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A/n: If this does well and if ya'll want a part 2 i'll post it. ( I have a second part where he comes back )

You came out here to prove ghosts weren’t real.

Honestly, it was just supposed to be another dramatic camping vlog. Some nice B-roll of an old firewatch tower, drone footage of a forgotten trail, and one too many sarcastic jokes into the mic. You even titled it “Hunted or Haunted? I Explore the Dumbest Tower in the State.”

You shouldn’t have called it dumb.

You shouldn’t have climbed it alone.

You shouldn’t have said, on camera, laughing—

“If there is a ghost out here, I bet he died of blue balls and boredom.”

Because now… you’re not alone.

⸻

The ranger tower stands crooked above the treetops, its legs rusted and creaking with every wind gust. It’s silent—except for the occasional whine of metal under pressure and your boots thudding up the stairs.

You film with your phone at arm’s length. “Alright, you guys, here we are! The ‘cursed’ ranger lookout where people apparently ‘hear footsteps’ or ‘see a man in the mirror’ or ‘get bent over the rail and fu—’”

The screen glitches. You blink.

“Cool,” you mutter. “Now the battery’s frying?”

You open the door to the top cabin. It’s dark, dry, and still smells faintly of old smoke and pine. The fire map’s still spread across the table. The radio—dusty. The chair—ripped. And beside the desk?

Bootprints.

Big ones.

You crouch to touch them.

They’re warm.

You lean against the railing outside, laughing into your mic. “Still no ghosts. Just pine trees and raccoon poop. Maybe the ghost’s shy. Maybe he’s just—”

The wind dies. Completely.

The hairs on your neck rise.

Then a voice—right behind you, so low it vibrates in your spine:

“You done makin’ fun of me, sugar?”

Your breath stops.

Then something grabs you—a hand on your waist, firm and calloused, another sliding around to cup your throat gently, guiding you backward into a broad, solid chest.

You try to turn, to scream—but the voice hushes you.

“Shh. You woke me up. Now you say sorry.”

He spins you, and you finally see him:

Tall. Dusty jeans. Tan skin kissed with sweat. A black ranger jacket slung open across broad shoulders. Scarred lip. Wind-tousled hair. Eyes like smoldered amber and a voice like whiskey and ash.

He’s dead. You know it. But he’s also very real.

And staring at you like you’re the first warm thing he’s touched in a hundred winters.

“I-I didn’t mean—” you stammer.

He cuts you off by gripping your jaw and tilting your face up. “No. But your mouth’s real good at runnin’. Let’s put it to better use.”

His thumb strokes your lower lip, slow. “Say sorry, baby.”

When you don’t answer—he grabs you.

You’re spun around, bent over the old firewatch desk, palms flat on the dusty map as he presses into you from behind.

“Goddamn…” he growls against your ear. “Look at this little ass. Wiggling around like you wanted to get caught.”

You gasp as he lifts your hips, drags your leggings down in one swift pull.

He pauses. Growls.

“You came out here without panties?”

Your voice cracks. “Didn’t think—”

SLAP.

His palm lands on your right cheek, sharp and hot.

“Didn’t think, huh? That’s your problem.”

He spreads your legs with his knee, and the next thing you feel is the thick heat of his fingers sliding between your folds.

And he moans. Like your body just saved him.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, circling your clit lazily. “All that mouth, and you’re this wet for a ghost? Shameful.”

You choke on a moan as two fingers slide inside you, pumping deep, curling just right.

“Still think I’m not real?” he whispers into your hair.

You whimper. Shake your head.

“Say it.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Louder.”

“I’m sorry, please—!”

SLAP. He fucks you harder with his fingers, your thighs slick and trembling.

“Need it,” he pants, grinding his bulge against your bare ass. “Need to feel you around me. Wanna hear you scream for it.”

Then he’s undoing his belt. You hear the sound of the zipper. You feel the heavy weight of his cock against your ass before he presses the thick head to your soaked entrance.

He’s big. He knows it.

And he pushes in slow.

“F-fuck—” you breathe.

He groans. “Goddamn, you grip like fire.”

He bottoms out, stays there a second, one hand gripping your hip, the other slipping under you to play with your clit as he starts pounding.

Your moans echo up the tower. Down the stairs. Into the woods.

No one can hear you.

No one can save you.

And you don’t want them to.

He growls filth into your ear:

“This what you came for?”

“Wanted a story to tell your little camera crew?”

“Tell ‘em a dead man fucked you stupid in his tower.”

“Tell ‘em you begged.”

You come first—loud and hard, collapsing onto the map.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Again,” he hisses. “You ain’t done till I say you’re done.”

You sob his name—though you don’t know it—and feel him twitch deep inside you, groaning low and feral before spilling inside with one final, brutal thrust.

When you come back to your senses, you’re curled in his lap on the ripped ranger chair.

He’s real warm.

He brushes hair off your face. Murmurs, “Still think I died of boredom, sweetheart?”

You shake your head.

He smirks.

“Good girl.”

⸻

Your footage?

Gone.

But the tower?

Still stands.

And every full moon, if you climb the steps and moan just loud enough,you might hear him whisper:

“You came back to me, didn’t you, sugar?”

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