Page 3

Jax

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

I try my hardest to move—well, anything—but it’s damn near impossible. The closest movement I seem to be able to get is to wiggle this damn stump sticking out of my head, but that isn’t going to do shit.

On top of the fact I can’t move, I can’t freaking see anything! Well, not clearly anyway. Everything looks kind of blurry, and the most I can see is blobs and shapes.

But I can hear and feel everything, tenfold.

I tried my hardest to shout, to yell, but to no avail. I can’t fucking believe I turned into a goddamn pumpkin! Seriously!

I didn’t know the stories about Stingy Jack actually had merit. How was I supposed to know they were true? I thought they were just stories that were embellished to help us sell pumpkins.

I groan as the sun heats my skin—shell? I don’t even fucking know right now. All I can hear is Grandpa grumbling, but his voice is like a TV on static. I can barely make out what he’s saying beyond the curse words I’d recognize from the inflection alone.

I don’t know how long I stay like that. Roasting in the sun like a Goddamn vine-ripe tomato, but before I know it, someone touches me, and it’s like a lightning bolt to my system.

My vision flashes white, and I get the strangest … vision?

Can someone have a fucking vision if they can barely see an inch in front of them?

Do pumpkins have eyes I don’t know about?

That would be terrifying if they did.

The vision that accosts me makes no sense, but then again, what does make sense in a world where you can turn into fucking gourd?

God, I could use a damn drink right about now.

In my hazy vision, there’s only one thing that stands out clear: Amber eyes framed by thick, black lashes. Irises that shimmer with flecks of gold and copper, staring at me in a way that makes my entire being want to vibrate.

The eyes get smaller, and eventually, I can make out a face.

Holy fuck, is this guy hot.

Dark, espresso-brown hair, a perfect, angled jawline with neatly trimmed facial hair. Those amber eyes rove over me, making my insides feel flush.

It’s weird, and I know he’s not really looking at me— because he has no idea I’m a fucking person—but somehow it feels like he is. Like somehow, he can see past my orange outer form, past the pumpkin guts and down to my very soul.

But the moment he looks away, I’m reminded of the harsh truth that he really doesn’t know I’m not what I appear to be.

My proverbial heart drops, because I want him to keep looking at me.

I want him to stare at me with those fiery eyes and thick lashes like I’m fucking perfect.

Even if I’m going to be a vegetable for the rest of my life, however long that is.

Panic strikes again, as I wonder what will happen to me.

The shelf life of a pumpkin is kind of limited, especially if you gut one and carve it, and …

Oh, God! What if someone fucking tries to carve me? Will I feel it? Will it hurt? Will I fucking die?

Panic makes my stem vibrate, and the heat turns to full blown anxiety.

And then warm hands lift me. The hot guy holds me out in front of him, and Grandpa argues with him, but I can barely make out the words. Soon Grandma’s voice is there, too. Warmth surrounds me as I’m clutched close to soft fabric. A shirt.

The thick scent of laundry detergent mixes with a seductive vetiver and cedar, and my metaphorical mouth waters. It makes me hungry, thirsty, and energy bounds within me.

I feel a content sort of comfort as warm, solid fingers run over my skin, drawing lines and petting me along the indents of my outer shell.

The touch, his touch, makes my stem vibrate, makes the tiny little curls of vines at my stem want to stretch and vibrate as well.

It’s like a shiver and a purr, somehow combining to make you both aroused and relaxed.

The next thing I know, I hear the slamming of a door, and the drop in temperature makes my stump shiver and my vines retract. Though my pumpkin vision seems to clear a bit as big, amber eyes stare at me as warm hands set me down on a ….

Actually, I’m not quite sure what I’m being set on. A dresser? An end table? A shrine?

All I know is that, once Pretty Brown Eyes takes a step back, I can at least make out the semblance of a room. Well, if color blocks and shape can be a room, since everything just kind of blends together around the edges. Everything but him .

