The night was a living thing, a slow, thick pulse of bass and laughter that thrummed up through the soles of his boots. Ryan felt it more than heard it, a steady vibration in his jaw, in the fillings of his teeth. He leaned against the cool brick of a building’s facade, the rough texture a grounding point in the swirl of costumes and neon. Orange and purple string lights crisscrossed the street above, casting a sickly, carnival glow over the sea of faces—goblins, vampires, a cluster of sexy werewolves laughing too loud.
He was looking for Mark. Mark, who had promised to meet him by the giant inflatable black cat two hours ago. Mark, who was probably now arm-in-arm with some guy dressed as a sexy fireman, forgetting Ryan existed. The thought made his stomach clench, a sour twist that had nothing to do with the three plastic cups of cheap punch he’d downed in a futile attempt to kill time. He shifted his weight, and the world tilted gently, a slow, liquid lurch. The leather of his Beastmaster vest creaked with the movement, pulled tight across his pecs. The loincloth was less secure, a mere strip of hide tied at his hips that left his ass mostly bare to the chill night air. He was aware of the exposure, a constant, low-grade self-consciousness that warred with the alcohol’s warm, blurry confidence.
From the shifting tapestry of the crowd, a figure detached itself. It moved without urgency, a drift of shadow and autumn. Ryan’s gaze, unfocused and searching, snagged on it. A jack-o’-lantern head, carved with a simplistic, drowsy-eyed grin and triangular eyes, glowing with a soft, internal amber light. Below it, a suit of black velvet, patterned with curling orange vines and tiny, embossed pumpkins. The hands that emerged from the sleeves were gloved in black leather.
The figure—Sleepy Pumpkin—came to a stop a few feet away. He didn’t speak immediately. His glowing pumpkin face turned slowly, taking in the street, the revelry, before settling its luminous gaze on Ryan. The carved smile seemed to deepen in the flicker of the overhead lights.
Ryan blinked. “Uh. Cool costume,” he slurred, offering a weak smile. His own voice sounded distant, muffled by the thumping music.
A soft, cultured voice emanated from beneath the pumpkin head, smooth as poured syrup. “Thank you. Yours is…evocative.” The head tilted slightly. “I’m Sleepy Pumpkin, here to wish you a Happy Halloween.”
“Thanks, Sleepy Pumpkin. I’m Ryan.”
“You seem a bit lost, Ryan. In more ways than one.”
“Lookin’ for my friend,” Ryan admitted, the words spilling out too easily. “Said he’d be by the cat. Giant cat. You seen it?”
“The inflatable? It met with an unfortunate accident. A rather enthusiastic werewolf, I believe.” Sleepy Pumpkin took a half-step closer. Ryan caught a scent then, cutting through the cloud of spilled beer and candy and sweat: damp earth, fallen leaves, and the faint, sweet rot of a pumpkin left too long in the sun. It was strangely pleasant. “It can be difficult to find anyone in this…delightful chaos.”
“Tell me about it,” Ryan sighed, his shoulders slumping. The motion made him sway, and he put a hand back against the brick to steady himself. The cool roughness was a relief.
“I have a car parked nearby,” Sleepy Pumpkin said, his voice a low, intimate rumble that somehow carried perfectly to Ryan’s ears despite the noise. “I was just leaving. I could drive you around the block. A vantage point from above street level might help you spot your companion.”
Ryan considered it. His feet hurt. His head was starting to ache. The idea of sitting down, of being out of this crush of bodies, was overwhelmingly appealing. The man seemed… polite. Harmless, even with the creepy pumpkin head. And the suit was expensive-looking. “You sure? I don’t… I don’t wanna be a bother.”
“No bother at all,” Sleepy Pumpkin replied. He extended a gloved hand, not to shake, but as a gentlemanly gesture to indicate the way. “This way. Just to the end of the alley. My carriage awaits.”
Ryan pushed himself off the wall, his legs agreeing to cooperate after a moment’s protest. He followed the black-and-orange figure as it turned and began to glide through the crowd, which seemed to part for him without noticing. Ryan stumbled once, his boot catching on a uneven cobblestone, and Sleepy Pumpkin paused, waiting for him without a word, the glow of his face a steady beacon in the shifting shadows.
The noise of the main street faded as they turned into a narrower alley. Here, the light came from a single, buzzing security lamp mounted high on a wall, painting everything in stark monochrome. The smells changed, too—dumpster musk, old garbage, wet asphalt. Sleepy Pumpkin’s earthy scent was stronger here, a clean contrast. At the far end of the alley, under the lamp’s anemic glow, sat a car. It was an old, boxy sedan, painted a matte, non-reflective black. It looked like a hole cut in the night.
Sleepy Pumpkin stopped beside the passenger door. He produced a key—a simple, old-fashioned silver one—and unlocked it with a quiet click . The sound was final, a period at the end of the sentence of the noisy street behind them. He pulled the door open. The interior was dark.
“After you,” he said, his pumpkin-face glowing softly as he looked at Ryan.
Ryan hesitated for a second, a faint, sober thread of caution pulling at him. But the car looked clean. Quiet. And the man was just…standing there, holding the door, perfectly still. Ryan nodded, more to himself than anything, and ducked his head to climb into the passenger seat. The leather upholstery was cool against the back of his thighs. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in a world of profound silence.
The door shut with a soft, dense thunk that seemed to swallow the last echoes of the city. The world outside the car windows became a muted, blurred diorama of brick and shadow. The silence inside was absolute, a thick, palpable blanket that pressed against Ryan’s eardrums. He let his head loll back against the headrest. The leather was cool and slightly grainy under his scalp. He exhaled, a long, weary sigh that fogged the air before him for a second before dissolving. His eyes drifted shut. The strain of holding himself upright, of scanning endless crowds, of pretending he wasn’t a little hurt and a lot drunk, finally released its grip. The party had been long. So long.
He heard the soft crunch of gravel as Sleepy Pumpkin walked around the front of the car. The sound was oddly crisp in the silence. The driver’s door opened, and the car dipped slightly with the man’s weight as he settled into his seat. He moved with a quiet, practiced economy. Ryan didn’t open his eyes. The faint, earthy scent from the man’s suit filled the space between them, stronger now in the enclosed air. It was a strange smell, comforting and unsettling all at once.
A whisper of movement came from the driver’s side. Ryan heard the light, hollow tap-tap of a fingernail against something hard. He cracked one eye open, his vision blurry with fatigue and alcohol.
On the worn, dark leather of the bench seat between them sat a small pumpkin. It was a real one, about the size of a large grapefruit, hollowed out. Its skin was a deep orange, etched with faint natural grooves. A neat, circular lid had been cut from its top. The edge of the cut was clean, pale, a crescent of inner flesh glowing in the dim light from the alley lamp filtering through the windshield.
Sleepy Pumpkin’s gloved hand reached over. His fingers, precise and deliberate, lifted the little lid by its small, neat stem. He set it aside on the seat.
At the bottom of the hollow pumpkin lay a small brown glass bottle with a dropper top, and beside it, a folded square of white cloth, clean and stark against the pumpkin’s warm interior.
Sleepy Pumpkin picked up the bottle. He held it up so Ryan could see. The glass was dark, amber-brown. A simple, cheerful label was affixed to it. In a childish, rounded font, it read: “Pumpkin Scent.” Below the words was a hand-drawn smiley face, a circle with two dot eyes and a wide, upturned curve for a mouth. It was jarringly innocent against the strange intimacy of the car’s interior.
“This,” Sleepy Pumpkin said, his syrup-smooth voice lower now, conversational, “is the scent of pumpkin. Distilled from the very pulp. Blended with just a touch of cologne.” He unscrewed the dropper top with a soft pop . “Wanna sniff?”
He didn’t wait for Ryan to process the question, to form a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ As soon as the cap was off, he tilted the bottle over the white cloth. One, two, three thick, oily drops fell from the dropper, darkening the fabric in spreading, irregular blooms. The smell that instantly wafted up was intensely familiar yet cloyingly artificial—the sweet, spiced, candle-store version of his earlier earthy scent, underscored by something sharp and medicinal.
With a swift, fluid motion, Sleepy Pumpkin put the lid back on the small pumpkin and set the bottle down. He lifted the pumpkin, and brought it to the space between them. His other hand came up, gloved fingers splaying to gently cradle the back of Ryan’s neck. The touch was warm through the leather, unexpectedly firm.
“All you have to do,” Sleepy Pumpkin murmured, his thumb stroking a slow circle into the tense muscle where Ryan’s neck met his shoulder, “is smell the pumpkin.”
He tilted the hollowed gourd toward Ryan’s face. The opening was perfectly round, a dark O rimmed by that pale, inner flesh. The hand on Ryan’s neck applied gentle, insistent pressure, his fingers curling to urge Ryan’s head forward.
Ryan’s brain, sluggish and sodden, sent a weak signal of alarm. It felt wrong. The sequence was off. The smell from the cloth was too sweet, too strong. He started to shake his head, a feeble twitch. “Wai—”
In a single, seamless motion, Sleepy Pumpkin brought the open pumpkin up and over Ryan’s nose and mouth, sealing it against his face. The carved edge fit with an unnerving snugness, the curve of the opening cupping the bridge of his nose and the swell of his lips. The world was suddenly dark orange and filled with the overpowering, syrupy-sweet reek of the soaked cloth inside.
“Take deep breaths, Ryan,” the voice commanded, soft but utterly unyielding. It came from inches away, vibrating through the pumpkin shell. “And relax. Smell the pumpkin.”
Ryan’s eyes flew wide. Panic shot through the alcohol haze, cold and electric. He tried to raise his arms, to shove the thing away, but Sleepy Pumpkin’s other arm was already across his chest, a bar of velvet-clad muscle pinning him to the seat. The arm holding the pumpkin against his face was a vise. He bucked, a weak thrash that only succeeded in grinding his leather-clad backside against the seat.
“Mmmph! Gnngh—!”
His protests were smothered, lost in the muffled confines of the gourd. They became wet, garbled sounds, pathetic against the relentless, sweet fog invading his nostrils, his mouth, his lungs. The smell was everywhere, coating the back of his throat, thick and cloying. It burned slightly. His vision began to swim, the orange interior of the pumpkin dissolving into swirling motes of darker brown.
“Smell the pumpkin, Ryan.”
The words were a faraway echo. The burning in his throat was receding, replaced by a heavy, woolly warmth that spread from his core to his fingertips. His struggles weakened. His hands, which had been clawing feebly at Sleepy Pumpkin’s velvet sleeve, fell away, dropping into his lap with a soft thud. His eyelids, leaden and uncooperative, fluttered once, twice, and then slid shut. The last thing he saw was the intricate orange embroidery of a tiny vine on a field of black velvet, an inch from his face.
His breathing, frantic and shallow, evened out. Slowed. Became deep, rhythmic, unconscious pulls of the drugged air.
Sleepy Pumpkin held the pumpkin in place for a count of ten more seconds, listening to the slow, steady inhale-exhale. Then, with the same care he’d used to present it, he pulled the hollowed shell away from Ryan’s face. The young man’s head slumped to the side, coming to rest against the cool window glass. His lips were slightly parted. His expression was serene, utterly vacant. A thin strand of saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, Ryan,” Sleepy Pumpkin whispered, placing the small pumpkin carefully back on the seat and replacing the lid. He peeled off his black leather gloves, one finger at a time, and set them aside. “The chloroform will make you sleep really good.”
Sleepy Pumpkin gazed over the powerful lines of Ryan’s neck, the exposed curve of his shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest under the leather vest.
Satisfied, he turned the key in the ignition. The old engine coughed once, then settled into a low, rumbling purr. He pulled a U-turn in the narrow alley, the headlights slicing through the gloom, illuminating a cracked brick wall, a forgotten candy wrapper, a pool of oily water.
They drove. The streets of the gayborhood, still pulsing with light and life, fell away behind them. The buildings grew shorter, then sparse. The streetlights became fewer, their pools of light farther apart, leaving longer stretches of pure darkness between them. The car hummed along a two-lane county road, asphalt giving way to cracked concrete, then to gravel. The only sounds were the crunch of tires on stone, the low engine, and Ryan’s deep, drugged breathing from the passenger seat.
