STORYTIME, SWEETHEART. put the magpie in the cage once, shame on you, put him in twice, shame on him. put him in three times, and well, you've got yourself some savvy magpie if he can pick his way out of a high security prison like it's some throwaway chinese fingertrap. urban legend (he's a legend) has it that there's no cage that fits this thief, and no name that fits him either, and that's the worst part. he's sigourney velvet during his first arrest, dirk jacquard on his second, rey summers the third, until there are so many names swirling through his record that even the cops don't know what to do with him.
what's this got to do with you?
well you keep putting him in there and really, little bluebird, he's tired of it. which is why he's perched rather easily in your window like it's the frame of a priceless painting. he is finely dressed from top to toe, hair neatly coiffed and adjusting the cuffs on his shirt. those long legs are crossed almost demurely, posture awfully friendly and open. he smiles, and his teeth are ever so slightly pointed, fox's teeth. his eyes are bright and sharp and clever, clear, alert, but hardly panicked. are you going to put him back again?
( the studio apartment is largely comprised of monitor screens of varying sizes and heights, not a single one found to be lit up or showing any signs of life -- predictably because the vigilante nightwing has just finished wiping the database clean, leaving no trace behind. it's not a loss -- a duplicate of all his files and data programs sits no less than one hundred yards away in yet another hidey hole, and then there's probably another one, somewhere a hundred yards off of that. batman taught him a lot of stuff, paranoia and treading thin ice being among them.
notable in the apartment aside from all the tech laying willy nilly about, are a few undisclosed cupboards gathering dust in the corners, a sorry looking bed that more closely follows the term futon, and a billiard table. the later is where the vigilante makes his perch, all tense drawn muscles in comparison to the casual and calm demeanor of the foe before him. hands stable beside his feet on the wooden edge of the table, he looks the picture model of a side building gargoyle, down to the almost eerie stillness his body coordinates. thanks to that, it's probably all the more obvious when his eyes slip from the catlike gaze of his intruder, down to the heel of his boot -- before it swiftly rights itself again, head tilted in animalistic curiosity.
his lips pull up in a smile, too. very friendly!! )
I guess the cat dragged himself in this time, Mr. Winters. I mean, Summers. ( the most notable thief he knew back in his robin days was -- well, catwoman. he knows almost too well how batman chose to deal with that. ugh. ) Anyway. Would you like a head start, ( from seemingly nowhere, his hand raises up, a pair of high tech looking cuffs dangling from the point of his finger. ) or should we skip the foreplay?
[ peter pushes himself out of the frame of the window and onto his feet and from nowhere (his hip? his waist? the slip of his side?) a thin blade manifests in his hand. he holds it with all the finesse of a pocket mirror, seemingly eyeing his imaginary reflection in the matte finish of the blade. there's something to be said about nightwing, about the sleek motions he creates, like arcs of pure kinetic artistry against the night. peter has run from him enough times, fought him, dodged and wheeled and bantered his way in and out and away and towards him so many times he's fairly certain that at this point.
well.
maybe he likes being caught.
he takes a few slow steps forward, languid as his heel clicks softly on the worn floor, a sharp sound against the atmosphere drawn taut between the two of them. that knife in peter's hand slides deftly with a casual air as he finds purchase dangerously close to the man now, leaning his hip against the table. the very tip of the blade presses against his finger as he contemplates it. he turns his head and eyes those cuffs against his fingers, wets his lips a little bit in the dark. ]
Foreplay's the best part. Do you really want to skip it? [ brows arch over the dark rim of his glasses as he takes a step away from him, but still walks along the side of the table, the slant to his hip purposeful, unworried. ] I'm offended that you'd even propose such an thing. I thought what we had was special.
