#cliff booth x plus size 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 comes 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 tears 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 garbled, “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 minutes 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.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Beneath Miles of Stone - Part eight - John Wick x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary: John has been in prison for nine months. He’s content to stay if it means appeasing the high table and keeping peace between the owners of each continental. However, he meets someone who erases that willingness. Peace be dammed.

TW: dub con ; slightly nsfw

All she can think about right now is how much of a dumb decision this was.

Michael disappears with a guy onto the dance floor, leaves her with his two friends who she has nothing in common with. She’s already three shots of tequila in.

No, she doesn’t want to dance, she wants to go home. She sips her drink, leans against the booth, and watches people in shiny clothes writhe under chaotic lights.

Michael’s friends—she forgets their names—get up and go to the bathroom. And now she’s completely alone, sitting in the sticky leather booth, uncomfortable and underdressed and trying to seem very interested in a phone with nothing on it. She pulls up Michael’s number to text him that she’s going to head home, but knowing him he’ll insist on getting her back safe, and then she’ll be ruining his fun. She shuts her screen off and shoves it back into her pocket.

She looks up to scan the crowd for Michael, and her eyes catch on a familiar face glowing neon under the warm dancing lights. Her heart stutters like it’s taking a picture…then jumping off a cliff. He’s shaved the facial scruff into a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His black hair is thick silk framing the sharp angles of his face. He sits alone at the bar, dressed in a casual midnight suit, sipping a dark drink out of a crystal glass that looks small in his hand. He is looking directly at her.

Long legs, heavy shoulders. The tapered waist of his jacket flows elegantly from his hips. His tie is neat, and not a piece of him is out of place. He is John, but not the one she knows. Not the one handcuffed to the bed and smiling at her. She feels, for sure, that this John is the one who spilled all the blood that day in the prison—this is the grim reaper.

This is stalking—he doesn’t care. Some might mistake him for thick-headed, but John knows when he’s out of line. He’s very aware of what he’s about to do.

The first night he got out, he struggled. Not just with stealing his car back from Winston’s safe-keeping, but also with his emotions. The fact that he is here—rather than acting as testament to his lunacy—is proving he is in more control now than he has ever been.

He once spent decades in subservience, always putting his own needs last and bowing to those with power. He starved while watching others grow plump with satisfaction and victory.

And it’s because he never wanted anything…anyone. Never truly desired the taste of possession nor the means to get it.

Not until now.

He’s felt fractions of this before in moments and people and things and substances—this thing he feels for her. It’s too soon and too moronic to identify the connection as love. However, the bond is strong and natural and he wants it and he will have it.

His nurse immediately averts her gaze, shy just like how he remembers her. His mouth ticks up around the last sip of his drink before making his way over.

He slides into the booth across from her. She looks up.

He greets her using her name. She’s surprised he remembers it.

“Hello, John.”

His fingers itch to grab her chin and make her eyes look at him instead of darting around for an escape route. That is his fault, that she thinks she can run. He should have shut that inclination down the moment he started to admire her.

It’s only been a day since he disappeared into the city, and he is so much different now. Taller than she remembers. Well fed. The suit clings to his biceps. She watches the muscle shift under the fabric while her mouth fills with saliva and her brain screams at her stupidity.

“Can I get you a drink?” He asks, his deep voice never failing in making her fingers and toes ache.

“What?” She says. She really can’t hear what he says over the booming music, and she was only half listening to the question while preoccupied with drooling over how fucking good he looks. Here he is, out of handcuffs and free to a good home, and her brain is malfunctioning.

He gets up, sits next to her, pushes into her body and puts his lips close to her ear. She grips the table violently. “Can I get you a drink?”

He smells like a hint of musky cologne mixed with clean shaving soap. The heat and bulk of him intoxicate her more than the alcohol ever could. Everything is sharp and blurry at the same time. She is both too sensitive and too numb for his touch.

He has a lot to say, and the irony that he can’t because of the loud music isn’t lost on him.

He talks with his body.

John brushes her hair behind her ear, admires the velvet plush of her face and neck, the plump breasts hidden under her t-shirt. Every spot that she is soft and pillowy he wants to bite and suck. His cock agrees vehemently with this urge and thickens on his thigh.

She squirms, flustered and terrified.

The Baba Yaga likes both. The Baba Yaga likes her. John likes her, too. Finally something they can agree on.

“Can I?” John presses, mouth so close to her skin she can feel the damp heat of it.

“Wh-“ she clears her throat “-what?”

“Buy you a drink?” He repeats, patient with her because he knows that her body is coming to terms with him invading its’ space.

“Yes.”

“Excuse me, then.” He is gone faster than she can look to see which direction he goes in. She takes this moment to loosen her grip on the table because her fingers have been drained of blood. Now that he’s gone, she can think a bit clearer and the one reasonable thought she has is that this man, while being irresistible, can also easily kill her. She could leave. Walk out. Avoid whatever this is going to turn into, which probably does involve her dead. She’s a witness to what happened in St. Mercy’s—maybe one of only a few left to his DIY blood bath.

Before she can decide to run, he’s back, setting a glass of clear, bubbling liquid in front of her.

She takes a sip before she can really think about what she’s doing. Her brain regrets drinking, but her taste buds do not. The delightful mint flavor mixed with tickling carbonation is delicious. It’s too late now, so she takes another.

His liquor is caramel colored with a strong aroma. He holds it in his mouth before he swallows it. She can smell it sweet and bitter on his breath while he talks in her ear like they are good friends.

He plants one heavy arm around the back of the booth, turns his body toward her, and lays his other arm on the table in front of her.

Trapped, she panics. He feels her body tense like a spring, but he doesn’t like that. He wants her soft and pliant. He likes her clinging to him as if he’s the only thing that can keep her stable.

“No,” he chides, “it’s okay. You know who I am.”

That’s the problem, she knows exactly who he is.

Heat radiates from him in thick, choking waves. Sweat pools between her breasts and trickles down her belly. She takes another drink to cool down, regretting not putting the tank top on instead of this stupid sweaty Henley.

“You’re scared of me,” he says.

She nods, so easily admitting fear, and he simultaneously hates and loves this. He hates it because she can’t be wholly his while a part of her is terrified of him. He loves it because in that fear lies the admittance that she remembers him.

“Oh, honey.” It’s such a strange thing coming from his mouth, but the pet name sends pleasant little tingles through her tummy. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Because he’s an honest man, he amends this with, “not in a way that won’t make you feel good.”

She really wants to believe him, but she absolutely doesn’t.

She doesn’t relax at all. In fact, her shoulders get tighter as she leans away from him. Part of it is that her cunt throbs when he tacks on that last part, and it’s so violent and sudden that she’s afraid he can feel it resonate in the air between their hips.

“Please talk to me.”

She looks at his face. He wears big puppy eyes and a soft, sad mouth. That look makes her heart pause in its panicking to ache instead. He is close enough that she can kiss him again.

“I don’t know what to say to you.” Her voice is timid and small. He has to read her lips. “But.. thank you...for…saving me.”

There she is, the selfless heroin here to make sure his feelings aren’t getting hurt.

“The pleasure is all mine.” John rests his fingers on top of her own. It’s meant to soothe, but all she can think of is how long his hands are and how capable they would be of snapping her pinkie in half or reaching places inside her that she can’t find on her own.