Sleepy Pumpkin turned onto an unmarked service road, barely more than twin ruts in the overgrown grass. Weeds whispered against the undercarriage. Branches, skeletal and bare, occasionally scraped the roof with soft, fingernail-like sounds. After a few minutes, the road ended at a high, wrought-iron fence, its gates hanging open, twisted and rusted. A faded, weather-beaten sign, half-eaten by ivy, read: GOTHAM BOTANICAL CONSERVATORY – CLOSED.
He guided the car through the gates and down a winding, neglected drive. Moonlight, cold and blue, filtered through the canopy of untamed trees, dappling the black hood of the sedan. The air that seeped in through the vents changed again—no longer city smog or alleyway rot, but the rich, complicated perfume of unchecked growth: damp soil, decaying leaves, night-blooming flowers, and the unmistakable, sweet-tang of pumpkin vine.
They emerged into a large, circular clearing. The ruins of greenhouses stood like glass and steel skeletons along one edge, their panes long shattered. Sleepy Pumpkin brought the car to a gentle stop at the edge of the clearing, the headlights sweeping over the nearest vines. He cut the engine.
The silence that returned was profound. A country silence, filled with the chirrup of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, the soft sigh of the wind through dead leaves. He sat for a moment, listening, watching Ryan sleep in the passenger seat, illuminated now only by the soft, persistent glow from his own mask and the cold light of the moon.
*****
The silence in the car was a living thing, a companion to the deep, unconscious rhythm of Ryan’s breathing. Sleepy Pumpkin sat for a long moment, his glowing mask turned toward the passenger seat. The amber light from his carved eyes traced the strong line of Ryan’s jaw, the vulnerable column of his throat. He turned the key, and the engine died with a final shudder, leaving only the night sounds of the clearing.
He got out, the car door groaning softly on its hinges. He walked around the front of the car, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. Opening the passenger door, he leaned in.
Ryan didn’t stir. His head had lolled forward, chin nearly touching his chest. Sleepy Pumpkin unbuckled the seatbelt with a soft click . The strap slithered away, releasing its hold. He slid one arm under Ryan’s knees, the other behind his back. He braced himself, took a breath, and lifted.
Ryan was heavy. Solid muscle and bone, a dead weight made heavier by utter relaxation. Sleepy Pumpkin grunted softly, adjusted his grip, and then, in one practiced motion, hefted the unconscious man up and over his left shoulder. Ryan’s torso slumped down Sleepy Pumpkin’s back, his head dangling, his face turned toward the earth. The leather of his loincloth and vest was cool and slick against Sleepy Pumpkin’s velvet-clad shoulder.
He straightened, settling Ryan’s weight. Ryan’s arms swung limply, his knuckles brushing Sleepy Pumpkin’s thigh with each step. Sleepy Pumpkin turned and began walking toward the dark silhouette of the largest greenhouse ruin.
The entrance to the old conservatory was a gaping maw where double doors had once been, now just a rectangle of deeper black framed by crumbling brick and twisted, rusted metal. Sleepy Pumpkin ducked his head and carried Ryan inside.
The interior was a cathedral of decay and rampant growth. The high, curved roof of glass and iron was mostly intact, though sections had collapsed, allowing pillars of milky moonlight to slant down to the floor. What had once been orderly beds and paths was now a wild, indoor jungle. But it was dominated by one thing: the pumpkin patch.
It had exploded inward from some long-forgotten planting, conquering the man-made space. Great, snaking vines, as thick as a man’s forearm in places, crawled up the rusted support pillars, wound through broken benches, and sprawled across the cracked tile floor in a dense, tangled mat. The leaves here were enormous, bigger than dinner plates, a deep, lustrous green veined with yellow. And the pumpkins… they grew everywhere. They nestled in corners, bulged from shelves, hung like grotesque fruit from the overhead ironwork. Some were perfectly round and classic orange; others were warted, twisted, bloated giants of mottled green and white. The scent was overpowering here—the sweet, spicy smell of ripe pumpkin mingled with the damp, mineral smell of wet stone and the faint, coppery tang of rich, turned earth.
As Sleepy Pumpkin started walking through the pumpkin patch, it seemed to stir . It was subtle, a rustle that was more felt than heard. The broad, spade-shaped leaves, glistening with dew, trembled as if in a breeze that wasn’t there. A thick, hairy vine, lying coiled like a dormant serpent near his foot, twitched, then slowly uncurled, its tip questing blindly toward the ground where his boot had landed a moment before. The pumpkins themselves, those pale, bulbous forms, seemed to turn slightly on their stems, their unseen faces orienting toward the man and his burden. The air grew thicker, sweeter, humming with a silent, vegetative attention.
Sleepy Pumpkin walked to the center of the great room, to a relatively clear space where the tile was almost entirely concealed under a lush carpet of vines and leaves. He knelt, his movements careful and reverent. With a grunt of effort, he slid Ryan’s limp body from his shoulder, easing him down onto the living green mattress.
Ryan landed with a soft whump , his limbs splaying awkwardly. He lay on his back, bathed in a shaft of cool moonlight that cut through the broken roof. He was utterly vulnerable, a sacrifice laid upon an altar of vines.
Sleepy Pumpkin knelt beside him. He reached out, his gloved hand trembling slightly—not with fatigue, but with a kind of avid hunger. He began with the leather vest. The laces at the sides were tight. His fingers worked them loose, one by one, the process slow and deliberate, like a ritual unbinding. He peeled the stiff leather back, revealing Ryan’s chest inch by inch.
The moonlight painted his skin in tones of silver and blue. His chest was bare and broad, thick with muscle. His pecs were defined, the nipples small, dark, and pebbled slightly from the cool air. Sleepy Pumpkin ran a flat palm over the expanse of Ryan’s sternum, feeling the heat of his skin, the steady, deep thud of his heart beneath. His hand descended over the hard planes of Ryan’s abdomen.
Next, he turned his attention to the loincloth. It was a simple strip of hide, tied at the hip with a leather thong. Sleepy Pumpkin untied the knot. It gave way easily. He grasped the front of the strip and gently tugged it aside.
Ryan’s cock lay nestled in a thicket of dark curls. It was soft, heavy, resting against his thigh. Even in complete relaxation, it was ample, a promise of impressive size. The skin was flushed and soft. Below it, his balls hung full and heavy in their sac. Sleepy Pumpkin’s breath hitched behind the mask. He pushed the loincloth further down Ryan’s hips, past the sharp crest of his pelvis, revealing the strong, muscular V-lines that pointed downward.
He moved to the boots next, unlacing them with the same focused care. He pulled them off one by one, along with Ryan’s socks, letting his bare feet—pale and vulnerable—rest on the cool leaves. Finally, he grasped the waist of the loincloth and the remaining leather of the vest and, with a few more tugs, slid them completely out from under Ryan’s body. He tossed the discarded costume aside into the shadows. It landed with a soft rustle.
Now Ryan lay completely naked on the vine-covered ground. The moon illuminated every contour. His body was a masterpiece of young, disciplined strength—the powerful swell of his biceps and shoulders, the deep cut of his abdominal muscles, the defined lines of his obliques framing his waist. His legs were thick with quadriceps and corded with calf muscles. His ass, partially visible where he lay on his back, was round and firm, the cheeks just beginning to cradle the curve of his spine.
Sleepy Pumpkin knelt there, drinking in the sight. He reached out a gloved hand and traced a line from the hollow of Ryan’s throat, down the center of his chest, over the ridges of his abs, all the way to the thatch of dark hair at his groin. His touch was feather-light, possessive.
He then looked up, his glowing pumpkin face scanning the tangle of vines overhead and around them. He raised his hands, palms up, in a slow, summoning gesture.
“My children,” he whispered, his voice a dry rustle that seemed to blend with the sounds of the leaves. “Bind him. Hold him for me. Present him.”
The response was immediate. The vines, which had been still and watchful, began to move. It was a slow, sinuous, organic motion. From the mat beneath Ryan, several thick, primary vines lifted, sliding under his body with a soft, leafy whisper. They coiled around his ankles, their hairy, rough-textured stems tightening with a gentle, inexorable pressure. More vines descended from the canopy above, swaying like seeking tentacles. They looped around Ryan’s wrists, tugging his arms up and outward.
Sleepy Pumpkin guided the process with small gestures, his focus absolute. “Up. Lift him. Spread him.”
The vines obeyed. They pulled, tightening their grip. Ryan’s limp body was lifted up a few inches above the ground. The vines at his wrists pulled his arms up until they were stretched high above his head, his biceps flexing slightly with the tension. His shoulders pulled back, broadening his chest, exposing the full, hairy hollows of his armpits to the cool air.
The vines at his ankles exerted a steady, pulling pressure outward, spreading his legs apart, opening him vulnerably. His body hung in a perfect, vertical spread-eagle, a living marionette held by vegetable strings. His head lolled forward, chin to chest, his face still slack with drugged sleep. The moonlight now illuminated every intimate detail: the deep cut of his hip flexors, the heavy, soft weight of his cock and balls hanging between his spread thighs, the tight, shadowed pucker of his asshole, barely visible in the cleft of his muscular buttocks.
Sleepy Pumpkin stood back, his hands falling to his sides. He gazed up at Ryan’s suspended, naked form. The vines creaked softly as they held their precious burden taut. The pumpkin faces all around the room seemed to watch, their dark, unseen eyes fixed on the offering.
*****
A low, appreciative hum vibrated from behind Sleepy Pumpkin’s mask. He took a step closer, the sound of his boots on the leaf-littered tile lost in the soft, vegetative rustle surrounding them. His gaze traveled up the length of Ryan’s suspended body, a connoisseur surveying a prize.
He began with Ryan’s feet, bare and vulnerable. A gloved hand cupped one heel, thumb stroking the sensitive arch. He moved upward, tracing the powerful, corded lines of Ryan’s calf, feeling the muscle twitch under the skin even in unconsciousness. His touch ascended over the knee, the rough leather whispering against smooth skin, to the thick expanse of Ryan’s thigh. His fingers splayed, digging into the dense muscle there, a possessive squeeze that elicited a faint, breathy sigh from the sleeping man.
Sleepy Pumpkin’s other hand rose to match. He worked his way up Ryan’s sides, gloved fingertips tracing the indentations of his ribs, the sharp ledge of his hip bone. Then, both hands came to rest on the hard, moon-washed slabs of Ryan’s lower abdomen. He pressed down, feeling the tight, resilient flesh give just slightly beneath his palms. His thumbs stroked inward, brushing the coarse hair that surrounded the base of Ryan’s soft cock.
He leaned in, his glowing pumpkin face tilting to study the heavy, relaxed genitals hanging between Ryan’s spread legs. He reached out, fingers trembling with barely contained lust, and took Ryan’s cock in his hand. It was warm, a solid, comforting weight in his grip. He began to fondle it, a slow, exploratory massage—squeezing the shaft, rolling the soft skin between his fingers, gently fondling the full, heavy balls beneath.
The stimulation was persistent, intimate. A deep, autonomic reaction stirred within Ryan’s unconscious form. His breathing, which had been deep and even, hitched. A soft groan escaped his parted lips. His cock, cradled in Sleepy Pumpkin’s leather-clad hand, twitched. It began to swell, slowly, blood rushing to fill the spongy tissue, thickening and lengthening under the villain’s touch.
Ryan’s eyelids fluttered. A frown creased his brow. He gave a weak tug against the vines binding his wrists, a phantom reflex of a waking mind trying to reassert control. His head lifted slowly, painfully, from his chest.
His eyes opened.
They were clouded with confusion, bleary from the drug and sleep. They blinked once, twice, struggling to focus in the weak, blue moonlight. He saw the vaulted glass ceiling, the tangle of dark vines. He felt the constriction around his wrists and ankles. He looked down his own body, naked and exposed, and saw the black-gloved hand wrapped loosely around his now half-hard cock.
Panic flooded his system, cold and sharp, cutting through the last cobwebs of the chloroform. He gasped, a sharp, sucking inhale.
“Wh— What the…?”
His voice was thick, slurred. He tried to yank his arms down, but the vines held firm, unyielding as iron. He kicked out with his legs, a futile thrash that only made the vines at his ankles tighten further, biting into his skin. He struggled, his powerful muscles bunching and straining against the living bonds.
Sleepy Pumpkin didn’t move. He simply watched, his glowing mask expressionless, his hand still cupping Ryan’s cock. “Hello, Ryan,” he said, his voice a smooth, satisfied purr. “Welcome to the patch.”
