FOR ALL MY WRITINGS THE TAG IS #MY FIC. there are things tagged as such that are not linked here (like asks or drabbles, etc)!
DISCLAIMER: i am vehemently anti-AI. i have never and will never use AI for anything, much less for writing. i do not give permission for any of my written works to be fed into any AI program ever.
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gator tillman
s e r i e s •
“𝕟𝕖𝕩𝕥 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖” masterpost
carriage house masterpost
measured in threes
part 1: sixteen
“You stay away from that boy.”
That had been your parents’ mantra since you came to the Tillman ranch almost 16 years ago.
part 2: twenty-two
Six years after you left the Tillman ranch, you found a way back.
precarious
part 1: sheriff's gambit ••• part 2: safe zone
you’re the special investigator that the FBI sends down, not to investigate a crime per se; you’re there to investigate roy.
swg
3+1
3 times you sexted with gator, 1 time you didn't
late late shift
sometimes working overnight has its benefits
mirror image
gator finds a more entertaining show than a sheriff's department dinner
valentine's day
nothing says romance like sexting with gator tillman!
imperative
gator? no, dog.
&&
o n e s h o t s •
cotton candy dream girl
You were a cotton candy-wrapped dream in pink cowboy boots, sweet to look at and even sweeter to talk to, everything he could want.
rearview
Gator lets you off with a warning.
power play
Below we see the Alligator tillmanensis (common name: Gator Tillman) in his natural habitat, experiencing the 5 stages of grief.
nasty
spit kink with gator!
game over • #stepgator for asks/drabbles
what's a little taboo between stepsibs friends?
bite
You put Gator in his place.
free show
Gator brings you to a family barbecue, sans panties.
wanna hear you say
Just a friendly competition is all it is.
deputy, please respond
You can never get enough of Gator.
steve harrington
s e r i e s •
1995
chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3
Steve was cute, and he'd been a decent lay when you were both 17 and inexperienced, but you'd grown up a lot since high school. You could still see him in your mind: Athletic, thin build, mile-high hair, that absent yet pointed expression he always wore. Cute, but something you'd left in the past. You were a woman now. Interested in bigger, better men.
It's 1995 and you're back in Hawkins High's gym, staring down Steve Harrington like he's your next goddamn meal. Because he is most certainly a bigger, better man.
the tipping point
You didn't start out friends with Steve Harrington, that was for sure, but you reached a tipping point.
ch1: bruises
let's show them we are better; joint fic with @sheisjoeschateau
masterpost here • all chapters linked in masterpost.
my blog tag is here
&&
o n e s h o t s •
best girl
You wouldn’t say you hated Steve Harrington, not back then, anyway—that would mean you had to feel anything for him at all, which you totally didn’t.
sweater stays on
no one was immune to that sex sweater, yourself included.
lesson one
steve teaches you how to swim. among other things.
one more?
34+35 (thank you for 69 followers)
reprise
steve just likes being inside you
live fast, die young
you win a drag race and steve gives you a trophy (that is innuendo)
it could be
after a breakup, steve makes you feel better. a lot better.
until tomorrow morning
stuck in hawkins after the earthquake, steve changes your mind and your heart.
something new
spit kink with steve!
short straw
drawing the short straw gets you a trip to the upside down with steve, where things take a turn. a big one.
steve-morial day weekend!
teacake meacham
loquacious
teacake puts his mouth to better use than just yapping
reciprocal
BEST friends (with benefits).
more
spit kink with teacake!
mirror image
the couple that jerks it together, works out forever.
be quiet (no, don’t)
teacake literally cannot stop talking.
djolings headcanon masterpost!
KBOC masterpost
tillington
d r a b b l e s •
thoughts • gator/steve/you nsfw
advanced d&d • gator/steve/you fluff
compare//contrast • gator/steve/you nsfw
the back of your own hand • gator/steve/you nsfw
dick measuring contest • gator/steve/you nsfw
gotcha • gator/steve/you nsfw
The first rule of fandom is have fun. The second rule of fandom is find an enabler and become an enabler. Yes you should write that fic. What if it was even hornier? What if it was angstier? What if you wrote it just for me?
