Hii! Thank you so much for accepting requests!! Could you Saja Boys x Reader where the Reader want to go trick or threat with them, but none of the boys know what trick or threat is? It can be something like this so if you have others ideas about smth like that, go for it :))
🌙Saja Boys x Reader — Trick or Treat
Jinu stares at you like you’ve just announced a new law of physics.
“Trick… or treat?” he repeats, slow and cautious, like the words might bite him. He’s mid–zipper, fingers stiff on his coat. “You walk to strangers’ houses and ask them for candy? On purpose?”
You laugh, tugging the zipper the rest of the way. His breath hitches—barely noticeable, but you catch it. “Yes. It’s fun.”
“It sounds like a demon contract waiting to happen.”
You loop your arm through his. “Lucky for me, I already have one.”
He flushes— and clears his throat “Fine. I’ll accompany you. For safety. And research.”
Outside, the neighborhood is glowing—porch lights, pumpkin lanterns, soft golden halos under the trees. Leaves crunch underfoot. Kids run by in bright costumes, their laughter bouncing off the houses.
Jinu slows, taking everything in with wide-eyed calculation. “This is… an event,” he murmurs, like he’s cataloging human rituals for a report.
“You haven’t seen anything yet.” You lead him up the first porch.
He stiffens, posture straightening as if he expects an attack. When the door opens and an older woman beams—“Oh! A couple costume! How cute!”—he malfunctions.
“We’re not—” he starts, but she’s already dumping candy into your buckets.
Jinu stares into his like it’s an artifact. “She just… gave us this.”
“That’s trick-or-treating.”
He glances at the other houses, the map of the street forming in his head. “So if we repeat the process, we acquire more candy.”
Determination settles on him like armor. “Then we must optimize our route.”
He takes your hand—not shy, just purposeful—and starts marching.
But the quick, tiny smile on his lips?
You barely finish saying “trick or treat” before Abby lights up like someone detonated a joy bomb inside him.
“Candy? Free candy? From humans??” His eyes sparkle like Christmas lights. “Like—just for existing?!”
“Yep,” you laugh. “We go house to house—”
He doesn’t wait. He grabs a pillowcase, ties the end into a handle, and beams with so much excitement you swear he might lift off the ground. “Okay! I’m ready!”
You try to explain the bag is too big, but Abby’s already out the door, stepping into the Halloween crowd like a happy giant knight on a noble quest.
Jack-o’-lanterns flicker along the path. Fake gravestones glow with green lights. Kids zoom around, squealing.
A tiny dinosaur approaches, staring up at Abby.
Abby immediately drops into a squat. “ROAR,” he says softly, matching the kid’s tiny growl. The kid giggles and runs away, tail flopping behind them.
You bump Abby’s shoulder. “See? You’re perfect at this.”
He gives you a sheepish smile, cheeks warm. “This is nice.”
At the first house, the homeowner gives you each a handful of candy. Abby stares at his treasure with reverence, whispering, “They gave this… to ME.”
“Humans are amazing,” he breathes.
By the third house, he has entered protector mode. Every time someone gives you candy, he leans in, checking the quantity like he’s guarding national security.
“That’s okay,” he says seriously. “But you deserve more.”
He turns to the homeowner. “Do you have the chocolate with the caramel? It’s their favorite.”
The woman laughs and hands you extra.
Abby pumps his fist. “YES. Mission complete.”
The whole walk home, he hums happily, pillowcase overflowing.
“We’re doing this every year,” he declares.
You squeeze his arm. “Yeah. We are.”
You find Mystery in the hallway, staring at the cheap ghost-sheet costume like it personally offended him.
He pokes it. Twice. “This is… disguise?”
“Yes,” you say, trying not to laugh. “For trick-or-treating.”
“Trick,” he repeats. “Or treat.” His head tilts. “Both sound violent.”
“It’s not violent. It’s candy.”
He reluctantly lets you pull the sheet over his head. “I cannot see,” he mutters, voice muffled.
“These are too high. I am not that tall.”