“Let me go!” Ryan snarled, his voice gaining strength, edged with terror and rage. “What the fuck is this? Get your hands off me!” He bucked his hips, trying to dislodge the grip.
“Now, now,” Sleepy Pumpkin chided softly. He released Ryan’s cock and took a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. But his words were not for Ryan. They were for the room. For the vines.
“He’s awake. He’s ready. He’s… ripe.” His voice dropped to a commanding whisper. “Take him. Milk him. Feed the roots.”
The pumpkin patch stirred.
From the tangled mass beneath Ryan’s feet, two new vines emerged. They were slender, more pliant than the thick bonds holding him, their surfaces glistening with a faint, sticky sap. They slithered up his inner thighs, the hairy tendrils brushing against his sensitive skin. Ryan froze, his breath catching in his throat as he watched them approach.
One vine coiled around the base of his fully erect cock, a living, tightening cock ring. Another, thinner vine, its tip a soft, questing bud, wound around the shaft from root to tip, mimicking the motion of a hand. It began to move, a slow, steady, up-and-down pumping motion.
“No,” Ryan whispered, his defiance crumbling into disbelief. “No, stop…”
But more vines were moving. From behind him, another pair, thicker and blunter, descended. They brushed against the muscular globes of his ass, parting them. Ryan cried out, a strangled sound of shock, as he felt a cool, slick pressure nudge against his asshole. He clenched instinctively, but the vine, coated in the same slippery sap, was persistent. It pressed inward, a slow, inexorable invasion. There was a burning stretch, a deep, shocking fullness as the tip breached his tight ring of muscle and slid inside him.
“Ah! God! Fuck!” Ryan arched his back, his body a bowstring of tension. The sensations were a horrifying, overwhelming cascade: the relentless, milking pull on his cock, and now this… this thing moving inside him, pushing deeper, seeking.
Sleepy Pumpkin watched, his hands clasped calmly behind his back. “Find it,” he murmured to the vine.
Inside Ryan, the intruding vine curled, pNightwingg. It brushed against a sensitive, walnut-sized bundle of nerves deep within him.
A jolt of pure, electric pleasure shot through Ryan’s body, utterly incongruous with his terror. He gasped, his eyes flying wide. A ragged moan was torn from his throat. “Nngh!”
The vine found its target and began to rub, a firm, rhythmic pressure directly on his prostate.
The fight left Ryan’s body in a rush, replaced by a tidal wave of forced pleasure. The vine on his cock pumped faster, its slick surface providing perfect, maddening friction. The one inside him massaged his prostate with unerring, mechanical precision. His head fell back, a string of helpless, shattered moans spilling from his lips. His powerful body, held taut by the vines, began to convulse with tiny tremors. His cock swelled to its full, impressive size, engorged and iron-hard, weeping clear beads of pre-cum that were instantly slicked away by the moving vine.
“That’s it,” Sleepy Pumpkin crooned, walking a slow circle around his suspended victim. “Give in to it. Feed them.”
Ryan was lost. The dual assault was too much, too expert. The horror was still there, a cold kernel in his gut, but it was being drowned, smothered under an avalanche of unbearable pleasure. His hips began to jerk involuntarily, fucking into the coiled vine, pushing back against the one buried deep in his ass. His moans became loud, shameless, guttural cries that echoed in the glass-domed chamber. “Ah! Ah! Fuck! I’m— I’m gonna—”
His climax built with terrifying speed, a pressure in his balls and low in his spine that demanded release. The vines seemed to sense it. They intensified their motions, the pumping becoming a frenzied blur, the internal massage a relentless, pinpoint thrum.
With a final, broken shout, Ryan came.
It was a massive, body-wracking orgasm that seized every muscle in his frame. His back arched violently against the vines holding his wrists. Ropes of thick, white cum erupted from his cock, jetting out in powerful, rhythmic spurts. The first blast hit the leafy floor a few inches away. The next splattered against a broad pumpkin leaf. The third, fourth, fifth—they painted the vines, the leaves, the dirt below with his copious, fertile release.
The pumpkin patch reacted . Where the semen landed, the vines seemed to shudder and swell. The leaves absorbed the fluid, their veins glowing faintly with a soft, bioluminescent green light for a fleeting second. The pumpkins themselves appeared to inflate, their skins tightening, their colors deepening. A collective, silent sigh seemed to pass through the entire room.
Ryan hung limply in the aftermath, panting, dripping sweat and spend, his body twitching with the aftershocks. The vine slowly withdrew from his ass with a wet, obscene pop . The one around his cock released its grip, leaving him spent and softening.
Sleepy Pumpkin stepped forward. From inside his velvet jacket, he produced a white cloth and a small brown bottle. He soaked the white cloth. Before Ryan could even comprehend what was happening, the cloth was clamped over his nose and mouth.
Ryan was too weak, too dazed, to struggle. His tired eyes met the glowing slits of the mask for a second—a look of shattered humiliation—before his eyelids fluttered shut once more. His breathing slowed. His head lolled forward. The chloroform pulled him back down into black, dreamless sleep.
Sleepy Pumpkin removed the cloth and tucked it away. He gently stroked Ryan’s sweat-damp cheek.
“Rest now, my beautiful feeder,” he whispered. He turned to the quivering, satiated vines holding Ryan aloft. “Hold him. Keep him safe. And when he wakes,” he instructed, his voice sharpening with command, “you know what to do. Milk him again. Let his seed nourish you. Let his virility make you strong.”
He gazed at the glowing, verdant patch around him, at the plump, satisfied pumpkins. A wide, unseen smile spread beneath his mask.
“Don’t worry, my children,” he promised softly, looking from the suspended Ryan to the watching gourds. “Daddy will bring you more. So many more strong, young men. A feast.”
*****
Dick Grayson, 22-years-old and recent Gotham University graduate, was in the Batcave, stretching on the mats, the sweat of his workout cooling on his skin. The sound of Commissioner Gordan’s private line pinged on Dick’s highly encrypted and untraceable cell phone. Dick answered immediately, “Commissioner.”
“Nightwing. Got a minute?”
“Always. Batman’s off-world on a mission with the Justice League.”
“Multiple missing persons over the last five nights. All from the Halloween festivities in the Gayborhood. Young, physically fit men. Last known sightings are near the main drag. Pattern suggests an abductor working the crowd.”
Dick frowned, pacing the edge of the mat. “Gotham roughs someone up every Halloween.”
“Five disappearances in a week is a pattern. And we got this.” A digital squelch, then a burst of compressed audio-visual data transferred. It was shaky, low-light cellphone footage from five nights ago, timestamped 11:47 PM. Grainy, but clear enough. The backdrop was the neon-washed chaos of the Gayborhood’s main street: flashing lights, a blur of costumes, laughter filtering through tinny speakers. The camera panned unsteadily, focusing on two figures near the mouth of an alley. One was a well-built young man in a Beastmaster costume, looking confused, rubbing his head. The other… a tall, slender figure in an elegant black suit with orange trim. The head was a perfectly carved jack-o’-lantern, its interior glowing with a steady, amber light. Gloved hands gestured toward a side street. The young man nodded, seeming dazed. The pumpkin-headed figure placed a solicitous hand on his shoulder and guided him away from the crowd.
The footage cut off.
“Victim number one: Ryan Jennings. No further contact.”
“Got it.” Dick’s mind was already racing. A social predator. Bold. Theatrical. “Origin on the costumed perp?”
“Possibly a metahuman from Star City called Sleepy Pumpkin. The Flash had a run in with him last Halloween but was unable to apprehend him. It could be the same person.”
“I’ll head down there tonight to see what I can find,” Dick replied and terminated the call.
Since it was the week leading into Halloween, Dick decided he could go down to the Gayborhood celebrations dressed as Nightwing and no one would give him a second thought. After a quick shower, Dick donned his skintight black and blue suit. He left the escrima sticks but packed a compact set of collapsible batons and a full utility belt in a low-profile pack. The domino mask went on last, its lenses set to low-light amplification and facial recognition overlay. In the rearview of his black, Ducati, he looked like another beautiful, anonymous queer kid heading out for a night of mischief in the Gayborhood. A predator hunting a predator.
The Gayborhood was a living, throbbing beast. The air was thick with the smells of spilled beer, sugary cocktails, cheap cologne, and the damp, autumnal bite of a Gotham October. Music fought with music from competing bars, creating a chaotic, pulsing drone. Costumed bodies packed the streets—drag queens with ten-foot wingspans, packs of shirtless werewolves, a group dressed as the entire Bat-family in various states of artistic license, their laughter sharp and bright.
Nightwing moved through them. He didn’t push; he flowed, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes scanning behind the dark lenses of his mask. He wasn’t looking for a pumpkin head in the crowd; he was looking for a predator’s gaze . The way a shark’s eyes would linger on the strongest, healthiest seal in the herd. He watched interactions. The clumsy pick-up attempts, the drunken staggers, the friends holding each other up. He listened for the dissonant note.
Time stretched. He bought a soda from a cart just to stand still and observe. He watched a handsome guy dressed as a gladiator get into a loud, friendly argument with a group of pirates. He saw a lone Superman, looking lost, checking his phone. He felt the heavy thump of the bass in his chest.
Then, a shift. A parting in the crowd near the end of the block, where the frantic commercial strip began to yield to quieter, darker side streets. A tall silhouette in an immaculate black suit, a slash of orange at the cuffs and lapel. The head was unmistakable—the jack-o’-lantern, its glowing triangular eyes scanning the crowd. Not frantic, not hunting. Selecting.
And his selection was walking beside him. A young man, early twenties, built like a classical statue come to life. His costume was Tarzan. It consisted of a single, snug, faux-leather loincloth that rode low on his hips. That was it. No shirt. His chest was broad and hairless, gleaming under the string lights with a sheen of sweat. His abdomen was a washboard of defined muscle. His arms were thick, his shoulders wide. The loincloth, straining slightly at the front, left little to the imagination about what lay beneath. He was laughing at something the pumpkin-headed figure said, a wide, easy, trusting grin on his face. He wobbled slightly on his feet, the telltale unsteadiness of one too many jungle-themed cocktails.
They were moving away from the main drag, toward a row of parked cars lining the darker service road.
Got you.
Nightwing didn’t move immediately. He let them gain a little distance, then melted into the crowd, keeping them in sight. He saw Sleepy Pumpkin gesture toward a black sedan parked under a broken streetlight. The Tarzan-looking guy nodded, saying something with a slurred, “Yeah, man, that’d be awesome.”
Nightwing turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction, circling the block. His motorcycle was parked two streets over, a sleek, silent shadow against a graffiti-covered wall. He swung a leg over, kick-started the engine to a low, electric hum, and pulled his helmet on, the internal HUD syncing with his domino lenses. He guided the bike out of the alley just as Sleepy Pumpkin’s sedan pulled onto the main road ahead of him, two cars between them.
Gotham unwound around them. The garish lights of the Gaiety faded, replaced by the sodium-orange glow of the business district, then the sporadic, lonely lamps of the industrial parks. Traffic thinned. Nightwing dropped back, keeping just the distant red pinpricks of the sedan’s taillights in view. His bike was nearly silent, its tires a soft whisper on the asphalt. They crossed the river on an old, rickety bridge, the black water oily and still below. The buildings fell away entirely, replaced by stands of skeletal trees and the looming shadows of forgotten civic projects.
Finally, the sedan’s brake lights flared as it turned onto an unmarked road, its tires crunching on gravel. Nightwing killed his headlight and slowed to a crawl, rolling the bike onto the soft shoulder. He dismounted, his movements fluid and silent, and moved forward on foot, keeping to the tree line.
Through the bare branches, he saw the clearing. The remains of a grand botanical garden. A high, rusted gate hung open. And in the center, a vast, decaying greenhouse stood like a glass and iron skeleton, its broken panes reflecting the cold moonlight.
The sedan’s engine died. The headlights went out, painting the scene in shades of blue and black.
The driver’s door opened. Sleepy Pumpkin emerged, a crisp black silhouette against the night. He walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and leaned in.
Nightwing watched, his breath a soft, controlled plume in the cold air, his heart rate steady.
Sleepy Pumpkin emerged again, and over his shoulder was the Tarzan guy. He was completely limp, his arms dangling, his head lolling against Sleepy Pumpkin’s back. The single, tight loincloth was the only thing covering him. The faux leather strained across the full, muscular swell of his ass, which was now presented, rounded and perfect, right at Sleepy Pumpkin’s shoulder level. The man’s back was a landscape of sculpted muscle, pale in the moonlight, tapering down to a narrow waist where the loincloth was tied. His powerful legs hung down, one knee bent slightly, the calf muscle taut even in unconsciousness.