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader
wc: 4.4k
tags/tw/cw: roy is a big meanie
MASTERPOST//all chapter links
&&
Chapter 12: Plans in Motion
“You wanna tell me what happened, son?” Roy asked, seated at the breakfast table, the full ranch staff, Bowman, the twins, and Karen all present. All listening, all watching, except for you. Roy had made the decision to leave you in the carriage house for the morning—because Bowman had been waiting in the kitchen first thing, intercepting Karen as she’d been ready to head out to collect you.
Karen had gone for Roy, who had come down, bare-chested and scowling, while Bowman explained in a calm, cool voice what had occurred last night in the barn.
Roy had listened, standing at the bottom of the stairs, one foot still on the lowest step, one hand on the newel post. He kept his expression straight, stoic, brow furrowed.
“And where is she now?” Roy asked.
“Carriage house,” Bowman said simply. “Grabbed her, threw her back in there. Locked her in. Stood watch for an hour or so, then roused Phillip ‘nd had him watch. No movement from her since I heard her go upstairs.”
Roy nodded. He lifted his chin and studied the ceiling, eyes moving over the white expanse of it. “Leave her there for now, K,” Roy said, looking to Karen, who only nodded. “Get breakfast together.” He looked to Bowman. “Get one of the other girls in there to help her out.” Bowman nodded once, then turned on his heel and left to go collect one of the hands’ women. Roy looked at his wife again, once they were alone. “You think I’m making a mistake?”
“No,” Karen said, hurriedly, stepping closer. She reached out tentatively toward Roy, touching him only when he didn’t draw away. “Of course not.”
Roy let her skim her hands over his chest, his sides. “So you think putting Gator in charge of taking care of her is working out. Is that right?”
Karen blinked, realizing the trap that he'd lain. “No, I—”
“Get breakfast ready,” Roy said, brushing her hands off of him as he turned and started back up the stairs. Karen waited a moment, then shuffled into the kitchen, waiting for whatever assistance Bowman was finding for her.
Upstairs in the main house, Roy went about his morning—showering, shaving, brushing his teeth and dressing for duty, and as he cut out of his bedroom, he took in the second floor landing. His son’s bedroom door was open now, neon blue light still spilling out of it even in the morning sun, and so he took a step inside his son’s room to wait for him to emerge from the bathroom.
Roy hadn't been in Gator’s room in a while—years, probably. He never had a reason to, never wanted to. Gator was about as deep as a puddle—there was nothing hidden in this room that could offer any further insight into his son’s psyche that he couldn’t glean from a thirty second conversation with him. He was barely more than a disappointment—the kid couldn’t do anything right, which Roy had learned from watching Gator try to locate his wife. Nadine.
This new skirt Roy found—well, was gifted from Above, more like—would be like something more of a trial run if the goddamn kid could get his act together.
The bedroom wasn’t nearly as disorganized as Roy assumed it would be—there were tacky posters on the wall of women in bikinis and a questionable flag hanging above his bed, one that Roy couldn’t quite accept being there. But then—Roy wouldn’t expect Gator to understand the intricacies of his ambitions as sheriff and would, of course, liken them to a political statement like that goddamn flag. The Tillmans’ position of power in Stark County was so much more than either symbol hanging on his son’s wall.
Roy’s eyes skimmed over the unmade bed, the clutter on the dresser, the ten-gallon tank in the corner holding a greensnake that he’s sure the kid fished out of some scummy pond somewhere. Like a child would. Shaking his head, Roy closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his whole palm, because even if Karen wouldn’t tell him to his face, he knew—he had made a mistake. With Gator, with you, with everything he was trying to do on his ranch.
The bathroom door opened, and Roy set his jaw, slipping his hands into his pockets even as the smell of breakfast started drifting up from the kitchen downstairs. A minute, maybe two, passed, and then Gator strolled back into his room, clutching a towel around his waist, casual as anything. He rounded the door, reached out of habit for the closet doorhandle, then caught sight of Roy and startled, a quiet yelp leaving him.
Quickly, he cleared his throat, skimmed a hand back over his hair, loose and falling down over his forehead, and shook his head. “Fuck are you—what’s wrong?”
Roy said nothing, only held Gator’s gaze.
