—ᴛʀɪᴄᴋ-ᴏʀ-ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴡ/ ʜꜱʀ ᴍᴇɴ—♡
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆notes | SFW—Suggestive—wc: 3.4k
The Astral Express sits docked at the Xianzhou Luofu’s grand platform, glowing like a lantern of its own amid the paper charms and festival ribbons. The night hums with soft chatter and sugar-fueled chaos—children darting between ships, clutching their candy buckets like treasure.
You and Sunday have claimed a spot beside the Express’s steps, your cauldron of sweets at the ready. You’re dressed as a witch tonight—wide-brimmed hat tilted just so, cloak brushing your boots when you crouch to offer candy to the next costumed visitor. Sunday, ever himself, stands beside you in his usual attire, perfectly composed amid the swirl of orange lights. Somehow, the kids adore him. Maybe it’s the serene smile. Maybe it’s because he hands out candy like it’s a personal blessing.
“Trick or treat!” a little fox-eared child chirps, holding up a star-shaped bucket.
Sunday kneels down, offering a small wrapped candy with both hands, gentle as a priest presenting an offering. “May your dreams tonight be sweet,” he says. The child beams, and you swear their tail wags before they scamper off.
You can’t help but laugh. “You know, you don’t have to make it sound like a benediction every time.”
He glances your way, eyes full of amusement. “It’s tradition to give with intent, isn’t it? Besides—” He watches a small group of children disappear into the glow of the market stalls. “There’s something sacred in simple joy.”
The crowd thins as the festival rolls deeper into the night. You pack away the last few candies, and Sunday throws away stray wrappers on the tablecloth, ever the meticulous one. Then his gaze lifts toward a nearby vendor stall—the one strung with golden lights, a handwritten sign boasting Limited Blood Orange Pudding – Festival Exclusive!
You spot the faintest spark in his eyes and grin. “You’ve been staring at that stall since sundown.”
He pretends to sigh, adjusting his gloves. “A baseless accusation… though I suppose it would be wasteful not to indulge after such good work.”
The two of you leave the Express behind, crossing the bridge of lanternlight toward the pudding stand. Your candy cauldron sways at your side, half-empty, while Sunday’s stride matches yours in easy rhythm. The Luofu feels warm tonight—sweeter than the treats, softer than the starlight overhead.
And as you pass one last cluster of laughing children, you catch Sunday watching them fondly, murmuring almost to himself, “Truly… this is what eternity should be like.”
The Holy City of Okhema gleams like amethyst in the dusk—lanterns strung high between marble spires, incense curling through the streets in ribbons of silver. The festival square hums with life: vendors calling out prices, children laughing, and the occasional Dromas huffing softly as it hauls a cart of bright festival goods down the road.
Your stall sits near the plaza fountain, under a canopy of violet silk. You’re dressed as a Dromas yourself—soft purple fabric shaped into stubby scales, little white horns perched proudly on your headband. A few children have called you “adorable,” which you accepted with mock dignity before getting back to work. The paints at your table gleam under the lanternlight, and a half-dozen eager faces lean toward you, waiting to be turned into the creatures of Amphoreus: a chimera here, a dromas there, one child begging for the horns on your headband.
Beside you, Anaxagoras sits with the patience of a man pretending to understand how sugar distribution became part of his evening. His robe is dusted with candy wrappers, his expression a blend of mild irritation and reluctant amusement.
“Knowledge,” he says to a boy holding out his candy bag, “is sweeter than anything in here.”
The boy squints. “Then why aren’t you eating it?”. The boy next to him blinks and asks, "Does it come in caramel?”
Anaxa exhales through his nose—a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “If only...” He drops two extra sweets into the bag.
You try to stifle your grin as you paint a pair of luminous chimera horns on a girl’s cheeks. “You know, you could just say ‘happy festival’ like everyone else.”
He glances at you sideways, voice dry. “And waste a perfect opportunity to teach them? Never.”
“Anaxa,” you warn, but your smile gives you away. He leans back in his chair, scanning the crowd. The lights flicker across his face—half curiosity, half distraction. He watches the swirl of people like he’s trying to solve them, like there’s a pattern in the laughter and color he hasn’t quite cracked yet.
“You’re thinking about something,” you say.
“I’m always thinking about something.” He gestures loosely toward the square. “Look at them—hundreds of people, all celebrating the same thing for completely different reasons. I can’t decide if that’s beautiful or ridiculous.”
“Maybe both,” you suggest.
He hums in agreement, passing a candy to a small girl who’s staring shyly at him. “Here. The shiny one’s the best, but don’t take my word for it. Test it for yourself.”