Sleepy Pumpkin adjusted his grip, hoisting the dead weight higher. The movement made the captive young man’s body shift. The loincloth rode up even further, exposing the muscular curves of his ass, revealing a hint of the shadowed cleft between them.
Nightwing felt it then—a quick, involuntary clench low in his own gut, a sudden flush of heat that had nothing to do with the night’s chill. It wasn’t just professional assessment. It was a bolt of raw, physical attraction. The sheer vulnerability of it—the powerful, beautiful body rendered helpless, carried like a prize. The contrast of the garish costume against the sinister, intimate abduction. It was wrong. It was a crime in progress. But for a single, shameful second, Dick Grayson’s eyes weren’t on the villain. They were tracing the line of the captive’s spine, the powerful slope of his shoulder, the the rounded, beautiful ass.
He shook his head, a sharp, physical motion, forcing the heat back down. Focus. He’s a victim. He pushed the intrusive, vivid image of those muscular, loincloth-clad thighs aside. He was here to stop this, not to…appreciate the aesthetics.
He watched as Sleepy Pumpkin, with his heavy burden, walked steadily toward the dark entrance of the greenhouse. The vines around the clearing seemed to lean toward him as he passed. Then he disappeared inside, swallowed by the deeper black of the structure’s interior.
Nightwing slipped his compact binoculars from his belt. He scanned the building’s facade, noting the broken windows, the rusted frames. One way in. He was going to have to get closer.
*****
The last few yards from the tree line to the greenhouse wall were the hardest. Every rustle of leaves under his boots, every crack of a dead twig, sounded like a gunshot in the vast, silent clearing. Nightwing moved like smoke, utilizing every scrap of shadow, every moon-cast silhouette of a crumbling statue or overgrown hedge. The scent of pumpkins was overwhelming here, thick and sweet and earthy, clinging to the back of his throat.
He reached the base of the great glass and iron wall. The greenhouse was massive, a relic of a more optimistic Gotham. Up close, the decay was even more profound. Wooden frames were soft with rot, metal struts orange with rust. Many of the glass panes were intact, but others were shattered, leaving jagged teeth in the frames. Nightwing chose a section where the glass was still whole but filthy, its surface streaked with decades of grime and moss.
He flattened himself against the cold brick foundation, his head angled to minimize his silhouette. Taking a slow, steadying breath, he tilted his head just enough to peer inside.
The moonlight, combined with a faint, unearthly greenish bioluminescence from within, illuminated the scene. His brain took a full second to process what his eyes were seeing, to assemble the sheer, overwhelming wrongness of it into a coherent image.
He was looking into the main conservatory space. And it was filled with them.
Men. Naked young men. Suspended.
They hung from the high, vaulted ceiling, their bodies arranged in a rough, ghastly circle around the central space. Each was held by thick, hairy pumpkin vines wrapped tight around their wrists and ankles, keeping them spread-eagle, vertical, and utterly helpless. There were five of them that Nightwing could see immediately. They were all different, yet all the same—each in his early to mid-twenties, each a specimen of peak physical conditioning. Their bodies, illuminated in the faint, sickly green glow, glistened with a sheen of sweat or…something else.
One had dark, curling hair on his chest, his body thick and powerful like a wrestler’s. Another was leaner, swimmer-built, with long, elegant lines of muscle. A third was pale and freckled, his red hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He recognized the fourth instantly—it was Ryan, the Beastmaster from the first night’s footage, his jaw slack, his eyes closed. But it was the fifth who stole the breath from Nightwing’s lungs: the Tarzan from tonight. He was already stripped. His skin was a shade paler than the others, contrasting sharply with his dark hair. His muscles were sharply defined under the eerie light.
But the horror was in the details. In the movement.
Encircling each man’s erect, fully-hard cock was a separate, slender vine. It pulsed gently, a slow, rhythmic contraction and release, milking them with obscene, mechanical efficiency. From the rear, another, slicker-looking vine had wormed its way deeply into each man’s ass, disappearing inside them. Those vines quivered subtly, flicking with a motion Nightwing instinctively understood was meant to stimulate something internal.
The men were all awake, except for the latest addition, the Tarzan guy.
Their heads lolled, expressions ranging from dazed confusion to shattered exhaustion to a kind of vacant, pleasure-stunned acceptance. Their chests heaved with ragged, panting breaths. Whimpers, choked-back moans, and soft, guttural sobs formed a low, discordant chorus that seemed to hang in the warm, humid air of the greenhouse. The redhead was quietly crying, tears carving clean streaks through the grime on his face. The swimmer-built one was biting his lip, his whole body trembling with small, constant shudders. The Tarzan’s eyes were squeezed shut, his neck corded with strain, his breath coming in hot, furious pants.
And the pumpkin patch itself was…alive. The great, broad leaves quivered. The vines holding the men pulsed with a slow, vegetative heartbeat. The pumpkins—dozens of them, huge and monstrous—seemed to watch. Even from this distance, Nightwing could see a trace of glowing, viridian veins running through their flesh, pulsing in time with the vines’ relentless motions. The whole place was a single, breathing, ravenous organism. And its food was the climax it was slowly, methodically wringing from these captive bodies.
Nightwing’s stomach turned. His blood ran cold, followed instantly by a scalding flush of white-hot, protective rage. This was worse than murder. This was a systematic, sexual defilement designed to feed a…a thing .
He jerked back from the window, pressing his forehead against the cool, rough brick, his own breathing suddenly unsteady. His mind raced. One opponent, likely with control over a hostile, semi-sentient environment. Five immediate hostages in extreme duress. He had his compact batons, his grapple, a handful of non-lethal gadgets. Against this?
He needed containment. He needed a gas agent to neutralize the vines, or a sonic emitter to disrupt their nervous system, if they even had one. He needed someone who could move through a chaotic, vertical environment with more agility than he could.
He needed backup.
Nightwing tapped his comm unit, hissed a code that rerouted the signal through a dizzying array of encrypted proxies, far from the GCPD or even the Justice League’s usual channels. There was a soft, three-tone chime in his ear. A connection opened.
“Hey, Boy Wonder.” The voice was young, effortlessly casual, edged with that familiar Brooklyn inflection that always felt like a splash of cold water on Gotham’s gloom. “Aren’t you supposed to be brooding somewhere? It’s a school night.”
“Spidey.” Nightwing’s own voice was tight, stripped of any banter. “I’m in the field. Gotham outskirts. I need you. Now.”
The tone on the other end changed instantly. “Location. Situation.”
Nightwing rattled off the GPS coordinates, his voice low and urgent. “Abandoned botanical garden. Large greenhouse. One confirmed hostile, male, metahuman, codename ‘Sleepy Pumpkin.’ Theatrical kidnapper. But the scene…” He swallowed, forcing the clinical terms past the image of the crying redhead. “The greenhouse is infested with what appears to be a bio-engineered or magically augmented Cucurbita pepo species. Vines are mobile, semi-sentient, and highly aggressive. They have multiple hostages—five young adult males—in total physical captivity. The vines are engaged in…forced, repetitive sexual stimulation. Objective appears to be harvesting semen to feed the plant organism. Hostages are awake and in clear distress. I am alone, outside the structure.”
There was a beat of stunned silence on the line. Then, a low whistle. “Jesus, Nightwing. Okay. Okay, I’m in Queens. I can be there in…call it twenty minutes if I push it. Can you hold? Surveil? Do not go in solo. That’s a nest.”
Nightwing’s eyes dragged back to the filthy glass. He saw the thick-bodied wrestler-type convulse suddenly, his back arching against the vines, a raw, broken shout tearing from his throat as his hips jerked forward, pumping his release into the waiting vine. The plant around him seemed to thrill , leaves fluttering, the glowing veins in the nearest pumpkin brightening momentarily.
Twenty minutes. For that guy, another captive being pushed through another brutal, violating climax. For Ryan, who looked ghost-pale and empty. For Tarzan, whose furious resistance was visibly flagging into trembling exhaustion.
“They’re milking them, Peter,” Nightwing whispered, the name slipping out in his anger and revulsion. “Right now. I can hear them. I can see it. I can’t just watch for twenty minutes.”
“Dick, listen to me.” Spidey’s voice was firm now, all traces of humor gone. “You’re describing an active hive with a central intelligence. You go crashing in there without a plan, you become Hostage Number Six, and then I’m walking into a trap trying to get you out. We need to hit this smart. Let me get there. We web the vines, we clear the civilians, then we punch the pumpkin.”
Nightwing knew he was right. It was the rational, tactical play. The one Bruce would have demanded. Wait, assess, strike with overwhelming force.
He looked back inside. The Tarzan guy had his head thrown back now, his throat working as he moaned, low and continuous. The vine around his cock was a blur of motion. His body was slick with sweat, his powerful legs trembling.
Rationality fell away. It shattered.
“I hear you,” Nightwing said, his voice dropping to a dead, cold calm. “And when you get here, that’s the plan. But I’m not waiting for you to get here before I start it. Those men aren’t assets in a tactical scenario. They’re victims in a torture chamber. Every second I wait, he’s breaking them a little more.”
“Dick—!”
“ETA twenty minutes. Do your best. Make it fifteen.” Nightwing’s hand went to the compact baton on his belt. His thumb found the release. “I’m going in. Secure the hostages first. Engage the hostile and the flora second. See you soon.”
He severed the comms link before the protest could form.
He took one last, long look at the suspended men, etching their positions in his mind. Five. A circle. He’d have to move fast, cut them down, get them clear of the vines’ immediate reach. Then find Sleepy Pumpkin. Then survive until a web-slinger from New York crashed through the roof.
He shifted his weight, preparing to find a broken pane to crawl through. His pulse hammered in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the low, sinful chorus of pleasure and despair leaking from the greenhouse.
*****
Nightwing moved with a controlled, liquid grace, ducking through the opening and settling silently onto the damp, leaf-littered tile inside. The air hit him first – thick, humid, and overwhelmingly sweet. It smelled of rich soil, overripe pumpkin, and another scent underneath, musky and organic: male sweat and the sharp, coppery tang of sex. The soft, desperate chorus of moans and hitched breaths was louder here, echoing softly under the high, curved ceiling.
He was in a side aisle, a narrow corridor between two long, raised plant beds now choked with the rampant, leafy growth of the pumpkin vines. He crouched low, using the broad leaves for cover, and began to move toward the central space, the source of the greenish light and the sounds.
He reached the edge of the main conservatory floor and froze, taking in the tableau from a new, ground-level angle.
The suspended men were even more shocking from this closer vantage point. They hung like grotesque, beautiful fruit from a network of thick vines descending from the ironwork above. Their shadows, cast by the pulsing bioluminescence, writhed on the tiled floor. But Nightwing’s gaze was drawn to the newest addition, the centerpiece of the circle.
There, on his knees on a bed of thick vines, was the Tarzan. Sleepy Pumpkin stood over him, a dark, elegant monolith. The captive’s head hung forward, chin to chest, his body still slack from the chloroform. Sleepy Pumpkin’s gloved hands were at the young man’s hips, fingers working at the knot of the tight faux-leather loincloth.
With a soft rip of Velcro, the knot came loose. Sleepy Pumpkin peeled the loincloth away, tugging it down the man’s muscular thighs. The garment, damp with sweat, fell aside, revealing everything.
The young man was breathtakingly endowed. His cock, soft and heavy in his unconscious state, was thick and long, nestling in a bed of dark, neatly trimmed hair. His balls were full, resting heavily between his powerful thighs. His body was a masterpiece of youthful strength: the deep V of his lower abdomen leading down to his groin, the hard, rounded globes of his ass pale against the dark green leaves beneath him.
Sleepy Pumpkin made a soft, hungry sound behind his mask. He admired his catch, letting his gloved fingers trail from the man’s navel, down through the coarse hair, to gently cup his genitals, weighing them in his palm.
“Lovely,” Sleepy Pumpkin murmured, his voice a reverent whisper that carried in the quiet. “So very lovely.”