[ while peter's posturing seems lax, he is whip-quick, senses alert, eyes marking every corner of the room, every little bit of movement on the vigilante's body. he runs it through his mind, the idea of sweeping low or darting away, the rhythmic whp of his knife or a heart beating hard in his throat. foreplay is everything. ]
( dick's eyes slant once he sees the knife abound, fingers flexing. his mind is comprised of similar fantasies of kicking the blade from his hand, or shoving him back, or just as easily shoving him back on the table and finding the inviting pocket the spread of his legs would create. hm. he wonders when that impulse got there, or if it's always been there, and he's that starved for affection that even a deadly thief seems like a welcoming invitation. invitation? he debates that, too, considering the sway of peter's hips as he struts away, languid and smooth like moving water. he finds himself wondering if it's for show, or if it's natural for most villains to maintain this air of easy grace, natural for peter to be thoughtlessly alluring, like a tank bred villain designed entirely to give dick grayson every kind of trouble imaginable.
life's no fun without a little recklessness, maybe. batman would disagree, but dick moved out of his father's house a long time ago. he runs things how he wants to, now. every bad decision he makes for himself, including this one. )
Special. ( he repeats, feeling exceptionally unwitty as most of his focus is on peter's legs. ( for shame. ) once he travels the table far enough, nightwing swings himself around, plopping down on the scratchy green carpet of it. ) I do enjoy the view from behind, when I'm chasing you.
( his eyebrows dance underneath his mask, the ever playful hero. a hand gestures out while he talks, feigning the looking of relaxation. )
Unfortunately for me, top notch rear ends don't stop thieves from a-thievin' .
[ 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.
( his hands raise up submissively, palms out, guilty as charged on the account of wandering eyes. possibly he should feel guilty, but possibly he's just a little too shameless to go that far -- there is the vague heat of a blush peeking out from under his domino, but more than that there's the cat-who-got-the-milk grin the tears his face in half, confident and unapologetic. he's not entirely sure who between them is playing with their food, and the fact that it might be peter does very little to settle the excitement in his belly. )
I can't exactly deny it.
( batman would be so disappointed to know how many cheap shots peter has gotten on dick, all just for having a Great Butt.
the truth is, feuding with peter has always felt much more like playing around than actual vigilantism. peter's fun. they bicker, bite and fight, throw flirting gazes and seductive taunts, all to the same end, which would be dick throwing him in jail -- except they both know peter will find his way out again, and then they'll be back where they started, running around the city like school yard boys pulling pigtails. there's nothing despicable about peter, dick thinks, though that might be the lower head on him talking. this isn't a terrible routine to get into, forgetting priceless gems and jewels that go missing somewhere in the mix. most of dick's focus is on the safety of the people, anyway. he was born poor but grew up privileged, so a couple grand means very little to him. 'priceless' loses its meaning when it's frequently used to describe your childhood home.
taking some measured steps back, dick dangles the cuff again, before purposely dropping it on a desk homing a couple computers. symbolism, see. he comes back, rests his hip on the table, crosses his arms loosely over his chest. he's not entirely sure his relaxation is faked, this time. )
Honestly? We both know you can pick your way out of a Fort Knox. A pair of padded cuffs isn't going to stop you. ( things he wouldn't say to any other villain -- and things he probably shouldn't be smiling about, entranced by. ) I have no idea what to do with you.
Funny you keep bringing them along. I think you just happen to like them for the flavor of it all.
[ peter could offer a similar peace offering, let the knife make its home in some soft-wooded cabinet, let it sink there and remain, but instead he holds onto the blade. he has a number of knives on his person, but he has no intention of reaching for any more of them, not unless dick plans to try to catch him unawares now. he'd deserve it if he did, truth be told. peter would take it in stride, just like he always does. there's no other way to do it. if you can't do it with style, then what's the point of doing it at all, right?
dick makes it so easy to want to be caught. at least for a little while, at least for the laughs, for the show of it. the cops seem to know this song and dance by now, and they adjust and try to accommodate, search a little harder, isolate him a little more, throw him in with the wrong crowd.
it never quite works.
