#platonic rick dalton x reader

[soft-for-them]

Apologies - Once upon a time in Hollywood & plus size reader

Summary: You and Rick, like most siblings do, aren't talking because of an argument. The only thing getting you both to apologise to each other is a group of cult members trying to kill you. (Platonic, reader is Rick's step sister who he's helped raise, so no shipping.)

Trigger warning: Descriptions of fighting and injury, this fic is mainly based in the scene in the film were the Manson family try to kill Cliff, Francesca and Rick, so yeah, there's blood.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: I like the idea of writing more fics with the sister reader, idk I think it would be sweet.

The ever constant headache for you both had started around fifteen years ago, you being around five years old whist your older step brother was in his prime staring in Hollywood films and bedding super models like it was a causal Tuesday night.

Around that time your mother had remarried Rick Dalton’s father and them both wanting to get away from it all (aka you) had dropped you off at a random film set were extras roamed around in fake blood and plastic disembodied limbs littered the ground like gravel.

Your ‘parents’ didn’t care that they had dropped you off on the day were a massacre scene was being shoot. Thinking back to that blurry memory you think they hadn’t even realised it was a high budget horror flick Rick was staring in, all they thought about at that time was ditching the hyperactive child on the rich enough son who probably could hire a baby sitter unlike they could.

Whilst Rick spent most of the day dazzling the camera crew and his female co-lead you had spent most of the day in the makeup trailer been cooed over by the hair and makeup ladies whilst stuffing your face with cheese puffs and apple juice.

At one point Cliff Booth had hobbled in, cigarette hanging from his bloody lips and his leg aching from the dangerous stunt he had just performed, his blue eyes going wide as a little curly haired child cheered as he entered the makeup trailer.

“Why is there a child in here?” he had asked whilst taking the cigarette from his lips with one hand whilst trying to rub off the fake blood dribbling from his face with the other.

The makeup ladies had to quickly wipe his face off with soaked cotton balls and wet wipes because he was just making the red mess even worse all whilst a bright eyed you began babbling to him like you knew him forever.

“I’m five!” you had happily declared as one of the women whispered the situation to Cliff.

“That you are little lady.”

So for the next hour instead of fucking off smoking half a pack and challenging cocky actors to fights Cliff Booth spent his time entertaining you. He had no clue what to do with a child but he knew at that moment he had to protect you, he’d always did with Rick and call it an itch but he had a feeling that you were going to stick around.

Now fifteen years later, you complain to Cliff as you dry brush a fake sword’s blade with a rust brown paint, pots of paints and film props surrounding you at your little prop master’s table ready to topple over.

Over the many years you’ve been in and out of your brother’s life, mostly due to your parent’s inability to look after you correctly, you’ve grown to loath the big screen and all the entitled people that come with it, instead falling in love with the small screen and indie films.

Many days you’ve spent watching Star Trek or Colombo on the telly with Rick pointing out which sets and props look to be made of Styrofoam and flimsy plastic.

Now at the age of twenty you have solid work as a prop maker for television. You love the job and you love the people.

Right at this moment you’re trying to make foam swords look real whilst Cliff tries to talk you around to apologising to your brother all because you called him an idiot for looking down on Spaghetti Westerns because they were ‘beneath him’.

“I’m not saying sorry Cliff.” You grumble as you dip your paint brush in a rusty looking solution made from many brown paints and diluting alcohol, “I didn’t spend most of my childhood stuck on his sofa watching B movies only for his failing ass to talk shit about them!”

Cliff hovers around you cluttered desk, the trailer you work in being cramped and filled to the brim with handmade props, no cigarette in sight for he has developed the habit of not smoking when you’re around (that and the trailer filled with props are so flammable that it would combust into flames at out flick of a lighter.)

“AND THEN, WHAT CLIFF!?!” your voice crescendos as you pad away any blotting paint on the prop sword, “He goes and does all those Spaghetti Westerns anyway getting the lead in that Nebraska Jim flick and what, a wife too! He’s funnelling money in the bin like it’s nothing and he still has the gall to talk shit about my line of work and what pictures I decide to create props for.”

You stand up you shin hitting leg of the table you work at making you swear up a storm.

Cliff only watches in slight amusement.

“I’ve worked on Star Trek you know, I’m friends with Leonard Nimoy, I’ve been inside DeForest Kelley house multiple times, I’ve been personally invited and gone to countless parties hosted by Grace Kelly and her husband all because I was nice to her that one time on the set of that musical film-“

“-I thought you didn’t like the Hollywood type.” Cliff asks in such brotherly way trying to get a rise out of you.

What, he might be fed up with your ongoing feud with Rick but he still sees you as his own little sister and he does find it fun teasing you.

“Yeah, well most of them I don’t but she is pretty and nice and she’s my friend- for fuck’s sake Rick is just jealous!”

“Well, that he might be squirt but I think-“ Cliff begins to guide you out the trailer away from the fumes of alcohol and oil paints, “- he might be more jealous that his little sister is being taken away by all these big wig actors.”

Hair a mess, paint covering your dungarees and magnifying glasses propped on top of your head like you some kind of mad scientist, a flow of extras on their break all in medieval garbs walking around, you turn around to Cliff with an anger on your face that melts into a profound sadness.