Her face lights up, and she darts away.
When the crowd thins, you lean your elbows on the table. “You could just admit you’re enjoying this.”
He gives a short laugh. “Enjoying it? Maybe. But don’t tell anyone—I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Too late. You smiled at that kid.”
He glances down, trying not to grin again. “Fine. Maybe I did. But only because she reminded me of someone who used to ask too many questions.”
You bump his shoulder with yours. “Takes one to know one.”
And under the violet canopy, surrounded by laughter, sugar, and paint, even Anaxagoras looks a little less like a Chrysos Heir and a little more like a man caught in the spell of a warm, impossible night.
The lanterns of the Xianzhou Luofu glimmer like tiny moons—soft light spilling through the misty walkways where paper ghosts drift on strings. The air smells faintly of incense and caramelized sugar, a strangely cozy blend of reverence and mischief. And somewhere down the promenade, the haunted house is alive with shrieks and laughter.
Moze is supposed to be working.
But the sound of footsteps behind you makes your heart jump anyway. You turn—and there he is, tall and lean, dressed head to toe as Ghostface. The black hood drapes just right, the mask gleaming white in the lanternlight. Somehow, he makes a serial killer costume look… elegant. The signature prop knife dangles lazily from his gloved hand as he approaches, head tilting in mock menace.
You snort. “You’re not supposed to sneak up on me during your shift.”
Moze sighs, pulling off the mask to reveal the faintest smile. His silvery hair is damp from the humidity, and his eyes—still sharp and thoughtful even when teasing—catch the glow of a floating lantern drifting by.
“Kids keep screaming before I even get to the jump scare,” he mutters. “They don’t respect good timing anymore.” A faint exhale escapes him—could be amusement, could be disapproval. Then, quietly: "Plus, they’re loud. Too many variables.” His voice, low and even, carries a calm that doesn’t quite fit the mask. “I needed air.”
“You don’t like crowds,” you murmur, half a question.
Moze shakes his head once, gaze drifting toward the stream of laughing children racing past, their paper lanterns bobbing like fireflies. “Distraction dulls awareness.” A pause. “But they seem… content.”
You smile, handing him a candy from your bowl. “You can afford to be, too.”
His gloved fingers brush yours when he takes it. The smallest touch—barely there—but enough to make the breath catch in your throat. He unwraps the candy with surgical precision, eyes never leaving the passing lights.
A child dressed as a tiny Cloud Knight runs up, eyes wide. “Mister Ghost! Can I have candy?”
Moze hesitates. Then, after a beat, crouches to the child’s level and offers a sweet from your bowl, gloved hand steady. “Don’t run inside the house,” he murmurs. “Corners are sharp.”
The child nods solemnly and scurries off.
You look at him sidelong. “You do have a heart under there.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “Undocumented,” he says softly.
The festival noise seems to fade for a moment, leaving only the faint hum of the lanterns and the warmth of his quiet presence. When he finally stands, mask in hand, the gleam of it catches the light like a closing curtain.
“I’ll return soon,” he says simply. Then, a faint glance toward you. “Save me one.”
Before you can answer, he’s gone—back into the fog, silent as ever, leaving behind the faint trace of caramel sweetness and the echo of unspoken affection.
Gepard (ft. Hook and Clara)
The Belobog night hums with quiet laughter and the crunch of frost under boots. Streetlights wear jack-o’-lantern faces, and the cold carries the sugar-sweet smell of candied apples and cocoa. You’re perched on a folding chair near the fountain, a plastic cauldron full of treats balanced on your knees. Every few minutes, a brave little ghost or vampire approaches, holding out a bucket and squeaking “Trick or treat!” You hand out candy with mock solemnity, as though performing a sacred ritual of sugar distribution.
A few feet away, Gepard Landau stands in full Silvermane Guard armor—polished until it gleams like starlight. The kids can’t get enough of him. They circle him like tiny planets, their masks slipping as they stare at the intricate metalwork, their mittens leaving faint fingerprints on the cold steel.
“Are you really the captain?” asks one girl in a crooked witch hat.
Gepard bends slightly so his massive frame doesn’t tower too much. “I am,” he says. “But tonight, I’m here to protect Belobog from a candy shortage."
That earns a storm of giggles.
“Then we gotta help!” pipes up Hook, marching out from the crowd in a pirate hat two sizes too big. The Moles tumble after her—Julian in a cardboard armor set, and Luka (the small one, not that Luka) wearing a mop on his head as a wig.
