaguely—to the world, to the stars, to you.
"Ain’t never had a damn thing that wasn’t 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."
A sharp inhale.
And then—he grips your wrist, pulling you between his legs.
"If that’s true, then promise me somethin’."
Your pulse pounds. "Anything."
"Don’t leave me."
There is no jest in his voice, no smirk to hide behind.
Just a man—battered, 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.
"I won’t."
For the first time that night, Liam Evans has no words.
Instead—he 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 tonight—for this stolen moment—he lets himself believe that he can.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, dove.”
For the first time in his life, Liam Evans does not want to steal.
He simply wants to be yours.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Faust.
Valentine’s Day with Faust – “A Heart That Should Not Beat”
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 skin—he wonders if the greatest flaw of his kind is not immortality, but the ability to feel at all.
Morning – A Gift Without Words
The first sign of Valentine’s 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.
Faust.
You turn the pages, immediately noticing something—annotations, 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:
“If the soul is nothing more than the product of electric impulses within the brain, does love not become a mere illusion of chemistry?”
Another:
“A man’s heart beats only until it ceases. But what of those whose hearts have already stopped?”
The weight of these words lingers in your chest long after you close the book.
Afternoon – 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 him—cloaked 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.
He does not look up.
“You read it.” It is not a question.
You step closer. “I did.”
“And?”
Your fingers tighten around the book. “You already know my answer.”
Finally, his jade eyes lift to meet yours. A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.
And then— “Do I?” 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.
“Why that book, Faust?”
His lips curve into something that is not quite a smirk. “Because it was the first book I read after my death.”
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. “Then… does that mean you regret it? Becoming what you are now?”
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.
“I have never regretted it,” he murmurs.
His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of what he is.
“Until now.”
Your heart pounds beneath his touch—loud, steady, alive.
A sound that he has long since lost.
Evening – 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.
“You are persistent, little dove.”
You fold your arms. “And you are avoiding me.”
A soft chuckle. “Perhaps.”
His gaze flickers to the book still clutched in your hands. “You should keep it.”
Your fingers tighten around the leather binding. “Why?”
Faust does not answer immediately. Instead, he leans forward, resting his chin upon his hand as he studies you.
“Do you know the origins of Valentine’s Day?”
You exhale a soft laugh. “A day for lovers?”
“No,” he corrects, “a day for sacrifice.”
The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.
“Saint Valentine was martyred. He bled, and now mortals celebrate his death with chocolate and flowers. It is almost poetic, don’t you think?”
Your throat tightens.
“Then tell me, Faust. If today is a day of sacrifice—what have you given up?”
A long pause. And then— He moves.
Too fast. Too fluid. Before you can react, he is standing before you, his gloved hand tilting your chin upward.
“Do you want the real answer?” His thumb brushes against your lower lip. A touch so light, yet so consuming.
“I have given up my peace.”
Your breath catches.
“My clarity.”
“My control.” His lips hover just above yours—a breath away, a decision unmade.
“Because of you.” The words are a confession and a condemnation. And yet, as he finally steps back, retreating into the depths of his mind—
You know.
He has already surrendered to you completely.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, my little dove.”
And though his heart should not beat—on this night, for you, it does.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Comte de Saint-Germain.
Valentine’s Day with Comte de Saint-Germain – “A Love That Defies Time”
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 – 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.
“Good morning, ma chérie. You are cordially invited to spend the day in my company. I do hope you will accept—after all, it would be most impolite to refuse a host on such a special occasion. Follow the petals.”
Your lips curl into a smile.
And then you see them—red rose petals, scattered along the floor, leading away from your door and down the grand staircase.
Afternoon – A Courtship from Another Era
The trail of petals leads you not to the grand dining hall nor the parlor, but to the conservatory—a 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.
“Ah, there you are. I was beginning to worry I’d been abandoned.”
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 delicacies—artfully 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, Valentine’s 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?"
A soft chuckle.
"Through poetry. Serenades. Secret letters slipped into gloves or hidden beneath a lady’s plate at supper. Each act was a declaration—an unspoken promise."
His gaze darkens—not with mischief, but something deeper.
Something eternal.
"I fear, however, that mere words may never be enough to express what I feel for you."
Evening – 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 ballroom—but instead, to the gardens.
A violinist stands waiting beneath the stars, the first notes of a waltz drifting into the crisp night air.
And then—his hand is extended toward you.
"Dance with me, ma chérie." 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?"
Your heart stutters.
You glance up at him, but his golden eyes are already fixed on you.
"And now?" His lips curve into the faintest of smiles—but 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 whispers—
"You are the only moment in all of eternity that I wish to last forever."
Night – 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 wrist— 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."
A pause.
"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 realize— 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 chérie."
And though time will march ever forward, in his arms, you feel infinite.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Bonus!
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Valentine’s Day with Mozart – “A Symphony for Two”
Music is his language. Silence is his sanctuary. Love is the one composition he has never dared to write—until you.
Morning – A Quiet Gift
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 quiet—felt 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 mind—a 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:
"For you."
No signature. But there is no need for one.
Afternoon – A Musician’s Courtship
Finding Mozart in the daylight hours is always a challenge.
But today, you know where he will be.
The music room.
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 then—his playing shifts.
The notes soften, the rhythm adjusting—as if welcoming your presence, as if rewriting the music to include you.
You step closer, placing the sheet music on the piano beside him.
"You wrote this for me."
His fingers falter—just slightly.
A pause.
And then, without looking at you, he mutters—
"Tch. Don’t make a big deal out of it."
You smile.
Because this is Mozart.
A man whose affections are buried beneath sharp words and guarded silences.
And yet—his music betrays him.
Evening – 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 estate’s usual festivities.
Instead, when the world outside is dark and the air thick with the scent of burning candles, he finds you.
"Come with me."
No explanation. No warning.
Just a command, gruff yet expectant.
And so you follow.
He leads you to the empty ballroom—a vast, open space bathed in moonlight.
And at the center, waiting for you—a violin.
"You’re always complaining you don’t 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.
And then— Music.
Soft at first, almost hesitant—and 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 Mozart’s love letter.
Not written in ink.
Not whispered in the dark.
But played with every ounce of his soul.
Night – 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 closer—slowly, 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 motion—he turns away. "Tch. Of course it was. It’s my composition."
You bite back a laugh. This man.
Even now, he refuses to let down his walls completely.
And yet—the tips of his ears are flushed.
Before he can move, you reach out—catching his sleeve, stopping him. "Mozart."
He stiffens. And then, slowly, he lets you turn him back to face you.
Your fingers brush against his—light, tentative.
He does not pull away. Instead, he exhales—a quiet, defeated sound. "You drive me insane, you know that?" His hand curls around yours—tight, warm. "But if I had to compose only one piece for the rest of my eternity…" He lifts your joined hands—bringing your fingers to his lips.
A kiss. Soft. Fleeting. "It would be for you."
"Happy Valentine’s Day, liebling."
And in that moment, you realize—Mozart 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
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