“He didn’t even invite me to his wedding, I haven’t even met his wife, for crying out loud Cliff I don’t want another absent father, I’ve already got plenty of those.”

Cliff was itching to get out a cigarette out of pocket but once he hears your outburst, once he sees your eyes welling up with years and your round body slump somewhat he bounds over and engulfs you in a big hug that only fathers and father figurers know how to do.

“Come home and talk with Rick. I’ll be there and you can meet Francesca.”

You look up at Cliff as you both begin swaying in the hug.

“Can Brandy come to?”

“Of course kiddo-“ he says tightening his grip on you, “-to be honest I think she likes you the best.”

You let out a loud booming laugh that says ‘Ha! I knew it.’ one that gets Cliff laughing too.

I didn’t go quite as planned.

At first when you showed up Rick tried to act like nothing had happened, he did his normal smooching. He offered you a drink and smiled that movie star smile at you all whilst not introducing you to his wife who stood in the background slightly confused at the odd ordeal.

You waved off his offer of a drink and went straight to the fridge plucking out a can of beer.

“You want one Francesca?” you had asked, she replied with a baffled ‘no’ before you plonked yourself down on the sofa making yourself right at home.

You truly wonder what Francesca Capucci thought at that very moment seeing a round young woman with a smile like Mama Cass and a the grace of Etta James all rolled up in pain stained dungarees and Dr. Martens boots.

One thing lead to another, you and Francesca became fast friends whilst Rick and Cliff went off for drinks, and now you're lounging on Rick’s sofa with Brandy’s head on your lap and Cliff offering you a LSD laced cigarette which he’s been smoking.

“Shit, things must be bad if you’re smoking near me?” you grumble as you pat Brandy’s head with a lazy hand, “Nothing was resolved so let’s get shit faced, because that always goes well.”

“At least you met Francesca.” Cliff mutters as his face turns all smiley as the drugs take effect.

“Hum, yeah, she’s real pretty ain’t she…” you ponder out loud as the front door gets kicked in.

You jump up slightly, Brandy not too bothered by the two greasy haired people clad in black who stand there trying to look menacing.

“Ahhhh, can I help you?” Cliff asks.

Another one appears all in black too, her face a pale sickly white, a knife in her hand.

And to think your day couldn’t get any worse because oh boy, it does.

One moment you’re complaining to Cliff about your idiot brother with Brandy on your lap trying to cheer you up, the next thing you know you have a gun aimed at your face by the ‘horsey’ guy and Francesca only in her underwear being forced out into the living room by the redhead.

Thank fuck Cliff is both level headed and slightly crazy at the same time because one moment he’s laughing like a clown and the next Brandy is attacking the fuckers which gives you a bit of time to move out the way of the gun.

It’s when this so called Tex starts hitting Brandy do you snap out you little panicked trace (having a gun aimed at you does that to a person) do you leap over the sofa and begin punching him square in the face, your body holding him down so he can’t kick his way out of it, Brandy still mauling his arm like it was a tug rope.

By the time Cliff has thrown the can at the face of the pale woman, knocking her straight down and breaking her little white nose, you’re fully on top of Tex trying to knock him out.

Now, you were never the best puncher, when you were fourteen you punched a bully who was teasing you about your weight only to breaking your thumb in the process, by my gosh is the adrenaline kicking in has you trying to knock out Tex.

The frightened screams of Francesca in the background spurs you on, the fear of the nice (and very attractive) woman getting hurt making you see red.

Maybe you’ll unpack your childlike crush on the starlet along with the ongoing feud with your brother later on when you’re not trying to wrestle a grown man (said grown man who’s now getting his balls bit by Brandy.)

(Brandy will defiantly get all the treats and cuddles later on.)

“CLIFF! DO SOMETHING YOU DUMB BITCH!” you scream as Tex punches at you, some hits missing but most slamming right into your soft sides.

Doing something Cliff clicks his fingers and Brandy is off mauling Samara. At the same time Tex pushes you off him and charges at Cliff like an angry bull, one eye already going black from you repeated punches.

It’s all a fucking shambles all culminating in you climbing through a smashed window to see your dear brother Rick using his fucking flamethrower to burn the pale bitch like he was finishing crème brulee with a blow torch.

How fun.

“Rick! Be careful!” you try to scream but it only comes out as a pain filled gabble, “Rick.”

Your last call of ‘Rick’ sounds more like a sob than a word, your soft body in so much pain. Your face is stained with splatters of blood and trails of big fat tears which when Rick sees he scrambles to take off his flamethrower (safely of course) to run over to you and engulf you in the biggest of hugs.

Your cries of your brother’s name as you break down and cling onto him cause the older man to start crying ugly tears, ones that are louder that your own sobs.

“I’m sorry Rick.” you sniffle out.

“I’m sorry too-“ he lays a kiss on your hair and starts rocking you side to side in the tight hug like he used to do when you were little and had a nightmare, “I’ve been ignoring you and I didn’t tell you about Francesca.”

“I’m sorry too for ignoring you as well.”

“I’m sorry for being so mean-“

For the next ten mites the two of you prattle off many apologises, too many really, so much so that when the red and blue flashing lights of emergency services clouds your blurry vision and paramedics try to pry you away from Rick you’re both still apologising.

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