Hook crosses her arms. “Captain Gepard! We’ve detected suspicious candy activity! Could be smugglers. Could be—” she narrows her eyes at you “—someone giving out less than three pieces per customer.”
You gasp dramatically. “Accusations this grave require an investigation.”
“Agreed,” Gepard says, solemn as a judge. “Hook, secure the perimeter!"
Hook salutes with her plastic sword. “Aye-aye! No candy hoarders on my watch!”
The Moles scatter in giggling chaos, “investigating” every candy bowl in sight. Gepard straightens, shaking his head with the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looks utterly in his element—protector of peace, wrangler of sugar-fueled children.
Just then, Clara arrives, soft steps and a gentler air cutting through the noise. She’s wearing a fluffy scarf that’s clearly been fussed over by Svarog. “Captain Gepard,” she greets, eyes bright. “I brought extra treats—Svarog said you might run out.”
Hook immediately whirls around. “Clara! You’re late to Mole duty!”
Clara smiles shyly, handing her a small tin of homemade cookies. “Then I guess I’m the supply division.”
The Moles cheer. Gepard kneels again to thank her, his voice dipping into that low, kind rumble that could calm a snowstorm. “You didn’t have to, but thank you, Clara. The city owes you… several sugar rushes.”
As the kids resume their play and the night hums on, you glance over at him—helmet tucked under one arm, eyes soft in the lamplight, snow dusting the edges of his armor. You toss him another chocolate bar.
He catches it, like always. He looks out at the laughing kids—Hook pretending to arrest a pumpkin thief, Clara watching fondly, Julian pretending to be Gepard with a stick for a sword—and nods.
The air smells like cocoa and candle wax. The laughter carries through the frost. And for a rare moment, even the unflappable Captain Landau lets himself belong to the holiday chaos.
The square of Okhema glowed under lanterns and moonlight, the pavestones warm from late autumn sun. Stalls lined the steps of the Marmoreal Market. Laughter rippled through the streets like music. You stood behind your candy stall—a humble outpost of sugar and joy—while Phainon lingered nearby, his polished armor gleaming like starlight caught in motion.
He was supposed to be “on duty,” but the man’s sense of duty had softened under the weight of merriment. Children darted toward him in awe, tiny knights and Goldweavers eager for a word from the famed Chrysos Heir himself.
One little boy, his paper mask hanging crooked, stared up at Phainon’s sword with awe. “Sir Phainon! What do you do if a ghost tries to scare you?”
Phainon bent slightly, the lanternlight sliding down the curve of his armor. “Then I’d ask it to join the line,” he said, gesturing toward the candy table. “No one leaves empty-handed tonight—not even ghosts.”
Phainon’s words sent the boy into a fit of laughter, the sound bright as the bells chiming from the far spire. The child puffed out his chest, emboldened. “Then I’ll give the ghost candy, too!”
“Good,” Phainon said, straightening, his tone playfully solemn. “That’s the proper way to defeat a haunting—kindness first, sugar second.”
You shook your head from behind the stall, grinning. “And here I thought the Chrysos Heirs used swords, not sweets.”
Phainon turned to you with a glint of humor in his eyes. “Sweets win more battles than steel ever could,” he said, lifting a sugared fig from the tray and holding it up as if it were a relic. “Besides, I’m told the city’s finest candy vendor is quite the strategist.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you extra.”
“I was hoping it might earn me one,” he replied, that low laugh slipping free at last.
You sighed dramatically and leaned your elbows on the table. “One? You’ve been eyeing that bowl like you’re plotting a heist.”
Phainon’s lips curved into that unguarded smile. “Then arrest me,” he said, leaning just close enough for the lanternlight to halo his face. “But I’ll need to confiscate evidence first.”
Before you could protest, he reached for a sugared star, brushing your fingers in the process. The touch was fleeting, feather-light, but it sent a spark racing up your arm.
He looked down at your hand where his had lingered, then met your gaze with a teasing glimmer. “Dangerous trade you run,” he murmured. “Sweet things like these could start wars.”
You found your voice, soft and certain. “Then you’d better stay on my side.”
“I already am,” he said, quiet but sure. The festival’s laughter faded around you, replaced by the soft hum of strings and bells drifting from the square. His armor gleamed like molten gold beneath the lanterns, yet his voice carried the warmth of something human, something tender. And before duty could reclaim him, he smiled—a warm, luminous thing—and it felt like Amphoreus itself had paused just to watch.
The neon streets of Penacony glimmered under strings of lanterns, their amber light catching the last hints of autumn sun. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and sweet pastries. It was Halloween, the city buzzing with laughter and the scuffle of little feet in costume.