She knows Michael’s friends don’t like her, but she wants them back. Her eyes scan the crowd for the two women.

“Why are you so terrified of me?” It’s a manipulative question, and he knows it. He’s had people be terrified of him for less than what she’s seen. But he wants to hear her say it.

She looks at him, incredulously, her expression calling out his bullshit question for what it is. “You killed…people.”

He thinks for a moment, trying to choose the right words to say. “I did it to get us out.”

She can’t argue with this.

“Are you going to kill me?” She asks him, shrinking. A flash of blue light catches her eyes and paints them glassy and beautiful.

His response is inappropriate, but he can’t help it. He chuckles, although a bit annoyed he has to repeat himself. “No. I said I won’t hurt you.”

“Then what do you want, John?” Her voice is high and tight.

He wets his lips, deciding to err on the side of simple and candid. “You.”

There are a couple possibilities:

He’s lying to get to her.

He’s telling the truth, which is unlikely.

Instead of killing her, he’s appeasing her so she won’t tell on him. Which is ridiculous. Who would she tell? The cops? If she hasn’t told them yet she’s definitely not going to.

Honestly, only one of these options appeal to her, and it’s the one that’s far fetched. A fever fantasy dream—literally. John wants her? This John? She wants to laugh in his face.

He rolls his thumb under the smooth skin below her ear and earns a full bodied shudder and a flinch. “Let me kiss you. Again.”

Her heart flutters, blushes, squeals, acts like it belongs to a 16-year-old girl in the height of puberty. Vivid and violent and wonderful, that moment when their lips touched. Her body yearns for the feeling, teetering on top of the rollercoaster drop, and not sure if it has a choice whether to fall or not.

“Here?” She gestures to the club around them.

“Anywhere,” he says, “take me somewhere. Let me take you somewhere.”

He watches patiently as she fights with herself. He wants her to say yes without persuasion, but the thought of her saying no is the opposite of appealing. It’s so unappealing, in fact, he just might have to drag her out of here anyway if she decides to decline.

To save her the trouble, he helps make the decision. “Yes,” he answers a question she never asked out loud, “if you say no, it will hurt my feelings.”

He knows it’s fucked up, to do that to her. She’s proved that she can’t put her own feelings above someone else’s—even if that someone else is scum—and he knows she won’t turn him down if she thinks it will upset him…Even him. But, the other option is to let her go, and that’s not going to happen. Kicking and screaming tends to get more attention than calm exits in crowded places.

“Where are we going?” She asks, trying not to sound defeated.

He takes the last sip of his bourbon. “Your place.”

“Just let me text my roommate,” she says

“Of course.”

She opens up the text chain that her and Michael share, unsure of what to say. She settles on telling him she’s getting a ride home with an old, good friend.

Is the old friend hot? 😉

She tilts her phone screen so John can’t see what she’s typing, even though he can.

Yes.

Once she’s satisfied that Michael isn’t going to be concerned, she sticks her phone back into her pocket. “I also have to close my tab.”

He slides her credit card across the table and pushes it under her hand. “It’s on me.”

She feels her pocket for money. “How much was it? I’ll give you the cash-“

He rests his hand on her own, stilling her search. His hot skin sears her hip. He sounds amused when he talks to her. “I said it’s on me. That means I’m paying for it.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He can tell she wants to press the issue, and is biting her tongue.

She tries to wave him away when he offers her his hand to help stand from the booth, but he takes it anyway and pulls her up. She’s unsteady, swaying. Her body has just realized that it’s drunk. He helps her navigate through the crowd, arm wrapped securely around her back. It’s easy for her to start hanging onto him again, almost as if she’s done it a dozen times. He asks her if she has to use the restroom before they leave, reminding her that her bladder was full thirty minutes ago.

He waits outside, leaning on the wall, watching the door, nervous that’s she’s going to try and get away from him. He is so relieved when he sees her come out of the bathroom, he immediately pulls her back against him, and startles her.

She grips onto his jacket to keep upright, unsurprised by how sturdy he is by now. He can hold her easily while walking them through the chaos of the club. He doesn’t stumble or falter even once as he ensures they both make it out the door. The outside air is cold and bitter, but John is warm. She huddles a bit closer into his side. It’s so strange, having someone that can handle her weight easily—very much something she’s not used to.

He wraps tighter around her, reassuring and solid, happy to provide shelter.

“My house is three blocks away,” she says, and it’s nice to hear her voice clearly. Snowflakes fall onto her pretty skin and melt away.

He shakes his head, pulls keys out of his pocket with the arm that’s not secured around her.

If she weren’t so nervous, she’d ask him how he scored such a pretty mustang.

John leaves her on the sidewalk while he opens the door for her. Carefully, she cuddles into the icy leather seat, bundling her jacket closer around her shoulders.

The inside of his car smells like gas fumes and leather. It’s pleasant, delicious.

He slides in beside her, turns the rumbling engine on, and flips dials on the dash. Cool air blows from the vents. She shivers. He takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over her, leaving him in only the silky black dress shirt and tie underneath.

“You’re gonna freeze to death,” she tells him.

“I like the cold,” he argues. “What’s your address?”

He seems to have no problem finding her apartment complex. She’s disappointed that he didn’t take at least one wrong turn because she likes watching him drive—it’s 100% the hands—and she wants to delay her possible death for a little while longer.

She grabs the solid metal handle to open her door, but he stops her.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Opening my door.” She doesn’t bother keeping the obstinance out of her tone.

“Let me.”

Reluctantly, and with an eye roll, she releases the handle and lets him open up the car door for her. He reaches for her hand and helps her step out of the vehicle. His arm is around her again before they walk into her building and up the stairs to the second floor. She pulls out the key, but he takes it, unlocks the door, and guides her inside.

Now he’s just being ridiculous while he finds and flips the lights on in her apartment and then pulls out a kitchen chair for her to sit in.

“I can do all that,” She says, frowning at him, crossing her arms defiantly and looking as intimidating as a hamster. “Are you one of those dudes that don’t let women use their hands?”

He will butt heads with that maverick attitude, although he’s grateful that she’s warming up to him again. “You mean a gentleman?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.” And she smiles.

Despite her protest, she drapes his jacket over the back of the seat and then lets him help her push herself up to the table.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, opening up her fridge.

“No, I’m fine.”

He looks doubtful. “Have you eaten today?”

She laughs. He hasn’t heard it in a while, that melodic tinkling. “We ate McDonald’s before we went to the club. But if you’re hungry, help yourself to anything. There’s also soda in the mini fridge.” She thumbs to the living room.

He shuts the door of the fridge and takes the seat across from her, eclipsing the little budget friendly and thrifted chair and kitchen table.

John starts in with asking her about herself. She tells him what’s she’s comfortable with and leaves out the gory details. Most of his inquiries are simple: “how old are you?” “What do you do for fun?” “Where are you from?”

It gets a little dicey when he asks about her family.

“Uh, I don’t have one,” she tells him, looking down at the table. “I was in foster care for a while then got out as soon as I was 18.”

“No adopted parents?” He asks.

“Some.” She rubs her cheek where her bruise is almost gone now. “A lot. Never any that I stayed with.”