He is the sharpest thing in my vision, by far.

He steps backward, crossing his arms, one eyebrow raised as he contemplates my placement in his bedroom.

A strange sense of longing and vulnerability overcomes me, and I have the wildest desire to be the prettiest fucking pumpkin I can be, just for the sheer fact that I want him to keep looking at me like he is.

It makes my gourd warm and mushy, and desire ricochet within my shell.

He shrugs, shaking his head.

“Whatever; it’s fine,” he says as he pulls off his shirt, tossing it aside, and my vines start to twitch again as warmth builds in me like a festering fire.

Pretty Brown Eyes doesn’t just have a pretty face.

His chest is fucking sculpted . The kind of sculpted that says he probably spends countless hours in the gym, which is something I can’t say I relate to.

Most of my days are spent helping my grandparents on the farm, doing the majority of the labor because I’m the “strapping young guy,” so the last thing I want to do when I’m done working is exercise.

Normally, I just like to kick back, crack open a fucking beer, and catch up on Netflix.

God, how lame am I?

A sharp pang hits me as panic sets in. What if…

What if I never get to do that again?

What if I am stuck like this … forever?

I shove the terrifying thoughts away, though, because as soon as I see Sir Hot Stuff drop his fucking drawers, I can’t really focus on anything other than …

Fuck, that’s a nice dick.

Energy ricochets within me once more, bounding back and forth like a stray bullet, and my stump starts to twitch again. Even my vines threaten to grow at the sight of the naked specimen before me as he gets comfortable on his bed.

Oh shit!

Like a train wreck, I can’t look away, but I know I should.

I watch as the breathtaking man wraps his hand around his dick, as he spreads his legs and arches his back, and my entire gourd heats like I’ve been baking in the sun.

A deep moan escapes him as I watch him build his rhythm with one hand, using his free fingers on his other hand to stroke and play at his entrance.

There’s something inherently intimate about how a man masturbates when he thinks no one’s watching, and I’m not talking about the consented “Oh, sorry I stumbled on you with your cock out” role play.

I’m talking about the kind of jacking off that comes when you know you are alone, where you can just lean into what you want and not have to worry about whether or not someone else will find it sexy.

Because all that matters is how good it fucking feels when you just let go.

I watch as the sunlight highlights the gleam of precum on his cock, watch as he sinks his fingers inside, writhing on the bed as he moans while he fucks himself.

Fuck, that’s hot.

I swear, if I had a dick right now, I’d be hard as hell. Instead, my entire being vibrates and warms as my stump pulses and my vines shake, and then I feel the strangest sensation.

I can’t speak or scream without a mouth, but inside my consciousness I rattle like an earthquake as my center becomes so hot, it’s like molten lava at the same time he lets out the deepest, sexiest moan I’ve ever heard.

I don’t even have to look to know he’s found his release, but I look all the same as I melt internally into a puddle of pumpkin goo, catching the sight of one hand holding his cock as he spurts his release onto his chest, while not one, not two, but three fucking fingers are buried in his hole.

His chest rises and falls, and the only sound in the room is his heavy breath until he speaks.

“What the fuck?” he says, the bed creaking as he sits up. “Why the hell does it smell like pumpkin spice in here all of a sudden?”

I watch as he breaks the spell, removing his fingers, reaching for his nightstand drawer. When he pulls out a towel, sighing as he cleans himself, a part of me can’t help but feel conflicted.

That sigh is one I know all too well. It’s the sigh of a desperate single man who wishes they weren't alone.

And something about that makes the reality even more tragic. He shakes his head, dispelling whatever thoughts have distracted him as he rises from his bed and heads for what I assume to be a bathroom, only because I can hear the water.

As much as I want to sprint over to the bed and wrap my arms around the beautiful man whose name I don’t even know, I know I can’t .

Because I’m a fucking vegetable.

Fuck my life.