Sleepy Pumpkin stepped closer, his polished boots whispering on the tiles. He began to fondle the suspended body with a possessiveness that made Nightwing’s skin crawl. He squeezed the hard swell of the pectoral muscles, thumbed the small, dark nipples until they pebbled into tight buds. His hands slid down the ridged abdomen, tracing each individual muscle. He gripped the captive’s narrow waist, then cupped the full, round ass cheeks, kneading the firm flesh.
As he groped, the more specialized vines awoke.
Two slender, almost prehensile tendrils slithered up from the bed of leaves. One, glistening with sticky sap, wound itself around the base of the young man’s cock, which was beginning to stiffen under the physical attention. It spiraled up the length, tightening into a slick, living fist.
Another vine, slightly thicker and blunter-tipped, slick with the same secretion, approached from behind. It nudged against the tight pucker of the man’s asshole, then, with a slow, persistent pressure, began to push its way inside.
The invasion was the trigger.
The young man’s eyes flew open. A sharp, ragged gasp tore from his lips. Confusion, then raw, animal terror flooded his features as he found himself suspended, naked, with this…thing…penetrating him. “N-no… get off…get out!” he stammered, his voice hoarse with sleep and panic. He tried to clench, to fight the intrusion, but the vine was relentless, slick, and strong. It slid deeper with a wet, obscene sound, burying several inches inside him.
At the same time, the vine around his cock began to pump. A slow, corkscrewing motion that pulled his foreskin back and forth over the sensitive head. The dual assault was instant and overwhelming.
“Wha— stop! Ah! God, please!” the captive begged, bucking wildly in the vines’ grip. But his struggles only served to grind the vine deeper into his ass and stroke his cock more firmly. Pleasure, unwanted and terrifying, began to spike through the fear. His cock swelled to its full, impressive erection in the vine’s tight coil, the tip flushed dark red and beading with pre-cum. “No… I don’t… nngh!”
A broken moan escaped him as the internal vine found its mark and pressed hard against his prostate. His eyes rolled back for a second, his whole body shuddering.
Nightwing watched, paralyzed by a mixture of horror and a sick sense of voyeurism. He should be moving, striking. But the scene held a grotesque, hypnotic power.
Sleepy Pumpkin simply stood back, hands clasped, watching the vine do its work. The pumping and probing intensified. The captive’s protests dissolved into a continuous stream of ragged pants, whimpers, and choked-off cries of “Ah! Ah! Fuck!” His body, held taut, began to move with the rhythm of the vines, his hips thrusting weakly into the coiled fist, his back arching to meet the deep penetration. Sweat sheened his skin, making his muscles gleam under the green light. His face was a mask of agonized, unwilling ecstasy.
It didn’t take long. The vines were too expert, the stimulation too direct. The young man’s breath hitched, his whole body tensing like a drawn bowstring. “I’m… I’m gonna…” he sobbed, his voice thick with shame and unbearable pressure.
With a guttural shout that echoed through the conservatory, he came.
His orgasm was violent. Thick, white ropes of semen erupted from his cock, splattering against the coiling vine and the broad leaves below. The jets were powerful and copious, pulsing out again and again as his body convulsed in the vines’ embrace, his ass clenching rhythmically around the buried tendril.
Where his seed landed, the pumpkin patch reacted . The vines shuddered with a perverse delight. The leaves absorbed the fluid, their green glow intensifying, becoming almost incandescent for a moment. The largest pumpkin nearby seemed to inflate slightly, its skin tightening, its color deepening to a vibrant, fierce orange. A soft, collective rustle passed through the entire patch, a sound like a satisfied sigh.
The captive hung limply in the aftermath, spent and trembling, tears of humiliation cutting tracks through the sweat on his cheeks. The vine slowly withdrew from his ass with a wet, final sound. The one around his cock loosened its grip, sliding away, slick and glistening with his release.
From his vantage point, Nightwing saw the entire, dreadful cycle: harvest, consumption, growth. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles popped. The time for watching was over.
*****
The sight of the young man breaking, of his seed stolen to feed that grotesque, glowing patch, snapped the last thread of Nightwing’s restraint. The voyeuristic horror crystallized into pure, incendiary rage, mixed with a hot, shameful undercurrent of arousal he could no longer deny. That body, that helplessness, the sheer raw power of the violation—it had coiled in his gut, a forbidden thrill that made his fury burn all the brighter. It was a twisted fuel.
He didn’t think. His body moved on instinct forged in a thousand alleyway brawls. His hand flashed to his belt, fingers closing around the cold, sharp-edged alloy of a batarang. He didn’t bother with a warning cry. There was no dialogue for this.
The small, winged projectile cut through the humid air with a soft shhh-ick . Its trajectory was perfect. It whipped past the young man’s trembling shoulder and struck the thick, hairy vine securing his right wrist. The monomolecular edge, sharp enough to score titanium, sliced through the fibrous tissue with a clean, wet snap .
The vine recoiled like a wounded snake, spraying a milky-white sap. The captive’s arm jerked free. Instantly unbalanced, the rest of the vines holding him slackened just enough. His other wrist tore loose, then his ankles.
With a choked gasp, the Tarzan-costumed victim collapsed onto the bed of leaves and vines, landing hard on his hands and knees. For a disoriented second, he just knelt there, naked and panting.
Then survival instinct kicked in. He scrambled to his feet, a powerful, feral motion, and without a single backward glance at his captor or the mysterious savior in the shadows, he turned and ran. His bare feet slapped on the damp tiles, his muscular legs pumping, his beautifully sculpted ass clenching and flexing as he bolted for a side aisle, toward the promise of the broken panes and the cold, free night.
“No,” Sleepy Pumpkin said, his voice not a shout but a soft, disappointed chide. A flick of his gloved hand.
From the leafy floor directly in the young man’s path, a thicket of dormant vines exploded upwards. They were faster this time, enraged by the attack on their kin. They coiled around his ankles mid-stride, yanking his feet out from under him. He went down with a cry, his chest and face slamming into the tiles. More vines snaked around his thighs, his waist, his arms as he thrashed, pinning him spreadeagled to the floor once more, his face pressed against the cold ground. His desperate, muffled screams filled the air.
Nightwing was already in motion, exploding from his cover. His own rage was a white noise in his ears. He charged across the open floor, his focus absolute: take down the source, the puppeteer. Sleepy Pumpkin turned to face him, that glowing jack-o’-lantern visage somehow conveying a sense of mild curiosity.
Nightwing led with a feint—a low kick aimed at the knee—then pivoted into a brutal elbow strike aimed for the mask’s chin. Sleepy Pumpkin flowed back, surprisingly graceful, the elbow whistling past. He countered not with a punch, but with another dismissive gesture.
The ground around Nightwing’s feet moved . Vines, thick as his wrist and impossibly fast, surged from the leaf litter. He danced back, his compact batons snapping out from his sleeves into his hands with twin shinks of hardened steel. He whirled, a dervish of controlled violence, slicing through the first wave of grasping tendrils. Milky sap sprayed, the severed ends writhing.
But for every vine he cut, two more took its place. They came from the walls, from the planters, from the very ceiling. He was fast, a blur of black and gray, but the greenhouse itself was the enemy. A vine wrapped around his ankle, yanking his foot out from under him. He hit the ground on one knee, slashing downward to sever it. Another looped around his wrist, trying to wrench the baton from his grip. He twisted, tore free, rolled to his feet—
A thick coil, damp and strong, whipped around his throat from behind.
He gagged, his hands flying up to claw at it. It wasn’t choking him, not yet. It was anchoring him. In that moment of vulnerability, the vines swarmed. They wrapped his other wrist, then his ankles, pulling his limbs out wide. He was still fighting, a furious, grunting struggle, muscles cording in his neck and arms, his abs flexing tight under his costume as he tried to torque his body free.
“Impressive,” Sleepy Pumpkin murmured, walking a slow circle around him as the vines gradually, inexorably, forced the hero down onto his back. “Such spirit. Such a lovely, taut body.” Nightwing’s boots scrabbled for purchase on the slick tile, his back arching in a final, powerful heave. But there were too many. With a heavy, final pressure, they pinned him flat, arms stretched above his head, legs pulled apart.
Nightwing lay there, chest heaving, glaring up at the glowing mask through his own domino lenses. “Let them go,” he snarled, his voice rough with strain.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Sleepy Pumpkin purred. He knelt beside Nightwing’s trapped form, his gaze traveling over the lean muscle defined by the tight fabric of his costume. “Such a waste, all this material hiding a work of art.” He produced a small, wicked-looking utility knife from his suit pocket. The blade gleamed in the green light.
Nightwing tensed, renewed struggling useless against the vegetative bonds. “Don’t you dare—”
Sleepy Pumpkin ignored him. He placed the tip of the blade at the collar of Nightwing’s costume and sliced downward with a smooth, rasping tear. The tough material parted easily. He peeled it open, with deliberate, almost ritualistic care, using the knife and his hands to part the fabric, pushing it aside like opening a gift.
Nightwing’s chest was revealed. It was lean and powerfully built, sculpted by acrobatics and combat. His pectorals were bare, his abdomen ridged. His skin was sheened with sweat from the fight, glistening. His nipples, tight from the cold air and adrenaline, were small and dark. Every ridge of his abdominal muscles was sharply defined, a topography of disciplined strength.
Sleepy Pumpkin made a soft, appreciative sound. He removed Nightwing’s utility belt, tossing it aside. The blade slid down each leg, and then Sleepy Pumpkin’s hands, hooked into the waistband and the underwear beneath, cut through the final remnants, revealing Nightwing’s muscular thighs and calves. The vines relaxes enough for Sleepy Pumpkin to remove Nightwing’s boots and socks.
Now Nightwing was as exposed as his captives. Naked but for his domino mask. His body was a masterpiece of functional male beauty. His legs were long and corded with muscle, his hips narrow. And between his thighs, his cock—half-hard from the frantic adrenaline and the degrading, intimate exposure—was thick and elegantly shaped, resting against a taut, hairless scrotum.
Sleepy Pumpkin stared openly, drinking in the sight. “Exquisite,” he breathed. He reached out, his bare fingers tracing the line of Nightwing’s hip bone, skirting dangerously close to his groin. Nightwing flinched violently, a raw, furious noise escaping his clenched teeth.
“Now,” Sleepy Pumpkin said, rising to his feet. “To put you in your place.” He gestured.
The vines pinning Nightwing’s limbs tightened. Then, with a slow, steady force, they began to lift. Nightwing was pulled up from the ground, first his wrists, then his ankles, until he was suspended a few inches in the air, stretched taut in a perfect, vertical spread-eagle. The position pulled on his shoulders, arched his back, and splayed his legs wide, putting every inch of his naked, muscular form on display. His cock, now fully exposed with his legs apart, hung heavy and vulnerable.
He hung there, breathing hard, feeling the cool air on his sweaty skin, the terrifying vulnerability of his position. He was one of them now. Another prize in the pumpkin patch.
*****
The initial shock of the cool air on his exposed skin was brief. It was replaced almost instantly by the first, violating touch of Sleepy Pumpkin’s gloved hands.
Nightwing flinched as gloved fingers returned, tracing the hard line of his jaw, then down the straining cords of his neck. The touch was clinical, appreciative, unbearably intimate. “So much better,” Sleepy Pumpkin murmured, his voice a honeyed poison. “All that armor… hiding this.”
His palms smoothed over Nightwing’s pectorals, thumbs brushing roughly over his tight nipples, making the hero grit his teeth. The hands slid down, mapping the defined ridges of his abdomen, pausing to press into the firm muscle as if testing its quality. Then they gripped Nightwing’s narrow waist, fingers digging in, before sliding around to cup the taut, muscular globes of his ass. Sleepy Pumpkin squeezed, kneading the firm flesh, his fingers venturing into the cleft to press teasingly against Nightwing’s asshole.
Nightwing thrashed against the vines, a furious, useless snarl ripping from his throat. “Get your hands off me!”
“Or what?” Sleepy Pumpkin whispered, leaning in close, his glowing mask filling Nightwing’s vision. The sweet, earthy scent of the pumpkin was overwhelming. “You’ll fight? You already lost.”
As if on cue, the specialized vines stirred from the verdant mass below.
Nightwing felt it first at his crotch. A slick, cool, surprisingly gentle tendril coiled around the base of his cock. It wasn’t rough or forceful at first. It was…exploratory. It spiraled up his length, a living, sinuous caress, its surface sticky with some clear, viscous sap. His cock, traitorous and adrenalized, twitched under the contact, thickening rapidly despite his horror. The vine tightened its grip into a firm, pulsating ring, and began a slow, steady up-and-down stroke.