He hums, rubbing his fingers over the grooves in her table and wishing it was her palm. “Are you lonely?”

She stiffens, looks up at him. “Sometimes, yes.”

“Friends?” He asks.

“Michael,” she says, “the roommate you told me to adopt. Really, thank you for that.”

He smiles. “I’m glad I could help.”

“Your turn,” she says, tilting her chin at him.

He opens his arms up. “Ask away.”

She does not ask him what he expects her too. She wants to know his favorite color, favorite animal, his birthday, why everyone likes him so much.

He grins at the last question. “I guess I’ve just learned from experience how to charm people. Much like yourself.”

She snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

“You’re very kind. Brave.” He looks sincere while he elaborates this.

She tries not to be overcome with embarrassment and flattery while waving him off with a scoff. Him telling her that, whether he means it or not, makes her confidence turn from shriveled to swollen and leaking and she needs to displace some of the feeling before she gets addicted to it.

His eyes narrow at her inability to take the compliment.

She changes the subject, nervous. “Where’d you get that nice suit?”

He raises his eyebrows, allowing the deflection, but counting it as strike 2. “It’s custom made by a friend.”

Her eyes widen. “Fancy.”

“Something like that.”

“Can I guess your favorite drink?” She grins.

“Go for it.” He sounds amused.

“Scotch.”

“Close. Bourbon.”

“Damnit!” She cries. “Should have gone with my first guess.”

He makes a face at her that says ‘yeah, sure.’ She likes that, because she’s laughing again, and alerting every dopamine receptor in his brain to release.

“So, you’re Russian, you have custom made suits, you are…good at fighting. You’re like…James Bond?”

His smile wriggles into a grin. “If that’s what you want.”

She shrugs. “I’m more of an Indiana Jones gal’, to be honest.” Her grin matches his own.

He hums. “I can work with that.”

She raises an eyebrow, lips pursing as she rubs her hands together in uneasy gesture.

“Do you still think I’m going to kill you?” He’s nothing if not blunt.

She thinks about it for a minute. “Honestly? A little bit. Can you blame me?”

“No, but why am I in your apartment if you think that?” He asks.

“I’ve come to terms with my death…in the past hour.” she shrugs.

“Have you?” He muses.

“Yes, we all die. I’m a nurse, I know that. If I die, I die.” Really, she’s terrified of that unknown darkness that waits after her heart stops, but she doesn’t want to seem like a pussy in front of him anymore. Especially not him.

Also, she’s grown more comfortable with him now that they’ve been talking again. It’s like he’s John in the infirmary bed sans handcuffs. Just like at the prison, she doesn’t want to be afraid of him, even though he’s scary.

“How do I convince you I don’t want to kill you?” He asks, face serious.

“I don’t know.” She gives him an apologetic look.

He sucks his teeth. She watches his mouth and jaw move. Her lower body reminds her that it likes him, too, and is not afraid of him at all.

“Then I’ll just have to use trial and error,” he reasons.

She wonders what he means, but doesn’t have to be confused for very long.

He pushes his chair back, leans himself at an angle, and pats one thigh, motioning for her. “We can start with the kiss.”

Her heart pulls at her nerve endings like it’s stopping a wild horse in sprint. Her pupils get wide and her mouth scrunches like she’s trying hard not to make some kind of embarrassing facial expression. She looks at him, but it’s hard to keep his eyes in line with her own when his are dark and lowered at her like this.

“You don’t have to.” She tries one last bid to save herself from being completely obsessed with him—to let him back out and decide she’s not worth the effort. She doesn’t want him to force himself into doing this just because he thinks she’ll tell on him or otherwise. She doesn’t want to feel like she’s manipulating him into kissing her. Because that sounds much worse than death.

But every part of her body, besides her rational brain, wants to kiss him. Desperately.

His patience has run out. He gets up, grabs the back of her neck and threads his fingers through the sensitive baby hairs at the back of her scalp, tilts her face up.

He’s rough, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s an unyielding pressure that resonates in her cunt. He muffles her distressed grunt with his mouth.

He’s teeth, tongue, saliva. It’s hard to breathe with him in her throat. Her hands grip his nice shirt. He pulls her up by the back of her neck, and her moan dies in their combined throat.

The wet connection of their lips has her hips grinding into his thigh and his hands imprinting her scalp. She burns from her head to her toes. He struggles to get closer, use the blanket of her body to try and smother his own tumultuous fire.

Her phone rings, and she has to ignore it while he pulls at her hair and backs her up into the fridge. The cool at her back feels nice mixed with the heat of his body. She’s on her tiptoes, gripping his arms to let off some of the pressure in her scalp, trying to chase the ache between her legs with the sturdy muscles in the thigh he has pressed between them.

He pulls away with her bottom lip captured in his teeth, and she only has a second to whine about the sting until he’s back on her.

Her phone rings again. She has to try and push him off because twice means it might be an emergency.

He doesn’t budge, and if he knows she wants to stop then he doesn’t care.

Text message dings, phone ringing again. His lips move from her mouth to her jaw, nipping and laving at that delicate flesh. His scratchy facial hair tickles and chafes her skin.

She tries to form a coherent thought and translate it into a sentence, but all that comes out are wet mewls. Michael might be in trouble. She pushes harder against the solid rock of his body.

John takes the hint, but not very well. He releases her neck with a low gravelly sound that translates to a growl. His self control, usually unbreakable, fissures. He glares down at her, breathing deep and loud.

Reluctantly, he lets her push past him and look at her phone.

He leans against her fridge and watches how her eyes grow wide and worried in the bright light of her screen. The anxiety on her face turns his annoyance into concern.

She pulls up her phone calendar. Saturday. The weekend. The day that Benny invited her camping. And there he is; five missed text messages, 4 missed calls. Two voicemails.

John watches her skin drain some of its lovely color.

She reads the texts. They start off nice, then turn into vulgar threats.

The last one is him sending her a copy of her own address.

She slams her phone down, free-falling into the verge of a full blown panic attack.

She had forgotten to erase and block his number after he forcefully put it in her phone. While he was in her messages, he must have gotten her address off the text chain between her and Michael. He knows where she lives, and even if he doesn’t have the passcode to the front door and a key to get into her apartment, he can easily wait outside for her. Or around the block. She tries her best to not start hyperventilating, but her eyes inevitably swell with stinging fluid and her lungs constrict like snakes are wrapping around them.

“What? What’s wrong?” She feels John’s hand on her shoulder. It brings her back down to earth. The serpents twisting her insides coil away, hissing in fear. Her breathing gets easier. He wraps his hands around her waist softly, says her name. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he urges.

She’s so tired of protecting this asshole, but the two possibilities that will come from telling john are equally unappealing. The first one is that he doesn’t care and leaves because he thinks she’s a whore. The second option is that he kills or injures Benny, and that would mean blood inadvertently on her hands.

She doesn’t know if she should be grateful or terrified when he grabs her phone, types her passcode—how the hell does he know that?—and opens up Benny’s voicemail.

“John, stop - “

But the angry voice is already coming on over the speaker. “Hey Darlin’. I’ll be over in a few minutes. If you’re not ready, I’m dragging you out of there.”