peter takes a breath and turns to face him full on now, leaning one hand against the table, the other resting on his hip lightly, and even in the dim moonlight, peter can admire him, the curve of muscle leading down from his throat to his shoulder, the elegant shadow that casts itself down where his suit catches especially tight.
superheroes.
really.
peter's eyes rove up again before they dip too visibly low, before they climb past the attractive v of his waist and hips dipping downwards. this boy is such a problem, he should have left and been rid of him ages ago, but where's the fun in any of that? in running away? ]
I think you've got a few good ideas, actually. You're just taking your sweet time with them. Now, if I were you, I'd say there's no time like the present to act on it. Like so. [ and peter demonstrates--steps light and easy like a dance as he closes the distance between them in seconds, hovering himself a breath away from being purely flush to his body. the knife is in his hand, but lax, as if it were a simple little toy and not a finely-honed blade, and pointed towards the window more than it is aimed at anywhere on dick's person. he sighs, wistful, dramatic, a little longing as his voice drawls just a bit. he reaches out a hand and brushes the very tip of his chin, tipping it towards him. ] If you're really at a loss for ideas, I should stop wasting my time, hm?
[ it happens quickly, a soft flick of the wrist as he both pulls his hand away from the momentary touch and pulls the knife back from where he's left a neat little slice of the suit's material at the throat. ] Keep up.
( dick stiffens once peter indulges in his personal space, a good solider boy being slithered around by a deadly viper with a knife kink. he is keenly aware of the precarious situation he finds himself in, balancing on the edge of a sword made entirely by peter's goodwill and desires. thankfully, he doesn't seem to desire dick's blood. that doesn't stop him from lifting a hand once he hears the fabric of his suit rip, pressing his palm to the side of his neck.
he checks. no blood. very interesting.
this is a new kind of game, which dick finds himself steadily interested in. he moves swiftly, without a doubt, wrapping one hand tightly around peter's wrist, twisting it to just the border of pain, but not enough so that he drops the knife and gets the wrong idea. most of the interest should be in his other hand anyway, which is comparatively soft, cupping the angled height of an inquisitive cheek with nearly as much curiosity as the cat peter embodies. )
You should be well aware, I don't have a problem keeping up with you. ( this close, the blue in his eyes is a bit more obvious under the mask, amused and encouraging. ) Though, I do have my suspicions you enjoy getting caught.
( more than suspicions, if the 1, 2, 3 of it is anything to go off of. the pepper hot of peter's lips burns the air between them, and dick thinks in the moment he wouldn't be able to deny this red mouth anything -- least of all a kiss, which finds the tricky lips of a man whose real name he doesn't even know, although he guesses they have that mostly in common. putting teases and harmless jokes aside, dick is a passionate kisser, all open and honest affection with every sway of his eager mouth, blunt in a painless way of his caution and caring nature. this is not the touch of someone who gives his kisses away for free.
not coincidentally, his grip eases up on the knife hand. boy likes some danger. )
[ peter nureyev has no interest in bleeding a creature like nightwing out on the floor. this city benefits from him, from what he does. to nip that out of existence would be such a waste, painfully so. peter flexes his fingers a bit around the knife, adjusting his grip in dick's own as he presses a little closer, leans in so the space about them is that much tighter. he's aware of what the edge on his grip means, what the glancing moonlight flirting over his eyes means.
his hold on the knife is resolved, even moreso when a mouth presses to his and leaves him thinking only of just how hungry he is. there's the chase, the adrenaline, the flirtation on the edge of a building, and there's this, like clinging to an edge of common sense and a free fall. peter is well aware of the difference, balance and completely surrender.
his free hand slips over the warm contour of where his chest rises, acutely aware of how the heat bleeds into his palm, how the arduous sensation of dick's mouth against his reels him in like a well-laid snare. peter pulls a fraction of a breath away from his mouth, laughing warmly. ]
I can't say I particularly enjoy it... but I certainly don't mind when it's you doing the catching. You always make it fun.
