[ villain is the wrong word, but peter has never been one to correct it. people will believe what they want until shown the truth, and sometimes the time just isn't right. sometimes it's never right. sometimes it's just best to live under these kinds of assumptions. he steals for the thrill of the so-called kill, and after liquidating funds disperses them at will--soup kitchens, orphanages, a man on the street finds himself flush eighty more than he had before. peter's known hunger, known the bite of a steely, uncaring winter. he thieves to profit and he thieves to give others what he never had. but most find that hard to believe because he's as indulgent as he is generous.
he lifts a hand from the tip of his knife to tuck an errant strand of dark hair behind his ear, the gilt ear cuff tinkling softly. the near-silent thud of feet onto the ground has peter turning to look over his shoulder, stopping in a contrapossto stance like the greats--a brave david, a coy venus. he smiles that dark red stained smile, like a neat little wound of a mouth, but fuller, inviting. ]
They certainly don't. In fact, they're rather handy when it comes to masked crusaders with wandering eyes. Make our jobs just a little bit easier, wouldn't you say?
[ peter turns his head away again and takes a set of lazy little strides forward, as if this were an evening stroll, not some midnight confrontational race against the sun. peter will admit it, he is... charmed. enthralled. excited. nightwing brings him in with a flair that he could only hope for in the others that deign themselves worthy enough to even try to stop him. it's part of the satisfaction that keeps him coming back--the heat of his hands on him pinning him down, the bruises on his wrists the morning after, the final blow that feels so heinously good, peter is certain he's ill to think such things.
this is terrible. dreadful. awful. no good, definitely no good. he shouldn't have come tonight. tickets out of town are going to be so expensive now.
he twists the knife in his fingers now, enough to sting, but not enough for blood, not yet. ]
You're going to have to start padding those hand cuffs. I like chafing in the right places as much as the next master thief, but really now.
no subject
he lifts a hand from the tip of his knife to tuck an errant strand of dark hair behind his ear, the gilt ear cuff tinkling softly. the near-silent thud of feet onto the ground has peter turning to look over his shoulder, stopping in a contrapossto stance like the greats--a brave david, a coy venus. he smiles that dark red stained smile, like a neat little wound of a mouth, but fuller, inviting. ]
They certainly don't. In fact, they're rather handy when it comes to masked crusaders with wandering eyes. Make our jobs just a little bit easier, wouldn't you say?
[ peter turns his head away again and takes a set of lazy little strides forward, as if this were an evening stroll, not some midnight confrontational race against the sun. peter will admit it, he is... charmed. enthralled. excited. nightwing brings him in with a flair that he could only hope for in the others that deign themselves worthy enough to even try to stop him. it's part of the satisfaction that keeps him coming back--the heat of his hands on him pinning him down, the bruises on his wrists the morning after, the final blow that feels so heinously good, peter is certain he's ill to think such things.
this is terrible. dreadful. awful. no good, definitely no good. he shouldn't have come tonight. tickets out of town are going to be so expensive now.
he twists the knife in his fingers now, enough to sting, but not enough for blood, not yet. ]
You're going to have to start padding those hand cuffs. I like chafing in the right places as much as the next master thief, but really now.