He holds the phone out of her reach and plays the next. “I’m five minutes away from your house. You better be outside or you won’t enjoy yourself tonight.” Benny sounds drunk in this one.

John flips to the text messages once he’s done with the voicemails.

By the time he’s done reading them, his eyes are drained of light. Not even the bright phone screen casts a reflection in the pools of black matte. He looks up at her and presses the power button.

“Did he hit you?” He grips her chin and his big hand is wide enough to cover the entire bottom of her face.

“What are you going to do?” She whispers. He feels the vibration in the air from her quivering body, but can’t find it in himself to feel bad, especially when she’s committed to keeping a bastard protected.

He loved how altruistic she was when they first met, the care that she showed for everyone—especially he himself—was endearing and sincere. But now he knows he has to break her from that senseless kindness because she is too fucking nice for her own good.

“I’m going to kill him,” John tells her, words piercing like needles and threading her wild anxiety tighter.

She doesn’t like Benny, would even go so far as to say she hates him, but the thought of him dying because of her confession turns her stomach with guilt. And maybe not believing John would absolve some of that foreshadowed liability, but he had killed countless grown men with a bed rail in front of her, so she knows he’s more than capable of keeping his word and becoming the reaper.

She won’t condemn someone, even if they are a scumbag. He catches the look in her face that tells him just that.

And he does something that she doesn’t expect and doesn’t want to see cutting his usually serious face: He smiles, genuinely and viciously.

He is physically bigger than her, that much is true, but nothing makes her feel as small as that smile. It is the smile of someone who knows what they want and how to get it, consequences be damned.

Fear is like electricity in her veins, so cold it burns.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, now actually crying.

She watches his jaw grind, backs away from him.

He catches her shoulder, pulls her into his chest so that he can talk into the top of her head.

“You will not leave this apartment,” he tells her, “you will not get in my way.”

And she can tell that he’s not someone who people usually disobey.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Christmas Wish | Cliff Booth

Pairing: Cliff Booth x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Request: Can I request a Cliff Booth holiday fic with the reader being annoyed at Rick's dependence on Cliff, and her feeling Cliff should stop indulging him, but then they reconcile in the end?

Warnings: talks of dependency on a person, slight angst, not fluff but a happy ending.

A/N: I didn’t focus a lot on the Rick side of the dependence and more-so on how it could take a toll on reader’s and Cliff’s lives.

Gif credit: @glouriousone

❆・・・・・❆・・・・・❆・・・・・❆

Holidays were pretty important for your family and it extended to you. It was imperative for you to have everything ready on time, the gifts needed to be perfect, the celebrations well-planned, the decorations put up at the right time.

You were waiting for Cliff to pick you up in order to buy a few things. The minutes passed, turning into half an hour. Resigned, you took your purse and decided to go by yourself.

It wasn’t the first time Cliff didn’t call when he would be late, in fact, he almost never called and was always late. If you didn’t know him so well you would’ve assumed he was cheating on you— maybe you shouldn’t even discard the idea at that point.

You didn’t have anything against Rick, not really. It was more against his inability to do things by himself, that and the calls in the middle of the night that messed your sleeping schedule.

Cliff’s car wasn’t in the driveway when you got back, carrying multiple bags. With a sigh, you put said bags down and unlocked the door. It wasn’t cold, yet the house felt chilly due to how lonely it was.

You stared at the bed you had insisted on buying for Brandy, annoyed to know even the dog was with Rick. Deciding to pass the time by sorting the things you had bought, you allowed yourself to forget about it for a good moment.

Cliff got home by night, you were already in bed when you heard Brandy’s whines and his steps. You told yourself you wouldn’t say anything, you even turned your lamp off and tried to find a position to fake being asleep to avoid it.

Your closed eyes felt light enter the room as the door opened, Cliff’s steps got slower in order to be more silent— the door was shut as silently as possible as well. You heard the shuffle of his clothes as he changed into sleepwear, the soft thudding of his feet against the carpeted floor indicating he was about to get into bed.

The dip on the mattress didn’t surprise you which was helpful to keep pretending you were asleep. Cliff turned his lamp off, getting closer to you as he got under the covers. You had to keep yourself from scoffing when he slung an arm around you, his face buried on the pillow as he laid on his stomach.

You found unfair how relaxed he was, how easily he conceived sleep while you laid there with your eyes fixed on the fan as your mind couldn’t stop working. Fighting around the holidays wasn’t ideal, you had been trying to avoid it the entire month and although you had succeeded, the price you were paying was too high. You were getting to the point of second-guessing everything you did or said, the fear of eventually not trusting him eating you alive. Anyone looking it from the outside would tell you to calm down, your mom had told you you were being paranoid yet it didn’t feel like it when the problem was that you didn’t think Cliff was cheating on you— you knew he wasn’t. You just felt like a second option and it wasn’t completely his fault either.

In the midst of your internal ranting, you fell asleep. You were so hazy when you woke up that for a moment you forgot what had happened and shifted on the bed to greet Cliff good morning. His side of the bed was empty already, and cold.

❆ ・・・・・ ❆ ・・・・・ ❆ ・・・・・ ❆

Your workday felt a little longer than usual, you were tired both mentally and physically. As much as you wanted to go home, you were dreading the idea of arriving to a silent house for God knows which time in the past two months.

The car wasn’t parked in the front of the house, Brandy didn’t greet you as you pushed the door open, everything was dark and silent. Crossing the living room you couldn’t help but wonder if you were in the right place, if it wasn’t better for your mental health to just end it and go back to your parents' house for a few days while he had the chance to move out.

You didn’t want that, you just wanted more normality in your life. And honestly, you wanted Cliff to have some too— to do whatever he wanted when he wanted it to do. While waiting for him to get home, you decided you’d just tell him, if things ended because of that then so be it.

Brandy ran toward you when Cliff got home, whining and wagging her tail. You petted the dog’s head, scratching behind her ears. Cliff kissed the side of your head before heading toward the kitchen, probably to get something to drink.

When the dog went to the bed you had bought her, you felt that giddiness fill you, the one you felt the first time Brandy slept on her bed. Cliff sat down beside you, putting his arm on the edge of the back of the couch while holding a beer in his other hand.

“How was work?” he asked, not really staring at you.

“Fine.”

“That’s good. Rick has an audition tomorrow and he’s freaking out—“

You interrupted, “Rick’s always freaking out.”

At that he turned to look at you, prompted by the tone of your voice. “You got a problem with Rick now?”

You didn’t think the discussion would start so soon, but whatever. “No. He’s really dependent on you, that’s all.”

Cliff sighed heavily, taking a swig of his beer. You rotated your body to look at him, you saw his annoyed semblance which didn’t help your situation. You had known he’d react like that, anyone with a brain would’ve known actually.

“You’re not going to at least say that he isn’t?” You pressed, wanting him to say anything, even if you didn’t like it.

“I know you wanted me to go with you to buy the things for Christmas but you don’t have to say things like that because you’re mad.”

Out of all the things he could’ve said, you didn’t expect that. “Who is talking about that? Cliff, for the love of God! Rick can’t do anything without you. I don’t fucking care if you didn’t want to go Christmas shopping with me, but I would’ve liked it for you to not go because you didn’t want to instead because Rick can’t breathe if you don’t remind him how to.”