[ it's dangerous, but god if peter doesn't like that.
the fingers around his wrist loosen and he sighs against the shape of the kiss, shifting his hand over, pressing the heel of his palm to where dick's pulse strikes hard against his throat. the flat of the blade brushes but never nicks the surface of the skin, stays there, cool and silent as peter bears in closer, as if he's trying to practically slide into every space around him that isn't yet occupied. nothing about tonight was supposed to really go like this, but peter can't say he doesn't like this direction, this little fork in the road.
when he pulls back again, he presses the pad of his thumb to where his lips dip just slightly, smearing the vague shadow of pigment that he's left behind across dick's mouth. he can feel the faint shape of a smear just on the edge of his own lips, disturbed, pushed. he meets those eyes, blue and hardly balking, with his own, and he smiles, just as sharply as before. ]
I take it your plans of bringing me in have ground to a halt for now, Nightwing? [ another press, closer, a thigh between the warmth of his legs, pushing up, leaning in. ]
( dick has learned the art of staying silent, as a means of his training -- he isn't too ashamed to admit this isn't the first time he's been in this situation, glued to someone intimately while the masks are painted on, but. maybe it's different, too. his training seems like a moot point once he feels the press of peter's leg, letting out a soft noise that would be inaudible across the room -- what a shadow, he guesses, if shadows were easily excitable by every confident, graceful movement of alleycats in the dark.
it must be a nervous chuckle that falls out of him, heat radiating off dick's cheeks and against peter, for however long they're close enough to taste. a hand slips down between them, cups peter's inner thigh a little bit too close to the goodies, before physically removing it, taking a step back. he grins. all part of the role he plays. )
Do you ever find yourself on the knife's edge of making a really bad, really reckless decision?
( the catlike vigilante seems amused by this, leaning in to cup peter's chin, pressing a gloved thumb against his lower lip in fond repetition. )
I'm not going to kiss you and then arrest you, that would be cheap. I know you like your expenses. ( an eyebrow raise at his -- well, everything. it doesn't look like he's fond of thriftstores, dick will say that. this, however, is not the decision he was talking about!! ) Do I get similar promise of non-stabbing measures? Because, unless you're very impressed with Robin's mattress I make him use when it's past his bedtime, I think I've got somewhere better I can take us.
You know. Provided you can keep up, when the tables are turned.
[ that noise is what he wants, soft and pitched and very clear on what it likes exactly, and it makes peter's smile turn all the more warm, the sort of suffocating warmth that's part pristine teeth and supple lip. the hand that skims his thigh lays there briefly and he holds as fast as stone as it brushes, cups, holds in a way that peter wonders just what it'd feel like along bare skin, pushing, pressing, bruising, maybe.
we'll get to that.
he doesn't doubt it.
the healthy flush to dick's face tells him everything he needs to know, even here in the dark, and his teeth are impatient. to press, to bite--pulse, knuckles, fingers, the curve of a shoulder--
it takes a blink for peter to keep his head on as straight as it can be, to keep him from bristling with impatience here. the game is long and drawn out, but it is more than worth its playtime. he tilts his head, smile almost saccharine. ]
That shouldn't be a problem.
[ dick flutters away and peter feels it, the hand on his chin, the way the thumb presses into the divot of his lower lip enough that makes the space between his shoulders shiver pleasantly. at the remark to his second knife (where did that come from when he'd tossed the first?), he snaps this one closed soundly with a little snkt. there's an unspoken agreement as it slips into the tapered, lean cut of his jacket. ] Now. If you have to ask for that kind of promise... then perhaps it's best you make with a thorough search. These little things have the tendency to hide themselves away in some rather personal places.
[ a garter around the thigh, slid along the small of his back, a little sleek holster at the shoulder, two up each sleeve, thin and clever. ] I'm a gentleman above all else.
❰ there'd been a hint of trepidation, a flicker of nervousness — would dick take his hand? would he accept the dance? — but that evens out as dick slips his hand into damon's, and damon's smile slides into something a little more gentle as he uses his grip to tug dick closer. ❱
Sentimental version...