From behind, he felt a different pressure. A blunter, thicker vine, slick with the same secretion, nudged against his asshole. He clenched every muscle in his lower body, a desperate, internal revolt. “No—!”
The vine pushed. There was a sharp, burning stretch of resistance, then a sickening, wet pop as the slick tip breached his tight ring of muscle. Nightwing cried out, a sharp, pained gasp that was immediately choked off as the invader slid deeper, penetrating him with a slow, cruel inexorability. It didn’t stop until he felt an uncomfortable, internal pressure, a fullness that was alien and deeply violating.
Then it moved. A subtle twist, a gentle pulse. And it found its target. A bolt of pure, electric pleasure shot up his spine, so intense it blinded him for a second. It was involuntary, a physiological betrayal that hollowed out his fury and filled it with shock. “Ah! God—!”
Sleepy Pumpkin chuckled softly, his hands still roaming Nightwing’s torso, pinching a nipple, tracing his collarbone. “There it is. The body always knows. It always gives in.”
The vine around his cock began its work in earnest now. The strokes became faster, tighter, a perfect, frictionless glide that milked him with terrifying expertise. The one inside him began a rhythmic massage against his prostate, each internal press sending waves of devastating pleasure radiating out through his pelvis, his stomach, up into his chest. It was a feedback loop of sensation—the slick, tight fist on his cock, the deeply invasive kneading inside him—that short-circuited his ability to think, to fight, to be anything but a vessel for the overwhelming stimulus.
Nightwing’s protests died in his throat, replaced by ragged, panting breaths. His head fell back, his mask lenses staring sightlessly at the rusted iron ceiling. His body, held taut by the vines, began to move against his will. His hips bucked minutely into the stroking vine. His back arched, pressing his ass back against the invader, seeking more of that shameful, internal pressure. A low, continuous moan was dragged from his lips, a sound of utter defeat and helpless arousal.
He was drowning in it. The sight of the other captives, the smell, the knowledge of what was happening to him—it all fused with the relentless physical sensation into a single, horrifying reality. He was being publicly, expertly, sexually broken, and his body was cheering it on.
The climax built with terrifying speed. It wasn’t a slow burn; it was a tsunami gathered from every humiliating touch, every invasive thrust, every slick stroke. Pressure coiled at the base of his spine, hot and urgent and undeniable. His balls tightened. His cock throbbed in the vine’s vise-like grip. A strangled cry tore from him as he hit the point of no return.
“I— I’m—”
His orgasm erupted. It was violent, convulsive, a total bodily seizure. Thick, white ropes of semen jetted from his cock, splattering against the coiling vine, the leaves below, and his own trembling stomach. The jets were powerful, an extravagant release that seemed to go on and on, each pulse wracking his suspended frame with another shudder. Inside him, the vine milked his prostate ruthlessly, wringing out every last drop. The pleasure was catastrophic, annihilating thought, leaving only raw, shuddering sensation and a deep, soul-crushing shame.
As the last few weak spurts dribbled from his spent cock, Nightwing hung limp, utterly drained. His breath came in broken sobs. Tears of frustration and degradation welled behind his mask. The vines, their work done, loosened. The one inside him withdrew with a wet, final sound, leaving him feeling strangely empty and used.
Sleepy Pumpkin stepped forward, holding the familiar small, hollowed pumpkin. The lid was off. Inside, the white cloth was freshly soaked. “Such a generous donor,” he whispered. He tilted the pumpkin, bringing the opening toward Nightwing’s face.
Nightwing lacked the strength to even turn his head. The cloying, sweet-stench of the chloroform filled his nostrils. He tried to hold his breath, but exhaustion and the aftermath of the brutal orgasm betrayed him. He inhaled.
The world didn’t go black instantly. It faded, softly, sweetly. The green glow of the patch became a distant, blurry emerald sea. The sobs of the other captives melted into a gentle, receding murmur. The sensation in his limbs—the ache in his shoulders, the stickiness on his belly—dissipated into a warm, woolly numbness. The last thing he felt was Sleepy Pumpkin’s hand gently stroking his sweat-damp hair. The last thing he heard was a murmured, “Sleep now, beautiful Nightwing. You’ve earned your rest.”
Then, nothing. A deep, chemical silence.
Sleepy Pumpkin watched the hero go limp, his head lolling forward. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the young man still pinned face-down on the floor. He walked over, crouched beside him. The captive was weeping softly into the tiles, his body trembling with shock and humiliation.
“Hush now,” Sleepy Pumpkin said, his voice losing none of its gentle menace. He placed the small pumpkin over the young man’s nose and mouth, holding it there until the struggling ceased, until the tense muscles of that beautiful back relaxed into unconsciousness. “You’ll join your brothers.”
With another command, the vines binding the former Tarzan lifted him. They carried his limp, naked form over to the circle of suspended captives. With careful, almost tender motions, they wrapped his wrists and ankles, and hoisted him up into the vacant spot, spreading him wide.
Sleepy Pumpkin stood in the center of his garden, surrounded by his naked trophies. He looked from one to the next: the wrestler, the swimmer, the redhead, Ryan, the former Tarzan, and finally, the prize of the night, Nightwing. Their cum, already absorbed, had made the patch glow with a fierce, hungry light. The pumpkins were larger, their skins gleaming.
He smiled behind his mask.
“Soon,” he promised the rustling leaves. “More are coming.”
*****
The Manhattan skyline was a distant, glowing bruise against the western horizon, swallowed by the sheer, inky blackness that was the airspace over Gotham. Peter Parker flew not as a passenger, but as the missile. The rhythmic thwip-thwip of his web-shooters was the only sound, a metronome ticking off the seconds of his friend’s peril. The suit’s lenses were set to full-spectrum overlay, scanning the darkened landscape below for the coordinates Nightwing—Dick —had snarled with such urgent rage.
He saw the clearing first, a dark circle in the tangle of woods, and the angular, skeletal shadow of the greenhouse at its center. He adjusted his trajectory, cutting his forward momentum with a sharp web-line to a tall pine, swinging in a silent, wide arc that deposited him onto the greenhouse’s steep, glass-paned roof with the lightness of a falling leaf.
He crouched instantly, his red and blue suit a startlingly bright note against the grimy glass and rusted iron. The roof groaned softly under his weight. He was breathing hard, not from exertion, but from a low-frequency dread that had grown with every passing mile. Forced, repetitive sexual stimulation. The clinical phrase did nothing to prepare him.
He found a pane that was less filthy, a section where the grime had been partially washed away by rain, offering a murky view into the cavernous space below. He pressed his lensed eyes to the glass.
The first thing that registered was the light—a sickly, pulsing greenish bioluminescence that seemed to emanate from the plants themselves, painting the vast interior in surreal, underwater tones. Then came the scale. The pumpkin patch wasn’t a garden; it was a jungle. Thick, hairy vines formed a living net across the floor, up the walls, across the ceiling from which they descended like nooses. And the pumpkins… they were monstrous. Some larger than beach balls, their skin glowing with those same viridian veins, they looked less like vegetables and more like dormant, watchful organs.
Then he saw the men.
They hung in a loose semi-circle, suspended in mid-air by those same vines, which were wrapped tight around their wrists and ankles, pulling their limbs out in a cruel, spreadeagle display. There were six of them.
Six naked, young, powerfully built male bodies, rendered completely and vulnerably exposed.
Peter’s breath hitched in his throat.
He knew he should be assessing tactical details—the villain’s location, the vine density, possible weak points in the structure. But for a long, paralyzing moment, his brain refused to process anything but the sheer, overwhelming sensuality of the tableau.
Each captive was a study in masculine perfection, illuminated in that eerie, revealing glow. One was built like a wrestler, thick-necked and broad-chested, dark hair dusting his pectorals and trailing down a ridged stomach. Another was a lean, long-limbed athlete, every tendon and sinew visible. A third had fiery red hair and pale skin dotted with freckles across his shoulders. He saw the one who must have been the Tarzan—incredibly defined, with a heavy, soft cock resting against muscular thighs.
And there, among them, was Dick.
Nightwing. Stripped of all but his black domino mask. His body, which Peter knew from a hundred locker rooms and shared safe-house beds, was now on garish, humiliating display. Dick’s physique was different from the others—leaner, a gymnast’s build, but no less powerful. The sweep of his shoulders, the tight cut of his waist, the elegant line of his hip bones leading down to… Peter’s gaze, against his will, snagged there. Dick was beautifully, proportionally endowed, even in unconscious repose. The sight sent a jolt of illicit heat straight to Peter’s own groin, a visceral, thrilling shock that was immediately followed by a wave of shame.
His eyes swept over the others. The helpless arch of their backs. The perfect, rounded curves of their asses, lifted and presented by the pose. The strong columns of their throats, their heads lolling in drugged sleep. The sheer variety of male beauty, all captive, all helpless, was dizzying. It was wrong. It was a crime scene of the most vile and intimate kind.
But in the secret, silent core of him, the part that wasn’t Spider-Man, it was also…electrifying. The power of it. The raw, unabashed maleness of it. The taboo spectacle of so many perfect specimens brought low. His own body, snug in its spandex suit, responded with a treacherous ache of arousal.
Then, movement below. A figure walked slowly into the center of the circle, entering Peter’s field of view.
The villain. Tall, slender, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit with accents of orange. The jack-o’-lantern head glowed with a steady, malevolent amber light from within. This was Sleepy Pumpkin. He moved with a proprietor’s calm, a gardener surveying his prized blooms.
Peter watched as the villain stopped before one of the captives—the redhead. He reached out a gloved hand and gently, almost lovingly, cupped the young man’s slack jaw, tilting his head up as if examining a flower. Then his hand traveled down, stroking the captive’s chest, brushing a thumb over a nipple. He did the same to the swimmer-built one next, his touch lingering on a defined abdominal muscle.
He was touching them. Claiming them. And the vines holding them…they seemed to pulse gently in time with his movements, as if sharing in the ownership.
Peter’s arousal twisted, soured, then reignited as a different kind of heat—fury, protectiveness, and that stubborn, hungry attraction now fused into a single, volatile compound. His best friend, his sometimes-lover, was down there, naked and unconscious in a monster’s gallery. And every other young man there was someone’s best friend, someone’s son.
He pulled back from the glass, his heart hammering against his ribs. The tactical details flooded in now, sharp and clear. One primary hostile. Sentient, aggressive flora controlling six hostages. One ally (himself) on an unstable roof. Dick was compromised. The rules had changed.
Swallowing hard, Peter Parker looked down once more at the garden of stolen men. The shameful thrill was gone, burned away by purpose. But the image—the powerful, vulnerable, beautiful bodies—was seared into his mind. He had to get them out. All of them.
He flexed his fingers, the webbing mechanisms in his wrists humming with readiness. Time for the web-slinger to crash the party.
*****
The roof was a maze of corroded iron and treacherous, sagging glass. Spider-Man moved across it with a predatory silence that belied the frantic calculations ticking over in his mind. He couldn’t just dive in. One against the cornucopia of creepy-crawly vines down there? Bad odds. He needed to change the environment. Level the playing field.
Think, Parker. Think. It’s a plant. A big, bad, horny plant.
The word “herbicide” flashed in his mind like a neon sign. Of course. Don’t fight the vines, kill the root system. But he’d need a delivery system. A way to saturate the entire patch at once.
His enhanced senses, dialed up to their peak, scanned the complex below. His sight picked out the faint, faded outlines of old irrigation pipes running along the greenhouse walls. His hearing filtered the soft rustle of the patch and caught the faint, steady drip…drip…drip of water from a broken pipe somewhere. There had to be a central system. A pump. A reservoir.
And where would you keep the chemicals for a massive botanical conservatory?
His gaze snapped to a small, squat wooden structure nestled against the side of the main greenhouse, half-hidden by overgrown ivy. A storage shed.
Decision made. He flipped off the roof ledge, firing a web-line to a tree branch, and swung down in a low, silent arc. He landed in a crouch behind the shed, the moist earth muffling his impact. The door was secured by a heavy, rusted padlock. A quick, precise tug from his enhanced strength snapped the shackle with a dull ping . He eased the door open, the hinges screaming a brief, metallic protest into the night.