“Dad?” Gator looked his father over from head to toe, pulling the towel tighter around his hips.
“I need you to think, kid,” Roy said, not moving other than to turn his face more toward Gator. “Back to last night. Why don’t you run me through your evening after dinner.”
Gator swallowed, curling his fist around the terrycloth in his hand. “I don’t—what d'ya mean?”
“Think back real hard,” Roy said, his voice cold, a steel edge grating against Gator. “We had dinner like a family. Had a nice drink. Your little miss thought who she was for a moment.” Gator opened his mouth, but Roy lifted a hand, silencing him. “You walked her home. You walked yourself home. Am I missing anything?”
Gator lifted his free hand to muss the hair at the back of his head. “No?”
“No,” Roy repeated. “You’re right. I don’t think I am.” He took a step closer to Gator, who flinched away as his father approached, pressing his bare back to his closet doors under the guise of giving him space when he really wanted to put distance between them. “I want you to think. Real hard. About everything I just said. And you tell me if either of us missed anything last night.”
Gator just looked at his father, then nodded, once, uncertain but not about to argue.
“Good,” Roy said, reaching up to clap a hand onto Gator’s cheek, not quite a slap, but not quite a friendly gesture either; it felt like a warning. “Don’t take too long. Need ya down there for grace.”
Roy vacated Gator’s room, and Gator loosed the breath he’d been holding, inhaling deeply. Something had happened last night, something involving you, something he’d fucked up. His eyes skimmed around the room like it might hold answers. He went through what Roy said. Dinner. Drink. You. Carriage house. Back home.
Dinner. Drink. You. Carriage house. Back home.
He shook his head, taking a step back and closing his bedroom door, pulling clothing out of his closet and dresser, stepping into boxers and camo pants and tugging on a thermal henley.
Dinner, drink, you, carriage house, back home. He slicked his hair back with pomade as he wracked his brain. What the hell had he fucked up in between all of that? It was simple—it was what he did every night since they’d put you in there for the most part.
He looped his fingers into his boots, picking them up, then crossing to grab his tactical vest and sunglasses, making sure his vape was tucked into his pants pocket too.
Dinner, that was normal.
Drink, that had been when you’d first copped the attitude, but still, normal.
You, he knew what Roy was talking about. You were asking questions after you’d been told not to, and Gator knew it was only a matter of time before he would be expected to… remove that impulse from you.
Carriage house, he’d walked you home. You’d slammed the door before he could retort, and he’d left you fucking alone.
Back home, he’d gotten a call from Lemley, vaped, went inside, went to bed.
Dinner, drink, you, carriage house, back home.
Gator finished dressing himself, carrying his boots and vest downstairs, leaving them by the front door before he doubled back to the kitchen. Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward him, faces all frowning except for the twins, who waved at him, Maude while holding her fork. Karen plucked it out of her hand and put it down beside her empty plate.
Shuffling into the kitchen, Gator took his place at Roy’s right hand, leaving an empty seat between himself and Bowman, where you usually sat. He glanced at it as he lowered into the chair, and without a word, Roy lifted his hands, extending them palm up, toward Gator and Karen. They each took his hands, and the rest of the table joined hands as well as Roy led them in prayer. Gator bowed his head, but he kept his eyes on your empty chair, your space occupied by his hand joined with Bowman, and as he did, his stomach fell into a pit.
Dinner, normal.
Drink, normal.
You, normal (as far as you went).
Back home, normal.
But: Carriage house. He hadn’t locked the door behind you. You’d snapped at him, thrown him off, slammed the door and disappeared into the house, and Gator had just walked away, the keys staying in his pocket.
Fucking Christ.
Keeping his head down, he flicked his eyes over to Roy, who was still speaking, eyes closed. Gator’s fingers twitched in his hand, nervous. He’d left your door unlocked, which could mean any number of things.
Maybe you’d tried to run and gotten caught. Maybe you were laying in the carriage house right now, black and blue, beaten, dazed, unconscious.
Maybe you’d tried to run and weren’t caught. Maybe you’d been found somewhere out on the property, half dead. Or actually dead.
Maybe you’d tried to run and got away. Maybe they hadn’t found you. Maybe you were gone.