“We’ve been working together for years, darling,” he tried to reason with you. You didn’t blame him, they were friends and working-partners and all of that.

Putting a hand on his bicep, you took a long sigh. “I need you to understand that the problem isn’t that you work with him or that you’re friends with him.”

“Then what is it?”

“You’re more of his caregiver than his friend, Cliff. You do everything for him,” you lifted your free hand to count with your fingers, “you put your life on hold for him, your dog is more his than yours, you don’t even do the things you like to do anymore because of him... doesn’t it concern you?”

He considered it for a long moment, looking down at his lap while tracing the rim of the bottle with his thumb. You stared at him, catching the twitches on his face— you were able to see realization dawn on him, it should’ve been comforting but it could mean he was choosing to cast you aside.

Cliff put the bottle on the center table, rotating his body to face you. You avoided his face, who would want to see their partner either tell them they’re choosing to ignore their efforts to help them regain their agency?

“You’re mad because of that?”

“A little, yeah. It’s tiring.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Cliff promised, extending a hand to grasp your chin between his thumb and index so you’d look at him. “Is that okay?”

You nodded, “just... don’t let him make you think that’s not the case because we both know he actually needs help.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. His eyes lingered on your face, it was clear he wanted to say something else and was trying to find the appropriate words. That happened sometimes, mostly when he was tired. “I wanted to go shopping with you, y’know?”

“Well,” you shrugged, “we’ll probably have to buy something else, that always happens.”

He huffed a laugh, “we good now?”

You hoped you weren’t wrong when you said yes. You hoped, for his own good and yours, that he’d keep his word and talk with Rick. You wanted to have a peaceful Christmas with Cliff, Brandy, and your extended family and you wanted the peacefulness to extend to your life in general— and his.

In part, that was the hardest part, you genuinely wished Cliff could finally be himself and do what he was in the mood for in the way he wanted to. You hoped, at last, that he’d get that soon— that would be the perfect Christmas gift.

[soft-for-them]

Questions yet unanswered - Cliff Booth x plus size reader

Summary: You were just having a drink when Cliff Booth walked into the bar and against all better judgement you take him home.

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

A/N: This fic is very suggestive so minors DNI, if I see anyone under eighteens interact with this then you're getting blocked.

You would consider yourself a good person, not a cheater or the type of person who is mean for the sake of just being mean, a decent everyday person is what you’d call yourself. You have a good and nice paying job as a secretary/assistant to a fancy film director and you have a good set of friends who don’t bring you down like some of the stuck up pricks of Hollywood do.

All in all your life is good.

So finding yourself nuzzled up close to famed movie stuntman (and extremely good looking for the amount of knocks to the head he’s probably gotten in his career) Cliff Booth, you start to wonder if taking him home is the right thing to do.

Earlier on you were just drinking alone watching an old man crone out blues songs, the sweat of the small bar’s heat glistening on your skin making your thin cotton blouse stick to the swell of your round breasts and the curves of your stomach and hips.

You must have been a funny sight in such small bar, the run down place on the seedy side of Hollywood where washed out extras and all manner of leaches go to wallow in the sweet sound of stars of old Hollywood, now aged and washed out, singing their emotions away.

You just like the bar because it’s near your small flat, that and the music isn’t half bad, that and there are less out of town wannabe’s trying to chat you up with some bullshit about being the ‘next big thing’ only to be sorely disappointed when you reject them.

The night, warm and smelling like cheap booze, was going slowly as you tried to drown out your headache with whiskey but nothing was seeming to work. The bass player’s long strums on his guitar made your body vibrate, you zoned out and quiet.

Then he came in all tanned and smiling, with a glow around him so angelic that you almost didn’t recognise him for just a fraction of a moment.

You weren’t stupid – nor are you now that you find yourself unlocking your front door with him gripping on your soft hips – you know the face of Cliff Booth, you’ve see his stunts with your very own eyes, you’ve seen him beat up famous snobs who thought they were stronger than him but you’ve also heard the stories about what happened to his wife – his dead wife.

You friends are obsessed over his friend’s films, whenever Rick Dalton is on the TV, on the big screen or on some over produced advert, they swoon and scream but you’ve seen what happens behind the scenes.

Maybe that’s why you’ve always had a soft spot for Cliff Booth.

You’re not so much into Dalton’s work, not that you don’t find him talented, just it’s easier to get closer to a stunt man hanging around a movie set for hours on end when you too are hanging around the same movie set for hours on end rather than watching actors act and your boss direct a film.

The first time you met Cliff you didn’t feel under him nor did you feel unseen, you were both on the same level, neither one of you super famous or rich, the two of you just doing your job.

Maybe that’s why you've taken him home from the bar.

When his sunglasses covered eyes caught you in the musty cigar smoke you knew it was game over.

And what a sight you must have been sitting on that bar stool still in your work uniform, body leaning back, blouse bow undone allowing the peak of your breasts to just show, your glossy strapped heels hooked on the bar stool as you gaze outwards watching to the people mull around the bar.

He came straight over to you, recognition appearing on his attractive face. He bought you a drink, you picked a cola instead of a refill because you knew then and there that you wanted to be sober when you took him home.

So now you both fall into your hallway with quite giggles, you umbrella stand knocked over, his arms holding you tightly so you don’t crumple on the floor as you try to take off your heels whilst still kissing him.

“Havin’ trouble there?” you feel him kissing down you neck, little playful nips teasing you as you unbuckle the ankle straps of your shoes.

His voice is muffled and deep, his soft lips kissing every inch of your exposed flesh as your height drops down, your heels that hitting the floor.

He could fuck you next to your coat rack for all your care you.

If he takes his lips away from your neck or his hands off your waist then you might actually think about the repercussions of sleeping with someone like him.

Is sleeping with a man who you work with a good idea?

Your mid is fuzzy from all the attention he’s giving you so much so that his question goes unanswered until a little nip that will definitely leave a mark shocks you into speaking.

“First door on the left.” You exhale as you pull him onwards not bothering to answer his question, the need to have him getting bigger with each ghost of kiss teasing your bare skin.

“First door on the left?” he questions.

You both walk in tandem one hand reaching out for the door handle to the first door on the left, him now looking deep in your eyes as he holds on tight to you.

The circular door knob is as cold as ice as you twist it open, your eyes mesmerised by his big pools of blue. Your bare feet step over the boundary to the feeling of the worn out carpet of your small bedroom.

“If I’d know you wanted this earlier on-“ Cliff begins.

“-You would have fucked me on the movie set?” you interrupt as you drag him into your room illuminated by the moon shining through the small rectangular windows above your bed.

“I was thinking one of the trailers but if you’re into that-“

You interrupt him again with a quick kiss, a way to say ‘shut up’ without ruining the mood.

“No.” your lips may not be connected but they’re still dangerously close to his, one move and you’ll can capture his lips into a deep kiss that will stop the man for talking for the rest of the night, “I’d much prefer you in my bed.”

The door swings shut as the sounds of hushed giggles and deep kisses fill the small flat, the question of whether fucking Cliff Booth long gone from your mind.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

What Did They Do? | Cliff Booth

Pairing: Cliff Booth (OUATIH) x Plus Size Reader

Word count: 2,131 words.