Inside, it was a time capsule of abandoned horticulture. The air was thick with dust and the dry, papery smell of decay. Metal shelving held rows of empty clay pots, stacks of burlap sacks rotten with age, and coils of brittle hose. Cobwebs draped everything like ghostly lace.
And there, on a bottom shelf, behind a collapsed bag of peat moss, he found them.
Containers. Large, heavy-duty plastic jugs, their labels faded but still legible. One read “GLYPHOSATE – INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH – NON-SELECTIVE HERBICIDE.” Another: “2,4-D AMINE – BROADLEAF.” A third: “SURFACTANT – PENETRANT.” Jackpot.
He hefted one of the glyphosate jugs. It was still three-quarters full, the liquid inside sloshing heavily. Enough to scorch the earth for a hundred feet. But he needed a vector.
His eyes rose to the ceiling of the shed. More pipes ran along the interior wall, disappearing into the shared wall with the main greenhouse. The old irrigation system. If it was still connected…Bingo.
He spotted a corroded metal valve wheel near the junction where the pipes entered the greenhouse wall. That was the manual control for this section. And next to it, mounted on the wall, was a small, dusty electrical panel. He popped it open. Inside, a simple circuit breaker and a timer switch, its face yellowed and cracked, but the mechanical toggle still looked operable.
A plan snapped into crystalline focus. He could rig a batch of herbicide concentrate into the pipeline, set the timer to activate the pump and open the valve, and flood the entire greenhouse irrigation grid with poison. It wouldn’t be instantaneous—the system would need to pressurize, the spray heads (if they still worked) would need to engage—but it would be systemic, thorough, and devastating to any plant life.
He began to work, his movements a blur of precise, quiet efficiency. He found an empty five-gallon mixing bucket, dumped the contents of the glyphosate and 2,4-D jugs into it, added the surfactant to ensure the poison would stick to and penetrate the waxy pumpkin leaves, and stirred it with a broken piece of dowel rod. The acrid, chemical smell burned his nostrils even through his mask’s filter.
He disconnected a section of flexible hose from a dusty sprayer unit and jury-rigged it from the bucket into the main irrigation pipe inlet, securing it with webbing to form a watertight seal. He flipped the circuit breaker. A faint, decades-old hum vibrated through the pipes. Good. The pump still had juice.
He set the mechanical timer for a five-minute delay, then toggled the valve wheel to the “OPEN” position. A faint hiss of air escaped as the system pressurized. The bucket of herbicide lurched as fluid was sucked into the pipe.
Five minutes. He had five minutes before a chemical cascade would begin raining down on that green hellscape. He needed to be inside before then. He needed to secure the hostages, and he needed to deal with Sleepy Pumpkin.
He slipped out of the shed and sprinted, low and fast, back to the main greenhouse wall. He found a broken pane large enough to crawl through and slid inside, dropping to a crouch on the familiar damp tiles, now hidden behind a large, leafy pumpkin plant.
The scene had changed.
Sleepy Pumpkin was no longer a composed curator. He stood in the center of the circle of suspended men, but his elegant black suit trousers were pooled around his ankles. His shirt was still impeccable, his velvet jacket still perfect, but from the waist down he was exposed.
And he was painfully, outrageously erect. His cock, thick and flushed a dark red, stood out stiffly from a nest of dark hair. “My finest prize,” Sleepy Pumpkin murmured, his voice thick with lust. He stepped up to the unconscious Nightwing.
He placed his hands on Nightwing’s bare hips, gripping the lean muscle. He used his thumbs to part the cheeks of Nightwing’s ass, exposing the tight, vulnerable pucker, still slick and relaxed from the vine’s earlier invasion. Sleepy Pumpkin angled his throbbing cockhead against it.
With a low, grunting thrust, he pushed inside.
Nightwing’s body, unconscious and pliant, offered no resistance. Sleepy Pumpkin sank deep in one smooth, brutal motion, burying himself to the hilt inside the hero. He let out a shuddering groan of pleasure, his head falling back within the pumpkin mask. He began to move.
His hips pistoned with a rough, hungry rhythm. Each forward slam rocked Nightwing’s entire suspended body forward, making the vines creak. The sound was wet, obscenely loud in the quiet space—the slap of flesh on flesh, the slick squelch of penetration. Sleepy Pumpkin grasped Nightwing’s muscular ass, fingers digging in, using the grip to pull the hero’s body onto his cock with each thrust.
He fucked him with a possessive, single-minded intensity, lost in the sensation. Nightwing’s head lolled with each impact, his beautiful, slack face a mask of violated innocence.
From his hiding place, Spider-Man watched, his own breath frozen in his chest. The chemical burn of the herbicide in his nostrils was nothing compared to the searing, white-hot rage that exploded behind his lenses. That was Dick. That was his friend. Being used like a fleshlight by this monster.
The arousal he’d felt earlier was gone, incinerated in this furnace of fury. All that remained was a cold, razor-sharp focus. The timer in his head ticked down.
Four minutes.
*****
The sight of it—the rhythmic, brutal violation, the helpless swing of Dick’s body with each thrust—locked Spider-Man’s muscles for a fraction of a second too long. Rage and revulsion warred with the scientist’s need for a clean, systemic solution. The herbicide was coming, but its timer was a mechanical heartbeat in his mind. It wouldn’t be fast enough for this .
He couldn’t charge. Not directly. Sleepy Pumpkin was lost in his depravity, but the vines were alert, coiled and waiting. A frontal assault would see him wrapped up before he landed a punch. He needed to control the battlefield first. He needed to activate the kill-switch now .
Keeping low, he melted back into the shadows of the leafy periphery. He moved not on the ground, but upward, his fingertips finding minute imperfections in the rusted iron framework. He climbed silently, a red and blue ghost ascending into the latticework of pipes and struts that crisscrossed the ceiling high above the scene.
From this vantage, the greenhouse looked like a giant’s dying terrarium. He could see the network of old, galvanized steel irrigation pipes running along the apex of the roof, fed by a larger main that descended into the wall shared with the shed. At intervals along the main pipe, smaller feeder lines branched off, each ending in a rusty, brass sprinkler head aimed at the beds below. Many were clogged or broken, but enough looked intact to drench the central area.
He spotted what he needed near the far wall: a larger, more complex junction box than the one in the shed. This was the master control manifold for the greenhouse zones. It was caked in grime and decades of rust, but the valve wheels and pressure gauges were still recognizable.
Like a spider descending its own thread, he lowered himself on a single, nearly invisible strand of webbing until he was dangling just above the manifold. He landed on the narrow service catwalk with practiced silence. His fingers flew over the controls. He identified the main intake valve—already open from his work in the shed—and the master pressure release. There was no time for subtlety. He spun the master pressure valve to full open.
A deep, groaning shudder ran through the pipework under his hands. A gargling, sucking noise echoed in the metal. Then, with a sound like a giant clearing its throat, the system pressurized and fired.
All across the ceiling, the ancient sprinkler heads sputtered to life. They coughed out long-stagnant water in brown, spit-like globs for a second. Then, with a rising, pressurized hisssss , they began to spray.
It wasn’t a gentle rain. It was a chemical monsoon.
Thick, opaque droplets of herbicide-laced water fell in a wide, drenching curtain onto the pumpkin patch below. The drops splattered across the broad, waxy leaves, beaded on the hairy vines, and ran down the glowing orange skins of the pumpkins.
The reaction was immediate and horrific.
The vines holding the captives convulsed. A shivering, pained tremor ran through the entire vegetative mass. The leaves where the poison landed began to curl inward at the edges, a sickly yellow necrosis spreading from each droplet contact like a rash. The vibrant, hungry green glow of the patch began to flicker, to dim. A low, collective hiss rose from the plants, a sound of vegetable agony.
In the center of the circle, Sleepy Pumpkin froze.
His brutal rhythm stuttered. He was buried deep inside Nightwing, lost in his sexual haze, when the first cold, chemical drops struck his velvet-clad shoulders, his exposed backside. He stiffened, his head snapping up within the mask. He looked around, saw the cascading poison, saw his precious patch withering in real time.
“No…!” The word was a strangled, disbelieving gasp.
He wrenched himself out of Nightwing with a violent, wet pull, his own erection flagging instantly as panic overrode lust. He stumbled back, his pants still around his ankles, staring at his dying garden, his hands held out as if to ward off the rain.
“My patch… my beautiful patch!”
It was the moment of perfect, shocked vulnerability.
Spider-Man didn’t hesitate. He dropped from the catwalk, free-falling through the chemical shower. He fired two thick strands of webbing not at Sleepy Pumpkin, but at the ceiling above him. The strands hit and stuck, and he used them like rappel lines, swinging down in a furious, feet-first arc.
He crashed into Sleepy Pumpkin with the full force of his descent.
The impact was brutal. It drove the air from the villain’s lungs with a sharp oof and sent him sprawling backward onto the wet, leafy ground. Before Sleepy Pumpkin could even register the attack, Spider-Man was on him.
His hands became a blur. Thwip! Thwip! Thwip-thwip-THWIP!
Webbing erupted from his wrists, pinning Sleepy Pumpkin’s arms to his torso, wrapping his legs together from thighs to ankles. He cocooned the villain’s torso in multiple dense, sticky layers, then sealed his gloved hands flat against his sides. A final, precise shot webbed the jack-o’-lantern mask itself, sealing the eye and mouth holes, plastering it immovably to Sleepy Pumpkin’s head. In less than three seconds, the villain was transformed from a predatory horror into a tightly bound, writhing package, lying helpless in the poison rain.
Spider-Man stood over him, chest heaving, the herbicide-laced water dripping from his own suit. He looked down at the trapped, mummified form, then up at the suspended, drugged, and now chemically-showered captives. The vines holding them were loosening, dying, their grip faltering.
Phase one was done. The monster was caught. His garden was dying.
Now came the hard part: getting six unconscious, naked, potentially herbicide-contaminated men to safety.
*****
The sound of the dying pumpkin patch was a slow, wet sigh. The herbicide rain continued its relentless patter, drumming on the leaves now gone limp and yellow. The vines that had held the men aloft were slackening, their grip unspooling like overstretched rubber bands. One of the captives—the thick-bodied wrestler—slumped forward, his upper body leaning heavily against the loosened bonds before Spider-Man could get to him.
He moved quickly, efficiently, the crisis still active. He couldn’t haul six naked men out by himself, not before the herbicide soaked them further, not when the structural integrity of the now-desiccating vine network was suspect. He needed a team. He needed containment.
He tapped the securest channel on his suit’s comms, the one that bypassed even Avengers protocols and went straight to a very specific, very shadowy switchboard.
“Spider-Man to SHIELD. Priority Alpha. I have a Code: Harvest situation. Location transmitted. One hostile, immobilized, codename: Sleepy Pumpkin. Hostile commands bio-aggressive, semi-sentient flora for the purpose of sexual predation and biological resource extraction. There are five additional male adult victims on-site requiring immediate medical, psychological, and decontamination protocols. The flora itself is actively being neutralized with herbicide but requires containment, quarantine, and study—it feeds off human male ejaculate and exhibits growth/reaction characteristics. Tertiary victim already in my custody for secure transport. Requesting immediate exfil for hostiles, victims, and botanical samples.”
The response was instantaneous, a cool, professional voice. “Acknowledged, Spider-Man. Sending a containment team to your coordinates now. ETA eight minutes. Please secure the scene until arrival.”
“Already done. Hurry. This place is toxic in more ways than one.”
He severed the link. SHIELD would handle the mess. They’d bag and tag the webbed pumpkin freak, carefully handle the traumatized men, and take samples of the ghastly, glowing gourds before torching the rest. His job here, as far as the official record went, was done.
But there was one victim who wasn’t going on a SHIELD helicarrier.
He turned to the still-suspended form of Nightwing. The herbicide-laced water had plastered Dick’s dark hair to his forehead and ran in rivulets over his slack, handsome face, his bare neck, his broad shoulders. His body, gleaming wetly, looked heartbreakingly vulnerable.
Spider-Man approached. He reached up and, with careful, precise tugs, broke the now-brittle, dying vines holding Dick’s wrists and ankles. The hero’s body collapsed forward.
Spider-Man caught him.
He caught him under the arms and knees, hoisting him into a bridal carry first, but the position was awkward with Dick’s longer limbs. So he adjusted, shifting the dead weight, rolling Dick’s limp torso over his shoulder. Dick’s head and chest rested against Spider-Man’s back. His naked ass lay over Spider-Man’s shoulder, and his powerful thighs were pressed against Peter’s chest.