By the time Gator looked up, Roy was staring at him and Karen was spooning eggs and potatoes onto his plate. She moved onto Gator’s plate next.
“Been thinkin’?” Roy asked, and Gator nodded.
Behind him, the ranch hands, their wives, and Bowman started serving themselves.
“You wanna tell me what happened, son?” Roy asked.
Gator took a breath, cleared his throat. “I don't...” he began, but trailed off. He huffed an unamused laugh, leaning in toward Roy and gesturing to the rest of the table's occupants, some of whom were looking on, some of whom were just digging in to their plates. “We really need ta do this in front'a all them?”
Roy turned toward him, shifting his weight in his chair so it creaked beneath him a little, placing his left hand on his hip and his right elbow on the table, leaning toward Gator. Gator's nostrils flared as he exhaled, but he held himself where he was, not giving an inch, not wanting to concede.
“I think we do, son,” Roy said, matching Gator's quiet tone. “How else will you set the bar?”
“I—” Gator said, then just exhaled and straightened up.
Roy kept his eyes on Gator, waiting. When he didn't speak, Roy continued, keeping his voice low, still. “If you want to act like a child, I'll keep you at this table until you open your damn mouth.”
“Fergot t'lock the door,” Gator said, and it was clear that only Bowman and Karen knew what he was really talking about, in context.
“Which door?” Roy asked, and when he spoke, the ranch hands and the other women at the table turned to look.
Gator knew what his father was doing—going for humiliation as a lesson to never forget to lock the door again, but he was pretty sure that the early morning visit to his bedroom would have been enough to shock him into double and triple checking that that goddamn door was locked from that point forward.
“The carriage house door,” Gator said.
Roy hummed, then shifted his gaze from Gator to Bowman.
“Wanna fill everyone in?” he asked, inviting Bowman to speak.
“I found her in the barn,” Bowman said. “Toward the back.” He shook his head dismissively. “Grabbed her, threw her back in there. Ain't made a peep since.” He looked at Phillip, who nodded.
“Yeah, it was quiet all night, sir,” he said, looking from Bowman to Roy, nodding again.
“I want it to be clear,” Roy said, purposely not looking at Gator, though it was obvious that this was for him; Gator kept his eyes fixed on his untouched breakfast, “anything that interferes with her routine, anything that causes bumps or snags, anything that risks her presence on this ranch, is going to be taken care of. She's here to stay and through the grace of God we're fortunate enough to let her help make a home out of the carriage house.” Roy scanned the table, taking in Gator's head bowed in shame, though he kept his satisfaction at that tamped down. “Things are in the works. Things are changing. But in time we'll all reap the benefits. Including you, kid.”
Roy placed his hand on Gator's wrist, not squeezing it, not grabbing it, like he'd done the last time they'd touched, to snap some sense into him. Just... holding it for a moment.
“Get down to the station,” he said. “Y'got some work waiting for you on my desk.” He surveyed the rest of the table, the hands and their wives all watching, meals half-eaten. The twins were slapping at each other and Karen was trying in vain to get them to stop. “Eat,” Roy said, breaking into a smile and trying to ease the tension. “By all means, have your breakfast. Business over.”
Everyone only resumed their meals when Roy picked up his fork and knife.
&&
The morning came and went and you spent it with Aidy. Your ribs hurt from when you'd fallen to the floor the night before, but you were just thankful you hadn't hit your head. Unless you were about to be taken out and executed, you'd started to wonder if you might not see another beating from this. You'd been found on the property after all—not really trying to run. At least, not that they could prove.
You were running out of milk for her, and you'd have to try and get some more from the barn the next time that they let you muck the stalls—if they let you. But why wouldn't they? You were under constant surveillance before your attempted escape too, so what was really different?
The clock was showing 9:07 when you heard the click of the key sliding into the lock, and you made a mad dash upstairs to stow Aidy away in the smaller bedroom. By the time you emerged again, onto the upstairs landing, Bowman was standing in the living room, looking up at you, a frown affixed to his face. You waited; he waited. But you broke first, descending the steps.
He was holding a plate covered in plastic wrap, eggs and toast with two orange slices. You looked at the plate, then up at him.
“Starting the renovations soon,” Bowman said. “Need you out of the house.”