Request: Hi. Could you write a Cliff Booth one-shot with the reader being bullied at work because of her plus size, and Cliff comforting her? (If it's ok with you). Thank you.

Warnings: Fatphobia, internalized fatphobia, angst, body-image issues, a little bit of fluff.

A/N: Listen, I didn't want to focus on how the scenes with the coworkers played, they're not the ones who suffer because of the words. ALSO: remember that it's your body, therefore your choice. If you want to try and change something about your routine or whatever, go ahead! But please do it for yourself, your happiness, and your health.

Weight was an issue, a metaphorical and literal one. You had fluctuated between Ignoring what everyone else said about your weight or body shape and obsessing over every little flaw they saw in you. It took a toll on you some days like on any other person who didn’t have what it took to be considered the standard for an attractive person yet the pressure of hearing comments constantly was getting too much.

A hostile work environment wasn’t new to you, school hadn’t been different, and sometimes even your family could get pretty annoying and borderline cruel with the topic.

The walk from your workplace to your house wasn’t long, but it sure as hell felt like it. Between the changing weather, how tired you truly were, and the weight of the comments and gazes you had to endure on a daily basis, the way home felt like sheer torture. You supposed it wouldn’t be too bad to move your body some more, maybe your workmates had a point when they told you you needed to lose some pounds although they could’ve been kinder while doing so.

Acting like you didn’t care was getting harder as the days passed, you didn’t know who were you trying to convince more when you said it didn’t matter. Many factors were at play, and their comments used every one of them to break you. You had tried to understand the reasoning behind those types of insults for years and at some point instead ended up believing they were simply the truth.

But why? Why did you have to be the one who changed instead of them? Why couldn’t Lorna understand that your body was different than hers? Why didn’t Michael accept that you didn’t exist for people to find you either attractive or not? Why couldn’t they just get over the fact that no one is the same and that not every single person can fit their personal standards? And why couldn't you either?

The lights from the living room were on and Cliff’s car was parked on the driveway. You sighed heavily, inwardly praying to not look like you cried all the way home even though you totally did. Before you could slide the key in, the door swung open. His bright smile greeted you, the usual kiss on your temple leaving your skin buzzing.

He said, very happily, that he bought your favorite dish from that dinner you love. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to find an excuse as to why you can’t eat it. It would be rude to say you’re not in the mood when he had to make a detour to buy the food, but you don’t feel like eating ever again in your goddamn life.

“I’ll just take a shower, yeah?” You didn’t wait for him to answer and made your way toward your shared bedroom.

Mindlessly taking a clean pair of underwear and a pajama set you entered the bathroom not before kicking your shoes off. The clothes were placed on the countertop just beside the sink, your reflection staring back at you; you didn’t recognize the sad eyes boring into yours— your own eyes.

The warm water wasn’t of too much help. You had expected it to at least ease the tension on your shoulders enough for you to not feel like you’d crumble at any minute. The dreaded part of the shower began when, while waiting for the conditioner to set and do its job, you started to scrub your body. A sob escaped your lips, your hand clutching the extra skin on your stomach— god, Lorna was definitely right when she said you needed to be on a strict diet.

You didn't dare to get out of the shower just yet, too embarrassed by the fact that all those things your coworkers said to you were true. You felt like the filthy cow Michael called you, you truly did, and tears just kept streaming down your face. Avoiding your reflection in the mirror while you put your clothes on, the wonderment of what Cliff really thought of you came to your mind.

Reminding yourself that you needed to focus on the fact that he had never complained about anything you exited the bathroom with the idea of going to bed and hoping for the best. If you were lucky, getting some rest would help you see things clearly, be kinder to yourself like you logically knew you should be.

Cliff stared at you with a frown, you supposed he had entered the room to change into sleeping clothes too because he had discarded his patterned shirt and was now only in a pair of shorts and the t-shirt he had been wearing earlier. You grew nervous under his gaze like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t have even thought about.

“You want me to reheat dinner?”

Your stomach churned upon hearing the question, not helping the feeling of nervousness at all. Excuses escaped you, there wasn’t a good one other than saying you weren’t hungry which was just not realistic. Opting for just nodding in hopes of calming down when your boyfriend wasn’t staring at you, you waited for him to leave the room to let out a light groan.

You felt stuck. No one likes to feel like that and lately, that’s all you can really feel. Stuck between accepting yourself and changing everything people found flawed, between skipping meals and eating properly to be healthy, between looking for another job where you weren’t verbally abused on a daily basis and just accepting that it would keep happening if you didn’t change your body.

You wished you could tune it all out, you knew some people were able to and you knew their lives were a little easier because of it. You wanted to be able to feel comfortable in your own skin without being told you were harming yourself— oh, how you hated the way they looked at you when you wore a skirt instead of a pantsuit, and God forbid if you felt confident enough one day to wear shorts...

It was tiring, it added to the weight on your shoulders and in consequence, deteriorated your health. The irony of how much their comments that — according to them— came from a place of worry for your health were harming you would have amused you if you weren’t in so much distress.

The clearing of a throat startled you. Your eyes landed on Cliff’s face as you turned to look at the doorway. “I’ll be there in a moment,” you rasped, surprised by how hard getting the words out had been.

He pushed himself into the room and away from the doorway, standing in front you four strides later. His warm palm landed softly on your cheek, an attempt to either get you to talk or comfort you, perhaps both at the same time.

Your eyes closed out of habit, your brain processing the gesture as one of the few things that gave it serotonin. His free arm wrapped around your middle, pulling you closer. There was a moment of silence, not uncomfortable because nothing was with him, one that he used to asses what could possibly be wrong while you tried your hardest to not cry some more.

“What’s wrong, love?” Cliff asked, so lowly and softly, so tenderly that you believed Samantha when she said you didn’t deserve to have someone like him in your life.

You shook your head, the movement prompting your lips to brush against his palm for a few seconds. It was deeply embarrassing to tell him how bad you felt for being yourself, it wasn’t fair for you to go through it, any of it.

He encouraged you to speak still, “you can tell me anything.”

Stubbornly, you shook your head again. “It’s nothing. How was your day?” Your question came with the opening of your eyes. You knew you had to be convincing, you could cry some more in the morning while showering after all.

“It was great,” he deadpanned. “Now, is my girlfriend telling me what’s troubling her or do I have to beat her coworkers up to know?”

A shiver ran down your spine, not because you were scared of him but because he talking to your coworkers was your worst nightmare. They could easily open his eyes, make him realize he deserved someone better than you. Shit... Cliff deserved better than you, it was true. Someone he could show off, someone who didn’t struggle to find pretty clothes, someone who could wear his clothes without them being tight or stuck.

Your reaction seemed to make him realize what was wrong. You saw it on his face, and he probably saw everything on yours. It surprised you, how upset he looked as it dawned on him. “What did they do?”

And just like that, you let it all go because there was no point in saying everything was fine, you were sad, he was mad— things could go terribly wrong or perfectly fine and you needed it to just happen already.

He listened, all his attention on your face as you both sat on the bed, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand. Your chest started aching as the hiccups began to interrupt you, between the crying and the eagerness to explain yourself now that you had the chance to let it out, you were desperate to find some relief.