The contact was immediate, intimate, and electrifying.
Dick’s muscular body was heavy, real, and hot against him. Through the thin, soaked spandex of his suit, Peter could feel every contour: the hard swell of Dick’s pectoral and the defined ridges of his stomach pressing into Peter’s back, the firm, rounded globes of his ass cheeks resting heavily on Peter’s shoulder. The heat of him was a stark contrast to the chill, chemical air. Peter’s own body reacted with a jolt of pure, physical arousal, a helpless throb of desire that had no place in a rescue op. He could smell Dick’s skin under the chemical reek—sweat, a hint of his familiar cologne, and something else, something vulnerable and male.
He swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down. He’s unconscious. He’s been violated. This isn’t the time.
He moved with purpose, carrying his precious burden away from the toxic rain, out of the main conservatory and into a side service room he’d spotted earlier. It was a dusty old office. On a cot in the corner, forgotten, was a rough, grey woolen blanket. He laid Dick down on the cot—the hero’s beautiful body splayed awkwardly—and used the blanket to briskly, thoroughly dry him. He patted the water from his hair, wiped his face, rubbed the coarse fabric over his chest and stomach, down his legs. He was clinical, careful not to linger, but his eyes couldn’t help but trace the lines of muscle, the dark trail of hair leading down from Dick’s navel. He wrapped the blanket around Dick’s shoulders like a cape, tucking it closed over his chest, covering his nakedness.
Outside, the first thrumming pulse of SHIELD quinjet engines vibrated through the ground. Time to go.
He lifted Dick again, this time blanket and all, back over his shoulder. He crept out a side door just as the heavy tread of armored boots echoed from the main entrance. He slipped into the tree line, found Dick’s motorcycle where he’d left it—a silent, black silhouette under the moon.
Gently, he sat Dick upright on the passenger seat. The hero sagged forward, his blanketed chest leaning against Peter’s back. Peter worked quickly. He used short, precise bursts of webbing—not the thick binders, but the flat, adhesive kind—to secure the blanket around Dick’s torso. Then he webbed Dick’s thighs to the seat, and his chest to Peter’s own back, creating a stable, supported riding harness. He made sure the webbing wasn’t too tight, that it would hold but not constrict.
He kick-started the bike, the engine purring to life with a low snarl. He guided it out of the woods, onto the gravel road, and then the empty asphalt highway back toward Gotham’s glittering, indifferent skyline. The whole ride, Dick’s head rested against Peter’s shoulder blade, his warm, even breath ghosting against Peter’s neck through the suit. The physical connection was constant, a living, breathing weight that stirred that same, forbidden warmth in Peter’s gut.
He drove to a nondescript apartment building in the nicer part of the city, one with a private, underground garage entrance accessible only by keycode. Nightwing’s safehouse. Peter knew the code.
He pulled into a reserved spot, killed the engine, and carefully dissolved the webbing with a spritz from his belt. Dick slumped into his arms. Peter lifted him, cradling him close, and carried him to the private elevator, then down a hallway to a door marked only with a number.
Inside, the apartment was dark, minimalist, clean. A place for sleeping and not much else. Peter carried Dick straight to the bedroom and laid him down gently on the crisp, dark sheets of the large bed.
He stood back for a moment, looking down at the sleeping hero wrapped in the rough grey blanket, his face finally peaceful, cleansed of the chemical rain and the horror. The arousal was gone now, replaced by a deep, protective tenderness, and a simmering anger at what had been done to him.
He pulled the blanket up to Dick’s chin. “You’re safe now,” he whispered to the empty room. “I got you.”
*****
The return to consciousness was a slow, viscous climb through layers of chemical darkness. It began with sound: the soft, steady hum of central heating. Then scent: the familiar, clean smell of his own linens, the faintest hint of leather and cologne that clung to his safehouse. Then touch: the incredible, grounding softness of his own mattress beneath him, the weight of a blanket.
Dick Grayson’s eyes fluttered open.
The ceiling of his bedroom swam into focus, a plain expanse of white in the low light from a single bedside lamp. He was home. A profound, disorienting relief washed over him, followed by a spike of residual fear—the last memory was chemical sweetness, a glowing mask, and violation.
He tried to sit up. A wave of dizzy nausea pushed him back down onto the pillow. He groaned softly.
A shadow moved at the edge of the bed.
“Easy, Dick. Just take it slow.”
The voice was familiar, warm, edged with that New York cadence that always felt out of place in Gotham. Peter. Still in the suit, the big white lenses of his mask reflecting the lamplight, but the voice was pure Peter Parker.
Dick turned his head, the movement sending a dull throb through his temples. Spider-Man was perched on the edge of the mattress, watching him with what Dick knew, under the mask, was intense concern. “Pete…?” His own voice was a sandpaper rasp.
“Yeah. It’s me. You’re safe. You’re home.”
“The others… the patch…”
“SHIELD has them. The bad guy is webbed and bagged. The whole creepy garden is getting torched. It’s over.” Peter’s gloved hand reached out, resting lightly on the blanket covering Dick’s sternum. A grounding, solid weight.
The reality of it settled over Dick. The rescue. The extraction. Him, carried out of that hell, brought here. Gratitude, thick and complex, swelled in his chest, momentarily overwhelming the shame of what had been done to him. Pete had seen him like that. Naked, suspended… used.
“Thank you,” Dick whispered, the words feeling insufficient. He lifted a hand from under the blanket, his fingers finding the slick, synthetic material of Spider-Man’s forearm and squeezing. “You saved… everyone.”
“Couldn’t let my favorite acrobat become fertilizer,” Peter said, trying for lightness, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
Dick looked at him—the iconic red and blue suit, the mask that hid his best friend’s face. It felt like a barrier, now. He’d been stripped bare, in every sense. He needed to see him. He needed contact, real and human.
With a surge of strength fueled by emotion, Dick pushed himself up on one elbow. The blanket slid down, pooling around his waist, revealing his bare, sculpted torso. He ignored the twinge of soreness. His free hand shot out, not to the mask, but to the front of Peter’s suit, fingers hooking into the seam at the collar.
“Dick, what—?”
Dick pulled. Hard.
He yanked Peter forward, off balance, onto the bed beside him. Peter landed with a surprised grunt, half-sprawled across Dick’s lap. Before Peter could react, Dick’s hands were on him, not fighting, but claiming. He found the hidden release at the base of Peter’s neck and peeled the mask up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.
Peter Parker’s face was revealed—flushed, wide-eyed, a lock of brown hair stuck to his damp forehead. “Whoa, okay, assertive,” he breathed, but he didn’t pull away. His eyes, now unshielded, were dark with worry, relief, and something else—a mirror of the raw, desperate need Dick felt.
“Thank you,” Dick said again, his voice low and rough. He didn’t wait for a reply. His hands went back to the suit, finding the hidden zippers and seals. He worked them open with practiced, urgent efficiency—the material peeling back from Peter’s shoulders and arms. Peter helped, shrugging it off, until the top half of the Spider-Man suit was pushed down to his waist, bunched around his hips.
Peter’s bare chest was revealed. It was a swimmer’s build, leaner than Dick’s acrobat’s frame but no less powerfully defined. His muscular pectorals trailed down a taut, ridged abdomen. His skin was flushed warm under Dick’s gaze.
Dick pushed Peter onto his back on the bed, looming over him. He didn’t speak. Words were done. His head dipped, his lips finding Peter’s, kissing him with a fierce, grateful hunger. Peter kissed back just as desperately, his hands tangling in Dick’s dark hair.
Then Dick moved down. His mouth trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down Peter’s throat, his collarbone, the firm plane of his chest. He tongued a nipple, making Peter gasp and arch off the bed. He didn’t stop until he was kneeling between Peter’s legs, his own blanket discarded, fully naked now.
He looked up at Peter, his eyes dark. “My turn to save you,” he murmured.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Peter’s suit and briefs and pulled them down, freeing Peter’s cock. It was already hard, thick and curving upwards, the head flushed a deep purple. Dick didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and took the entire length into his mouth in one smooth, deep-throating motion.
“Oh, fuck—Dick!” Peter cried out, his hands flying to Dick’s head, his fingers threading through the dark locks.
Dick began to move, his mouth a wet, tight, perfect heat. He bobbed his head with a skillful, relentless rhythm, his tongue working the sensitive underside, his throat relaxing to take Peter deep each time. At the same time, his left hand, slicked with saliva, snaked behind him and found its target. He pressed two fingers, slippery and probing, against Peter’s asshole.
Peter gasped, his hips jolting. “Wait—!”
Dick didn’t wait. He pushed his fingers inside, pressing deep, searching. He knew Peter’s body, knew exactly where to press. When his fingertips brushed over the swollen gland of Peter’s prostate, Peter shouted, a raw, guttural sound, his cock flexing powerfully in Dick’s mouth.
The dual assault was devastating. Dick sucked him with fervent gratitude, his mouth working in time with the gentle, insistent massage of his fingers inside Peter’s ass. He could feel Peter getting closer, the muscles in his thighs tensing, his breath coming in frantic pants.
“I’m— I’m gonna—” Peter choked out.
Dick redoubled his efforts, sucking harder, milking him with his throat, pressing firmly on his prostate.
With a broken cry, Peter came. His orgasm was a violent eruption, jet after jet of hot, thick cum splashing against the back of Dick’s throat and then, as Dick pulled off to watch, painting his own chest and stomach. The ropes were copious, white against his flushed skin, pooling in the grooves of his abs. He shuddered through it, his body bowing off the bed.
Dick watched, licking his lips, his own cock painfully hard and leaking against his thigh. Enhanced physiology meant no refractory period. Peter was still trembling from the aftershocks when his eyes, glazed with pleasure, locked onto Dick’s.
Without a word, Peter rolled them. He pushed Dick onto his back, his movements fluid despite the cum cooling on his skin. He grabbed the lube from the nightstand drawer—they kept it there for a reason—and slicked his own cock and his hand liberally.
“My turn,” Peter breathed, his voice husky.
He positioned himself between Dick’s thighs, pushing Dick’s muscular legs up and apart. He didn’t tease. He guided the head of his still-hard, slick cock to Dick’s entrance and pushed inside with one long, deep, claiming thrust.
Dick gasped, his back arching, his hands flying to Peter’s sweat-slick shoulders. The stretch was perfect, filling, a resonant echo of the violation from before but now transformed into pure, consensual pleasure. Peter began to move, setting a fast, powerful rhythm, driving into Dick with a focused intensity.
At the same time, Peter’s slick hand wrapped around Dick’s thick, leaking cock. He jerked him in time with his thrusts, a perfect counter-rhythm.
It was overwhelming. The deep, punishing penetration, the tight, expert fist on his cock, the sight of Peter on top of him, his beautiful face contorted with concentration and lust—it all fused into a white-hot coil of pleasure in Dick’s gut. He wrapped his legs around Peter’s waist, pulling him deeper, meeting every thrust.
“Pete… I’m close… so close…”
“Come for me,” Peter growled, fucking into him harder, twisting his wrist on the upstroke of his handjob.
Dick shattered. His orgasm roared up his spine and exploded. His cum shot out in thick, furious spurts, splattering across his own chest and stomach, some landing on Peter’s hand and forearm. He cried out, a raw, unguarded sound of release, his body convulsing around Peter’s cock.
Peter rode him through it, his own breathing ragged. He drove into Dick’s clenching heat a few more times before pulling out abruptly. He knelt over Dick’s spent body, his own cock glistening and furious, and gripped himself. Three, four rough, slick strokes were all it took. With a low groan, he came again, adding his own fresh, hot load to the mess already cooling on Dick’s chest and abs.
He collapsed beside Dick on the bed, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon. The air was thick with the smells of sex, sweat, and spent lube.
For a long while, they just lay there in the silence, limbs entangled, Peter’s head resting on Dick’s shoulder. The adrenaline, the fear, the horror of the greenhouse—it was all exorcised, burned away in the furnace of their shared pleasure.
Eventually, Dick stirred. He turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to Peter’s damp hair. “Shower?” he murmured, his voice rough but sated.
“Yeah,” Peter agreed, his own voice muffled against Dick’s skin. “But I’m definitely joining you.” He traced a finger through the sticky, mixed mess on Dick’s stomach. “And we’re definitely not done.”
The End. (Happy Halloween!)