You tried to keep the panic from showing on your face. “For how long?”
“Day, roughly,” he replied. “You'll be back in the main house with the family for tonight.” He held out the plate toward you, and you took it. It was cold, and so was the food. “Shouldn't take that long. Just fixing the downstairs bathroom and taking care of the vermin upstairs. You do anything about those spiders?”
You blinked. “No. I don't—like bugs.” You couldn't be sure but you thought, maybe, a smirk tugged at the corner of Bowman's lips.
“Which rooms needed attention?” he asked.
“Um,” you intoned. “Downstairs bathroom. Upstairs bathroom has the spiders. Smaller bedroom has the mouse. I... didn't go anywhere else up there. Kitchen, living room, and mudroom are all fine. I think the...master bedroom too.”
“All right. Eat that, then head out to the barn. Horse stalls for you today.” He turned toward the door, but stopped when he reached it, looking back at you, because you spoke again.
“Wait,” you'd called.
Bowman quirked an eyebrow, like he was doing you a huge favor by listening to your request.
“When are—when are you guys starting this stuff? Do I really even need to—to leave if it's just the one bathroom being fixed up?”
“Starting today,” Bowman said. “And I didn't make that call. Orders from above.” He paused. “Leave anything you'll need tonight on the couch. It'll be brought over.” He looked you up and down. “Barn, then main house after work. Think you can find your way?”
It wasn't even really a threat, but you knew it was a comment on what you'd done last night. Despite that, you couldn't believe your luck—you were going back into the barn, where you knew the cat was, sometimes, at least. You could steal more food for Aidy, then look around for where to put her. Maybe the cat had a nest or den or something tucked into an alcove by the cabinet where you'd seen it the night before—anything that could help you make sure Aidy was taken care of after you left this fucking place would be what you were looking for.
The eggs were spongy and the toast was soggy by the time you got to it, but at least the oranges were fresh and tart, the perfect chaser to an otherwise mediocre breakfast. You chugged some water from the kitchen tap, then headed upstairs to make sure you were bundled up enough to be outdoors for an extended period of time. After you pulled your coat out of the closet, you looked down at Aidy, still on the bed. She was still too small to walk—her eyes weren't even open yet—and you had to decide what to do with her. Leave her here, hide her, bring her with you? It was just one day. It was one whole, long day. You could keep her on your person and hope not to be caught with her, or you could leave her here and hope that she was still fine tomorrow when you returned. As much as you hated both options, that one seemed less risky for both you and Aidy. But you weren't leaving her up here, where workers or Bowman or maybe even Roy would be strolling around. You took her in the crook of your arm and carried her downstairs. You'd fed her earlier, but you gave her even more to try and hold her over before carrying her into the mudroom, where the heat was always cranked up due to its door leading outside, and settled her down there. It pained you to leave her—you felt like a villain just doing it—but pet her on her tiny little forehead and whispered that you'd be back as soon as you could. She was purring in your hands, even as you set her down, hoping she'd stay hidden and safe.
Once she was tucked away, out of sight but nowhere near out of mind, you made your way out of the house and walked to the barn.
Most of the horses were gone today, again, except for a couple at the far end near the cabinet, which could potentially give you an excuse for lingering around over there while you looked for the barn cat's hideout. You began your work, startling only once as Bowman popped in, appearing in your periphery so silently that you wouldn't have been surprised if he'd just materialized there in a blink. Just as quickly, he'd left, like he wanted to make sure you were at work. Taking the chance, knowing it was a risk, you hurried to the cabinet and, with a glance over your shoulder, pulled the metal door open, crouched down, and this time took two containers of the milk supplement, tucking them into the back of your coveralls. Then, after straightening up and hesitating for a moment, you kicked them over so they toppled, hoping that the jumble on the bottom-most shelf would keep anyone who viewed them later on from counting them and noticing any were missing.
With the milk supplement tucked safely away, snug against the small of your back, you just had to worry about being caught with it on your person, but that wouldn't be for a while at least. As you mucked out the stalls, still looking for signs of the cat, you started to feel more and more anxious about the rigid edges of the packages cutting into your back, and so you finished one side of the barn and crossed to the door. Bowman wasn't there, but Phillip was, looking spectacularly bored. When your head appeared out of the doors, he startled, then squinted at you.
