This quick scene, where Rayla tries to pull her folding swords and proclaim her dedication to the mission and Runaan straight up grabs her wrists and won’t let her, has inspired me.
My headcanon says that Runaan’s move is nearly instinctual because the tinker built those folding swords for Rayla, and Runaan helped him design and perfect them. Eventually.
“They have to be small, my heart. She’s a tiny thing.” Runaan takes a drink of moonberry juice and gestures in the air, indicating how short Rayla is, even though he’s sitting down himself.
The tinker knows his craft, but he also knows his beloved assassin, and how he worries over his young protégé. “They will be small, Runaan. A perfect fit for her.”
“But also big, because she’s strong and brash and she’ll dash into trouble. You’ve seen her in training.”
“I have, and don’t worry. I’m making her folding blades, see?” The tinker slides his sketches over for Runaan to study.
Runaan’e eyes widen. “This is amazing. They’re like my bowblade, only better.”
The tinker squeezes his arm. “Not better. Just well suited.”
Runaan’s admiration softens into a smile. “You always know how to help everyone. I admire that about you.”
Later, the tinker attempts to show Runaan how Rayla’s blades are supposed to work. He’s planning to design her a custom vest sheath to carry them securely, but first he needs to test their weight against various kinds of catches and straps, so he makes himself a vest first, and asks Runaan to help him test it.
“I’m going to try to draw these swords out and open them before you can cross the room and stop me. I can adjust the straps as needed once I get enough feedback, and then I’ll know how best to make Rayla her own vest. Are you ready?”
Runaan’s smile is lazy. “To tackle you? Always.”
The tinker honestly hadn’t been thinking along those lines. But he is now, and the flush in his cheeks proves it. “Just be careful, Runaan. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Runaan stretches his shoulders and takes an easy stance across the workroom. “Isn’t that usually my line?”
Delight sparks in the tinker’s eyes, and he reaches for the back of his vest to draw the folding swords. He’s sure he’s gotten the quick release the way he wants it–
Runaan’s powerful hands encircle and trap his wrists against his sides before he can even draw the folded blades from their sheaths, let alone flick them open. The sheer size and deliciously familiar scent of his lover takes the tinker’s breath away. Runaan leans down and murmurs into his ear, “I’m sorry, weren’t you ready?” He nips at his ear point, hums in amusement, and retreats across the room for another try.
The tinker can only stare in dazzled adoration at the sway of Runaan’s hips and the long, tidy fall of white hair that swishes back and forth, all the way to his waist.
Without turning, Runaan asks, “Are you going to reset the blades in their sheaths, or do you want to leave them halfway out and cheat this time?”
With a gulp, the tinker realizes he’s been staring and doing nothing else. “You’re making it hard to concentrate.”
Runaan finally turns. His smile is brilliant. “You asked me to stop you. You didn’t say how.”
“You’re supposed to be pretending I’m Rayla.”
“No, I’m not. Rayla’s faster than you.”
“Ouch.” The tinker can’t help but feel the old pinch of coming up short when compared to a proper warrior–he’s always been skilled at crafting, but Moonshadow culture glorifies the stealthy warriors among them. That was never him.
Runaan sees the accidental pain he’s caused. “That’s not what I meant, my heart. She’s nearly faster than me. She might be just as fast, if you ever perfect those sheaths.”
The tinker shoves the folding swords back into place and lifts his chin with a confident smile. “With these swords, she’ll be even faster than you are.”
Runaan’s turquoise eyes flash, and his smile opens into a chuckle. ‘Oh, is that how it’s going to be?”
“Might as well accept it now, you grizzled old tree.” The tinker yanks the swords from their sheaths, and with a laugh of challenge, Runaan launches himself forward.
Powerful hands grasp the tinker’s wrists again, holding them in place behind his back even though he struggles against them. Runaan’s low chuckle teases his ear. The tinker leans into his lover’s chest, sighing in defeat.
“Do you surrender to me? I promise I’ll be gentle.”
Runaan’s soft voice does lovely things to the tinker, but he isn’t ready to give up yet. He nudges Runaan back with one shoulder. “Again.”
“Hmm, as you wish.” Runaan is enjoying the game as much as the tinker at this point.
The tinker tries again and again to yank the swords free before Runaan can leap across the room and stop him. But his lover is far too quick. He pulls out his tools, makes adjustments to the straps, swaps them out entirely, repositions them, all while fending off Runaan’s playful interference.
“Are you sure this needs to go here?” the tall assassin asks, reaching around the tinker from the wrong side, leaning into him to point to the vest’s sheath attachment. “What about here?”
The tinker looks where Runaan’s pointing now. “Those are your lips. I don’t think you want me to rivet them shut.”
Runaan chuckles. “I’m glad you like the sound of my voice. How about moving this piece, just over there?” He points with his other arm, leaning around the tinker’s far side and hanging onto his waist for support.
With loving exasperation, the tinker has to tell him, “That will strap the sheath shut permanently. Are you even paying attention?”
So back to time trials they go. The tinker finds little ways to improve the release time of the sheaths, and he nearly gets the swords free half a dozen times. But Runaan’s strong hands catch his every single time, and the assassin enjoys it. He starts stealing kisses, or planting them, every time he traps the tinker. He presses him back against his work table and refuses to let him go until he’s kissed him thoroughly on a spot of his choosing. It’s partly infuriating, how easily Runaan dominates his lover while he’s trying to work, but it’s far more arousing, and the Tinker’s reaction time is slowing dramatically.
“Are you sure you’re trying to draw those swords?” Runaan murmurs in his ear after a particularly brusque accosting. The tinker’s pinned breathlessly against his lover’s chest, bounded by his powerful arms, unable to look away from his bright, sparkling eyes. He can smell Runaan’s woodsy scent and the moonberry juice on his breath.
“You’re…not making it easy, Runaan.”
“Am I making it hard?” His breath is a bare whisper that makes the tinker’s ear quiver.
Runaan’s lips close on his ear and trail down to his throat. “Then perhaps,” he murmurs between light kisses that steal the tinker’s breath like wisps of fog rising from a sun-dazzled lake, “we should find another way to explore unsheathing swords.”
The tinker’s reply is a wordless whimper of agreement as Runaan topples him gently onto the table behind him.