Cliff shushed you, soothing sounds filling your ears. You heard him say he would get you some water to which you could only nod. You didn’t know how much time passed, you just knew you were still crying. Words flew out from your mouth when he was back, you hadn’t realized how many things you had bottled up until the moment you caught yourself speaking about your first day of work when everything had begun.

He hugged you tightly once the hiccups stopped, letting you cry some more on his chest as he played with your hair. Sweet nothings were whispered like second nature, how competent you were, how pretty, how attractive, how much he loved you. You even wondered why people called them sweet nothings when it truly meant everything to you.

“We’re going to find you another job, darling,” he assured, “don’t you worry your pretty little mind.”

You shrugged, knowing it wouldn’t change much. “Everyone will say the same,” you lamented.

“You can’t let them do that to you. I know it’s not your fault,” Cliff quickly clarified, “but we can’t please everyone and not everyone will like us. Maybe this is different and I can’t understand it because I’m not going through it, but I know it’s still true.”

Nodding, you looked down at your hands on your lap. It was easier said than done, no matter how well he meant he wasn’t the one who would go through it. “What if they’re right?”

You wanted to take the words back upon hearing his huff, wanting everything but to go through a fight that night. You were tired, drained actually, and fights with Cliff didn’t happen often but when they did you ended needing a lot of alone time to recharge.

“Look,” he sighed, clearly trying to mask his annoyance when he knew it wasn’t your fault, “if you want to make some changes to your routine, maybe become more active or eat healthier... that’s great, love. I will happily go through it with you.” His hand fell on top of yours, giving a squeeze to get the point across and to gain your attention so his next words were understood. “But if you don’t want to, if you feel fine, you don’t have to change a damn thing.”

“Can I make that decision later on?” you timidly asked. You weren’t ready to take such a big step, you truly just wanted to get some rest.

Cliff agreed, leaning to peck your lips in reassurance. You allowed yourself to smile which only made him kiss you properly that time around, hugging you by the hips when you kissed back.

Later that night, while laying on his chest, you focused on the sound of his heartbeat as he watched some TV. You were trying to pay attention to whatever was happening on the show but your mind was somewhere else. The next day would be big, you’d finally focus on what you needed instead of what people wanted and allow yourself to make a decision regarding what you would do to accomplish it.

The next day you’d finally start the journey to get what you truly deserved, and you would give it to your own self while your boyfriend accompanied you.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

A Sweet Baby | Cliff Booth

Pairing: Cliff Booth x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 1k

Request: Could you write a holiday fic with Cliff Booth, and its the first Christmas the two of them have together, and he surprises her with a pet as a gift to cheer her up after her previous pet died? (It can be a bulldog, but whatever you prefer).

Warnings: mentions of the loss of a pet, a little bit of fluff

A/N: —

Gif credit: Cliff @glouriousone — the dog @nousinsanity

Cliff had been secretive for the past few days, he looked nervous all the time which wasn’t normal for him. You assumed it had to do with this holidays being the first you two were spending together, and to be fair you couldn’t blame him.

It was also your first Christmas without your beloved pet. You tried to not show how much you missed your furry companion, but in those dates their absence was more prominent. You missed the sound of their paws against the floor, how effusively they would greet you when you got home, feeding them first thing in the morning while you brewed coffee, rewarding them with treats, cuddling with them, having their head on your lap— you really missed them and there was nothing you could do about it.

The night had gone great, part of it had been spent with your family and other with Rick and his family. The company eased your sadness enough for you to enjoy Christmas Eve, the food, the games, the gift exchanging, you had even tipsily sang Christmas carols with Rick while Cliff and Francesca laughed. As per tradition Cliff and you would wait for the next morning to open said gifts, but the exchanging was nice either way.

Taking your spot on the bed, you snuggled closer to Cliff who had already been waiting for you with an extended arm. Said arm pulled you closer as soon as your head was placed on his chest, a kiss being plastered on your forehead in the process. A happy sigh escaped your lips, the warmth of his body and the steadiness of his breathing lulling you to sleep.

In contrast, you woke up feeling cold on Christmas morning. Cliff wasn’t under you anymore, he wasn’t even in the room actually. With a groan, you sat up on the bed. The heel of your palms rubbed your eyes for a few seconds before you could adjust to the natural light entering from the window in a proper way. Once you were awake enough, you slid your feet into your slippers.

Dragging yourself to the kitchen to prepare some coffee, you considered going back to sleep. It was Christmas, you would be alone probably for an additional hour, and you deserved to get some more of your beauty sleep. The thought went out of the window when an arm circled your waist.

You leaned back onto Cliff’s chest, enjoying his natural warmth. “I thought you would get home later,” you commented, placing a hand on top of his.

The rumble of his chest as he chuckled gave you brief goosebumps. “I had to make sure your gift was perfect.”

You turned around to smile at him, suddenly fully grasping the fact that it was Christmas and you had gifts to open. “What is it?”

“Coffee first, darling.”

You whined, “Cliiiiiiiiff, tell me!”

“Nu-huh, you have to wait.” He opened the cupboard to fetch a couple of mugs, ignoring your adorable pouting face. Cliff couldn’t wait to see your reaction, he also needed coffee after how much he drank the night before.

You impatiently waited for the coffee to be ready, tapping your foot against the floor as Cliff teased you for said impatience. You were so excited you would’ve skipped on the coffee, but Cliff’s coffee was great.

He carried the mugs to the living room, allowing you to lead the way. By the time he placed the mugs on the coffee table you were already sat on the floor in front of the Christmas tree.

Ripping wrapping paper like a kid was fun, hearing Cliff’s endeared laugh was heartwarming, and most of the gifts you had received were fucking amazing. He disappeared for a moment, telling you he would finally give you his gift.

You took a couple gulps of coffee while you waited, jokingly making grabby hands at him when you spotted the box in his grasp. As he got closer you fixed your eyes on said box, was it your imagination or was the box moving?

He put the box down exactly next to you and you let out a gasp. A small head was peaking from the opening of the box, heavy breathing echoing inside it. You looked up at Cliff, beaming when he nodded upward for you to take the puppy out of the box.

The puppy grunted as you picked them up, their chubby body fitting on your hands perfectly. You cooed at them, giggling when they answered with another grunt. You put them down onto your lap, scratching behind their ears with your fingers.

Cliff watched you spoil the puppy with a soft smile on his face, genuinely happy to have made you happy with the gift. “You like it, then?” He teased, rounding the table to sit down on the floor too. It didn’t matter how quiet you remained the past few days, he knew you missed having a pet at home, he also knew it was healthier for you to not close off to the idea to another pet so the soon he got you one the better you would react to other presence around the house.

You nodded, craning your neck to peck his lips. “It’s the best Christmas gift I’ve ever gotten— as an adult at least.”

“Can I train it?”

“Absolutely not, they’re a sweet baby” you laughed, looking down at the puppy once again. They looked up back at you, their short tail wagging happily. Cliff laughed too, extending a hand to pet the puppy’s small head while you beamed at how cute the difference of size looked.