“Uh—what?” he said, and you weren't sure if he was trying to sound intimidating or not, because he definitely didn't.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” you said, looking past him at the carriage house.
Phillip looked as though he wasn't sure what to say to that—he'd surely been told to keep watch for you, without further instruction for if you approached him or if something went wrong.
“Please?” you continued, trying to appeal to him, and he just cleared his throat. He, too, looked around for Bowman, but when it was clear that he wasn't around, Phillip just nodded to you.
“All right, main house,” he said, reaching for your arm—he'd probably been told to keep physical contact with you too, just in case you tried to make a break for it.
“No, um,” you said, thinking on your feet. “I need to use my bathroom.”
Phillip frowned, and you started bouncing on your feet a little, feigning a serious urge.
“It's an emergency. I won't make it to the main house.” You bounced a little faster.
“Well—they're doin' work in there,” Phillip said, gesturing—sure enough, as you watched, you saw the front door open and the old downstairs bathroom sink being carried out by a worker you didn't recognize.
“There's an upstairs bathroom,” you said. You reached for his arm, imploring him. He didn't look much older than you, was definitely younger than Gator. Then, without waiting for permission, you just took off, hurrying toward the carriage house with Phillip in tow.
You reached the door just as it opened, another worker you didn't know stepping onto the step, stopping when he saw you right there.
“Sorry, I gotta go,” you said, pushing past him. You made a break for the stairs, rushing past another man you recognized this time as another one of the hands, and slammed the upstairs bathroom door behind you. The spiders were gone from the corner, and it seemed like there was no one else up here, after the one guy had been heading down. Unless there was work to be done in the main bedroom—which you hadn't noticed when you'd peeked in there—you might have the upstairs to yourself.
You checked the door lock—it was on the outside of the door, but you trusted that Phillip would explain your urgency and that would buy you a few minutes—and then pulled the sealed containers out of your overalls. The medicine chest was too risky—too easy to open. You crouched and checked beneath the sink, but it was empty of anything else, nothing to hide the milk behind until you could retrieve it. The linen closet was in the hall, not the bathroom. You took a deep breath, composing yourself after your mad dash, and forced yourself to think.
Think.
Then, you turned, lifted the lid off the toilet tank, and placed the kitten milk inside it, replacing the lid. Confident that you'd be able to retrieve it later, hoping like hell that it stayed sealed and uncontaminated with water, you went pee and flushed the toilet for good measure, so they would buy your story at least.
When you emerged, the upstairs landing was deserted, and as you came downstairs, you saw that the men were concentrated in the bathroom, which they seemed to be gutting. You weren't sure why you needed to be brought to the main house for just one room, but you also knew that nothing Roy Tillman ever decided would make sense to you.
Just as the thought crossed your mind, just as you stepped off the lowest step of the staircase, the front door opened again and in walked the man himself, Roy, gaze fixed on you like the bead of a rifle.
“You just love bein' places you're not supposed to be, don't you, little miss?”
“I—had to use the bathroom,” you said, as Phillip stepped into the house behind him, and you would have felt betrayed if you’d thought that anyone here might give half a fuck about you. As it was, you figured that was just par for the course.
“Main house too far?” Roy asked.
You took a breath. “It was an emergency.”
Roy held your gaze, then smirked, like he was actually amused. “Good thing you made it.”
You stayed silent.
“Did you finish in the barn?”
You swallowed, then shook your head. “Not yet.”
Roy turned, glanced at Phillip, who retreated out of the house as Roy stepped to the side, holding the door open for you. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, inviting you to step past him and back outside, but still you hesitated, because you wanted nothing more than to stay out of his reach. But that wasn’t an option. You crossed to the door, giving Roy as wide a berth as you could, but he still leaned in to you, crowding you, keeping you from stepping out the door by taking up the space himself. You were trapped right between him and the doorjamb.
“If you get any more bright ideas like you did last night, you won’t want to know what’s in store for you,” he said.
Swallowing nervously, you looked up at him, meeting his eyes, the cold, dead blue of them burning you like dry ice.
“Get,” Roy said, stepping back, and you hurried past him, past Phillip, making your way to the barn.