You fix them, guiding him outside. The dusk sky glows deep purple, the moon soft behind thin clouds. Kids run everywhere—witch hats, glowing plastic pumpkins, the smell of caramel apples in the air.
Mystery halts, staring like he’s witnessing an invasion.
“They’re… haunting,” he whispers.
You tug him forward. His steps are reluctant, soft, like he’s sneaking into enemy territory.
The first homeowner opens the door. “A ghost! How cute!” she sings, dropping candy into his bucket.
Mystery stands motionless, sheet rippling in the wind. You have to physically pull him aside.
“Myst, you have to say thank you.”
He stares at you, appalled. “I don’t like talking to humans.”
But at the fourth house, a Ninja kid bumps him, whispers, “Cool costume.”
Mystery goes still. Then, after a moment:
By the end of the night, he walks beside you calmly, bucket half full, sheet fluttering like he’s a reluctant phantom.
“This tradition is strange,” he murmurs.
He hesitates. “But… I like being outside with you.”
Your chest warms. “I’m glad.”
He doesn’t reply—but his hand brushes yours in the dark.
Romance takes three seconds—maybe two—to fall in love with the idea of trick-or-treating.
“Costumes? Candy? Holding your hand? I am SOLD.”
He dives into your closet, emerging with a long black coat, hair tousled like a melancholy vampire prince. “What am I? Fallen angel? Seductive villain? A mysterious stranger haunting your dreams?”
“You’re supposed to pick one.”
Outside, Halloween is electric. Pumpkins glow like warm embers. Fog machines puff out wisps along lawns. Wind carries the smell of cinnamon and cold air. Romance steps onto the street like it’s a runway.
Kids wave. Parents compliment him. Teens trip over their own feet.
You grab his sleeve. “Stop seducing the neighborhood.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he says innocently, swinging your hands.
At the first house, the woman beams. “Oh you two look adorable!”
Romance gasps dramatically. “Adorable?! I was aiming for devastatingly handsome!”
She laughs and gives him extra candy.
He leans toward you, whispering, “This holiday is perfect.”
By the sixth house, Romance is in full Prince Mode—bowing, complimenting, fixing costumes, soothing crying kids. He takes a picture for a group of teens who nearly faint.
Then he leans in close, voice low and warm. “Thank you for bringing me. Humans do ridiculous things… but I like doing them with you.”
Your face heats; he grins proudly at your reaction.
By the end, his candy bag is scientifically impossible and he looks… peaceful. Content.
“This was perfect,” he murmurs. “Next year, we’re doing couple costumes intentionally.”
He threads his fingers through yours. “Exactly.”
Baby blinks at you like you just suggested a felony.
“You knock on their doors,” he repeats slowly, “and they give you sugar?”
“Humans are insane,” he mutters, but he’s already yanking on his black hoodie, pulling the hood low. He grabs a plastic pumpkin bucket, gripping it like a weapon. “Let’s go.”
Outside, the cold wind brushes your cheeks. Porch lights flicker. Scents of pumpkin candles and wet leaves mix in the air. Baby walks next to you like he’s scouting enemy territory, not a cul-de-sac full of inflatable ghosts.
A group of toddlers dressed as bats waddle by. One stops, staring up at Baby with giant eyes.
Then—slow, almost reluctant—Baby raises one hand in a tiny wave.
The toddler beams and toddles off.
You exhale. “See? Harmless.”
“Small things are unpredictable,” Baby mutters.
At the first house, a dad in a pirate hat hands Baby candy.
Baby freezes like he’s been electrocuted.
“Say thank you,” you whisper.
He nods sharply. “Thank you.” His voice is low, clipped.
By the third house, something changes. His steps sharpen. His eyes track which porches have the best loot. He starts calculating routes like a sugar-fueled general.
By the fifth house, he’s fully in.
“Move,” he mutters, grabbing your wrist and power-walking. “They’re taking the good stuff.”
He snatches candy with intense satisfaction.
“This,” he declares, “is the only human tradition I respect.”
You grin. “You’re having fun.”
And that’s as close as he gets to confessing—but the small smirk on his lips as he walks beside you?