You stood behind your stall in the festival square, a rainbow of candy neatly arranged in jars and bowls, and a few pumpkins carved with goofy faces. Across from you, Aventurine’s stall mirrored yours—he leaned casually against the counter, tossing candy to eager trick-or-treaters with that easy charm that made the kids squeal. Every now and then, with a sly wink, he slipped a silver coin into a child’s bucket, making their eyes grow wide and their excitement double.
“Watch it,” you called over, laughing as a tiny ghost squealed at the sparkle of Aventurine’s coins. “You’re making me look bad!”
He grinned, that crooked, irresistible grin that made your heart flutter. “Can’t help it if I like to see happy faces… and maybe your reaction too,” he teased, leaning closer so your fingers brushed as you reached for the same chocolate bar.
You huffed a mock sigh, pretending to scold him. “Flatterer. The kids only care about candy, not… whatever that was.”
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a teasing whisper. “Oh, I think they notice a lot more than you give them credit for.” The warmth of his breath made your cheeks tingle as you handed a little vampire a handful of jelly beans.
The evening carried on in a flurry of costumes—tiny witches, miniature knights, and even a very enthusiastic dragon waddling through the square. You and Aventurine fell into a rhythm, passing candy, sharing laughs, and exchanging playful nudges. At one point, he slipped you a coin under the table, eyes sparkling. “For the best partner in crime tonight.”
You caught it, grinning, and tucked it into your pocket. “If this is your way of flirting, I have to say… it’s working.”
He tilted his head, mock-offended. “Working? That’s all I get?” He reached for your hand as a group of giggling goblins rushed past, their buckets clattering with candy.
By the end of the night, the festival square glowed like a constellation of lanterns. The city hummed around you, but all you noticed was him—smiling, teasing, and holding your hand in that way that made Halloween feel like it was just for the two of you.
The lanterns of Xianzhou Luofu swayed gently in the crisp autumn breeze, spilling amber light over the street. The streets smelled of sweet incense, roasted chestnuts, and something faintly herbal—Jiaoqiu’s handiwork. He moved with quiet confidence, arranging the small treats with care, his fingers brushing the smooth edges of sugared apples, feeling their shape as delicately as a painter would a canvas. Though he could not see the lanterns or the children darting about, his presence was grounding, serene.
“Do you think they’ll like them?” you asked softly, bending to adjust a small paper box.
He exhaled slowly, the faintest smile in his tone. “I… hope so. I can feel the care I put into them. That will be enough,” he said, voice low and steady, threaded with that quiet confidence that never needed flourish.
As the evening deepened, the festival began to slow. The laughter of children faded into the distance, replaced by the soft rustle of lanterns swaying overhead. The scent of incense lingered—sweet and smoky—mingling with the trace of sugar on the air.
You leaned against the stall, watching Jiaoqiu tie the last of the empty boxes with thin silk thread, his fingers steady even as the wind brushed his hair across his face.
“They all loved them,” you murmured. “Your sweets.”
He paused mid-motion, tilting his head slightly in your direction. “Did they?” There was warmth in his voice, quiet and rich. “That’s… good.”
You stepped closer, your sleeve brushing his arm. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” he replied softly. “Just—glad. I can’t see their smiles, but I can hear them. And that’s enough for me.”
There was something so heartbreakingly sincere in the way he said it that you couldn’t help but reach out, your fingers brushing the back of his hand. He froze for a moment, then turned his palm upward, letting your hand settle into his. His skin was warm, his thumb tracing the side of your finger in a slow, absent motion—as if memorizing the moment through touch alone.
“You’ve been working all day,” you whispered. “You deserve something sweet too.”
He gave a faint, breathy laugh. “And what would that be?”
You hesitated for a heartbeat before leaning closer, your voice barely above the rustle of the lanterns. “Me.”
Jiaoqiu went still, his breath catching like a held note in the dark. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was full. The air seemed to hum between you, alive with the faint scent of sugar and chrysanthemum.
Finally, he tilted his head slightly toward you, the corner of his mouth curving into a soft, knowing smile. “Then I’ll take just a taste,” he murmured, voice like velvet—low, teasing, reverent.
You leaned in until your forehead rested gently against his, the glow of lanterns washing over you both. His other hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek with the same care he’d given every treat he’d crafted that night—gentle, intentional, full of quiet devotion.
And under the golden light of Xianzhou Luofu, while the last of the lanterns danced in the wind, Jiaoqiu found his sweetest creation wasn’t the candy he’d made—but the warmth of you in his arms.
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