Putting your head on Cliff’s shoulder, you two continued playing with the puppy the entire morning, choosing names for him, planning to buy a few toys and even searching for a veterinarian to take them as soon as possible to get their shots. You couldn’t say it was your first Christmas without pets anymore, and although you would always miss your last one, you had enough love for them and the new one.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

I Want To Be Here | Cliff Booth

Word Count: 1558

Pairing: Cliff Booth x Plus Size Reader

Request: I was wondering if you could do a cliff booth x reader? Where theyre all cuddly and stuff, and she sorta gets insecure? But he reassures her that he loves her?

Warning: self-image issues.

A/N: I don’t know how good or bad this is. Feedback would be very much appreciated, requests too!

Stay-in days were your favorite. Some would say there wasn't anything special in them, and you would have agreed a few months ago but now, with your head on Cliff’s chest and his fingers threading through your hair, you thought you’d happily stay in every single time. He had just gotten back that morning. You two had followed your routines, caught up as best as possible, and decided the only thing you would do the whole day would be cuddling.

His work made seeing each other quite difficult, sometimes you two would only be able to talk by phone at night. You had pulled all-nighters more times than you would ever admit to your friends just to hear his voice. It calmed the nerves bubbling up your stomach— the thought of him finding someone better was constantly in your mind and there weren't many things that could convince you otherwise. Logically you knew he wouldn’t have asked you out if he didn't like you, he wouldn't have stuck around if he wasn't interested.

Logic wasn’t enough sometimes, you had wondered if you were doing the right thing by dating a man as attractive as him several occasions. He could have any person in the world, he was surrounded by gorgeous people due to his work, and even if he wasn't he wouldn't have had any trouble finding a gorgeous thin model to date.

He shuffled underneath you, grabbing your attention as his arm tightened around your waist. You hadn't realized you were staring at the bedpost until you tore your eyes from it to gather what was going on. Cliff wasn't one for moving too much while you two were in bed, and he had been adamant about watching the film playing on the tv to which you didn't have the heart to decline so you hadn’t expected him to make any noise or movement yet.

Looking up, your eyes found his already dancing over your face. He did that a lot, you didn’t know why and wouldn’t ask either just in case the reason wasn't one you would like.

”Are you bored, darling?” he asked, his hand sliding down to the back of your neck.

It wasn’t boredom, not of him or of the movie, you were simply tired of fighting the urge of running away from him when he touched you just so you didn't have to see disgust all over his handsome face. Had he ever shown disgust while seeing you? You didn't know, you didn't want to know just in case.

”Just tired,” you lied, following the cliché that if you were in a romantic novel would ensue in your significant other picking the signs up and trying to reassure you.

Cliff wasn’t a bad boyfriend, he was actually the best you had ever had. He was a gentleman, listened to your rambles regarding your interests and always asked about your work, he trusted you enough to tell you about his past, you felt comfortable with him most of the time, in your best days you even felt confident enough to be the one to kiss him first or wrap your arms around him. He didn't know how insecure you could get, you had worked hard to hide it from him and blowing your cover now just because things had been piling up would be pathetic.

Chilly air hit the back of your neck when his hand moved to grab the remote. The room grew silent, he probably thought you wanted to go to sleep early and you wouldn’t fight him on it if he insisted but you wished you could speak your mind for once.

”Is that why you are so tense?”

You swallowed thickly, ”yes, love. It was a long month.” Not a lie, being away from him took tolls on you as it was but this time around you two had missed so many summerly activities while everyone around you enjoyed the heat of the sun, hitting the pool, doing cookouts— it had been for the best in the sense that he hadn’t seen you in a swimsuit, but knowing that wasn’t comforting.

His free arm wrapped too around you, a hum resonating from his chest to your ear. You clenched your jaw as his fingers unintentionally brushed your side, eyes diverting from his semblance to the grey t-shirt he was wearing. The piece of clothing wasn't a tight fit yet his arm muscles popped out the sleeves, you had fawned a few times upon seeing them, you had seen other people have the same reaction. You had also seen the way they stared, silently wondering how a man like him could be with someone like you.

”Why are you with me?”

”What do you mean?” Cliff shuffled again, just enough to look at you properly.

You mumbled, ”I dunno, you could be anywhere in the world right now with the prettiest person on the planet, and you're still here... With me.”

”I want to be here,” he said, so naturally. In his mind, that was a good answer, it was the truth and you two were the kind of couple that saw honesty as the most important thing in a relationship. That was what had worked for you, it was great, he had never gotten something similar to it.

You frowned. You had expected either an explanation or an excuse, something more than a comment bordering on pandering. Was it even that? For the second time that afternoon you considered ending things with him. The warmth of his hands on your body would tear you apart more often than not, it wasn't his fault, and the most fucked up thing about it was that it wasn't yours either. But you didn't want to leave him.

Everyone in this world wants to be loved, one way or another, Cliff made you feel loved most of the time. If you ignored your insecurities —which some days was very easy and others so hard you’d make excuses to not go out— you genuinely believed you two would make it together until the end.

Having had enough of tiptoeing around subjects, you braced yourself for the fallout. You slid out of his embrace, feeling his eyes on you as you sat down. You didn't look at him, but your body was facing him.

“But why, Cliff? There are tons of people out there! Shit, you’re constantly encircled of stunning people, why me?”

Cliff sat up, eyeing you carefully. However, he didn't speak yet. Your arms instinctively wrapped around your torso when covering your belly with a pillow wasn’t an option. It made you nervous, the way he just stared instead of answering you. Was he silently listing all your flaws and inwardly agreeing with you? Would he get up and leave once realization dawned on him? Maybe he was already preparing the break up speech. God, it hurt— it wouldn’t be the first time it happened, at this point it would only be the last if you simply quitted the dating life.

He repeated his words from minutes prior, ”sugar,” he called for you softly, extending a hand to place it on your thigh, ”there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than here with you. What's going on? You don't want me anymore?”

Wetting your bottom lip, you gazed at him in the face. ”Of course I want you, Cliff! What kind of question is that? I just—” you shook your head, ”I’m fat.” He lifted his eyebrows, but you didn’t let him speak. ”What I mean is I’m not as attractive as you or the people you are used to.”

”But I am with you, I like being with you!” he huffed, moving to a kneeling position to get closer to you. ”You’re a bigger woman, so what? I like you that way.”

Nodding, you followed the movement of his hands as he pried yours from your body. You allowed him, leaning forward to kneel too. His arms ended around your thick waist, yours around his shoulders.

”I still get insecure...” you mumbled, ashamed.

His fingers went back to your head, massaging your scalp with a tenderness you didn't remember to have ever been shown your way. The other arm was tightly around you, pulling you as flush as him as possible. ”I love you, (y/n). Your curves, and lumps, and insecurities included.”

Pecking his cheek, you hummed happily. ”I love you, Cliff. Sorry for being like this.”

He chuckled lightheartedly, his lips searching for yours. The kiss was chaste, there was no hurry nor another intention behind it other than assurance. Assurance that he loved you, that he wouldn’t leave, that you liked him as much as he wanted you, that it was okay to get insecure sometimes, that there was nothing wrong with you. It was purely the reminder that you were loved.

The movie was eventually resumed, Cliff laying on his back as your front pressed against his side. His fingers trailed up and down your spine, your cheek pressing on his chest and arm draped over his stomach. He would laugh from time to time due to the nature of the film, making you giggle which prompted him to laugh some more. He was happy to have you in his arms, and you were genuinely comfortable between them.