#*pistol snaps* trying to drum up serotonin do not judge this too hard

[lifesupreme-if]

omg 38 (fluff) from the writing prompts for anyone you feel like writing for <33

38. "I'm not scared, but you can hold my hand if you are."

from this prompt list

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You wipe your hands of a thick layer of dust as you swing a leg into the open-top car, climbing into the driver's seat and sitting down. Its interior bears an ancient coat of dirt and grime, having been abandoned to the mercy of the elements for years, but she makes no indication of notice as she perches her stilettos on the dashboard, long legs pulled in at an awkward angle.

Lights flicker brightly onto the screen as the projector you've solidly beat whirrs to life. Loudspeakers crackle before roaring. A notice reminding viewers to silence their holophones before the movie starts.

"Really? You couldn't have skipped over previews?" She asks, scrunching her freckled nose in distaste.

"Really? You couldn't have picked a better date spot?" You fire back, voice dripping with sarcasm as your eyes roll.

A title card flashes:

Bushidō X.

Bushido was a campy series of films known for their blood, tits, and gore. Somewhere in their neomodernistic critiques, they gained a cult following, and managed to crank out ten of them.

"Can't go wrong with the classics," she settles back into her seat, an easy grin on her face. "BD's got nothing on practical effects."

You lean in toward her, lowering your voice beneath scripted battle cries. Talking during a movie feels like breaking a social taboo, though no one else will be joining you in this screening for two. "I didn't think this was your type of place."

The scene opens to a woman in a yellow jumpsuit wielding a sword, slashing wildly through a group of what you can only assume are the movie's throwaway bad guys.

"You kidding me? I've always wanted to go to the drive in. Problem is, the movies they show are too good to hanky-panky in the backseat during."

"They closed this place in like, '64. You were not doing the hanky panky in 2064."

She extends the well-manicured fingers of her 'ganic hand to count backwards, muttering to herself as she does so. Finally, she snorts, elbowing you with her metal arm. "Got me. But I always wanted to go."

The woman in the yellow jumpsuit is joined by a man with a cyberware arm, and together, they blast the bad guys into oblivion. An antagonist falls back as he faces defeat at the end of a katana, and a thick slurry of his blood splats, coating the screen and oozing down the camera lense.

A queasy, fearful moaning rings low.

Neither of the characters on screen seem affected, and so you look beside you. She winces, growing paler by the second in the light of the silver screen.

"Geez," she forces a strained laugh, "you know what we forgot to pick up? Snacks. I should go do that. I'll be back. Don't pause it for me, though." She says, making moves to throw herself out of the rusted vehicle you sit in.

Leave... to get snacks? You've never known her to offer herself up for labour. In fact, you had to find an entrance into this abandoned drive in and start the movie up yourself, simply for the fact that she is very unhelpful.

Could it be?

"Are you... scared?" You ask, voice lilting upwards in disbelief.

"What? Me?" She scoffs, standing and halfway out of the car now. Still plotting on her escape. "No way! I've been watching Bushido since before you were in diapers."

"I don't think your parents were letting you watch Bushido that young."

"No one pays you to think. I know my sister doesn't."

The shattering of glass plays over the old speakers, resounding with feedback as an assault carried out against the protagonists begins. The music picks up, tensions rising. Villains close in on them now.

All at once, she leaps back into the passenger's seat, drawing her limbs inside clumsily. Her shoe falls somewhere outside of the car, though she seems to not notice as her chest heaves in frantic pace with anxiety. "Jesus fuck," she hisses.

"So... you're not scared, huh?" You slide your hand toward hers, taking the fingers in between your own. The cold metal wastes no time in sapping the warmth of your skin, but still, you grin.

"I'm not scared," she insists, latching onto your hand with a growing desperation, "but you can hold my hand if you are."

"Right," you nod, drawing her in closer as you lean comfortably against the center console. "I'm scared. So I need you to stay here."

"Good."

"Plus, you're my ride home."

"Fuck you."

You press a kiss against the soft blonde of her hair as she tilts closer. It smells of cigar smoke, and tickles against your nose.

"Kidding. I love you."