Driving King.
Blade, driving, and you.
Blade loves taking you out on dates, especially if they involve him driving. There’s something very appealing about taking you wherever you wish to go, and having a shiny sports car and a gleaming, laminated driver’s license makes him feel like he can be the kind of man you can depend on. (Even if he is prone to cussing out anyone who cuts him off on the road in a mix of Xianzhou dialects.)
He’ll always pretend he isn’t vibing to the music you put on, eyes fixed firmly on the road. But by the rhythmic way his fingers drum against the wheel, you know he’s enjoying it. But were you to tease him about it, you’d only get a noncommittal grunt in response. The finger-drumming wouldn’t stop, though.
And, of course, he puts your safety above all. For all of Silver Wolf’s warnings to you about Blade’s driving style, you have seen nothing of it. He’s always at least 10 under the speed limit—even if you insist he should be going a bit faster on an empty highway—and if a light turns yellow, he stops instead of trying to pass the junction before it turns red. Safety, he tells you. He wants you to be safe.
Bladie’s a bit too much of a stickler for safety in your opinion. One time, you’re getting into the car, mindful of your outfit.
“Seatbelt,” he reminds you.
“I know! I’m barely one leg in! Lemme sit first!”
And the millisecond your ass is planted on the seat, he’s reaching over and fastening your seatbelt himself, so close you can smell his tonka bean shampoo.
“I could have done it myself, you know. If you’d given me more than a split second of breathing room.”
“Hm.”
But all in all, he treats you well whenever he drives you around.
One such evening, he’s driving you home after a lovely dinner out together. You’re watching the fading twilight streak through the sky, softly humming, and an idea strikes Blade. He’d seen it on TV and heard about it on social media. Surely you would find it attractive were he to…
Cautiously, as though you’re an easily startled puppy, he reaches a hand out and rests it on your thigh, his other hand still on the wheel. His touch is tentative, almost uncertain, and the action makes you glance at him in surprise, then down at where his hand is splayed on your leg.
“Sorry,” he murmurs and starts to retract, fingers still ghosting over the skin of your thigh. “Do you not like this?”
You look away again, but you’re chewing your lower lip in quiet glee. “No, I like it. A lot.”
Blade smirks to himself and replants his hand on your thigh, firmer this time, and gives you an affectionate squeeze. You grin, enjoying the way he strokes your thigh all through traffic, occasionally travelling a bit higher in mischief.
He doesn’t let go until you’re both home.