❰ damon begins to sway, slowly, mulling over his words. it's impossible not to think of elena whenever he dances, and she's not far from his mind now, but... dick is here, and she isn't, and for right now, it can be as simple as that. ❱
It's not hard to tell you apart from these people.
❰ these people, said as though your average eudio citizen has some kind of terrible disease. dick is superior, special, set apart, graceful and enchanting, and it makes it easy to spot him in a crowd. ❱
( there's a throaty laugh that starts somewhere in his chest, happy and bright just by damon being damon. genius, yes, of course. what a bully. dick is harder to knock of kilter than that, though, and it's soothed regardless by his affliction in sentimentality. dick wonders if you can be as old as damon and not be sentimental, but that's a whole philosophy on eternal life he's never cared much to dive into. the people from back home he knows whose lifespans extend longer than humans are all generally happy - that's about where he finishes that thought.
damon isn't a very happy person, no matter how charming his smiles are, or how kind his words can be. he's grown too used to severing ties with people that he does it like a pastime, tossing relationships out when he's bored, or it's inconvenient to him. maybe - that's a little bitterness on dick's part. poor form. he can be as hurt about the situation as he likes, but he can't exactly blame him. there are people dick would go running back to too, regardless of other connections. )
I'm supposed to be good at blending in.
( there's a playful taunt to his words. man of the shadows and all that. dick's been dancing since he was a young boy so he's indisputably good at it - he lets damon lead though, a palm rested on his shoulder and in the lift of his hand. )
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notable in the apartment aside from all the tech laying willy nilly about, are a few undisclosed cupboards gathering dust in the corners, a sorry looking bed that more closely follows the term futon, and a billiard table. the later is where the vigilante makes his perch, all tense drawn muscles in comparison to the casual and calm demeanor of the foe before him. hands stable beside his feet on the wooden edge of the table, he looks the picture model of a side building gargoyle, down to the almost eerie stillness his body coordinates. thanks to that, it's probably all the more obvious when his eyes slip from the catlike gaze of his intruder, down to the heel of his boot -- before it swiftly rights itself again, head tilted in animalistic curiosity.
his lips pull up in a smile, too. very friendly!! )
I guess the cat dragged himself in this time, Mr. Winters. I mean, Summers. ( the most notable thief he knew back in his robin days was -- well, catwoman. he knows almost too well how batman chose to deal with that. ugh. ) Anyway. Would you like a head start, ( from seemingly nowhere, his hand raises up, a pair of high tech looking cuffs dangling from the point of his finger. ) or should we skip the foreplay?
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[ peter pushes himself out of the frame of the window and onto his feet and from nowhere (his hip? his waist? the slip of his side?) a thin blade manifests in his hand. he holds it with all the finesse of a pocket mirror, seemingly eyeing his imaginary reflection in the matte finish of the blade. there's something to be said about nightwing, about the sleek motions he creates, like arcs of pure kinetic artistry against the night. peter has run from him enough times, fought him, dodged and wheeled and bantered his way in and out and away and towards him so many times he's fairly certain that at this point.
well.
maybe he likes being caught.
he takes a few slow steps forward, languid as his heel clicks softly on the worn floor, a sharp sound against the atmosphere drawn taut between the two of them. that knife in peter's hand slides deftly with a casual air as he finds purchase dangerously close to the man now, leaning his hip against the table. the very tip of the blade presses against his finger as he contemplates it. he turns his head and eyes those cuffs against his fingers, wets his lips a little bit in the dark. ]
Foreplay's the best part. Do you really want to skip it? [ brows arch over the dark rim of his glasses as he takes a step away from him, but still walks along the side of the table, the slant to his hip purposeful, unworried. ] I'm offended that you'd even propose such an thing. I thought what we had was special.
[ while peter's posturing seems lax, he is whip-quick, senses alert, eyes marking every corner of the room, every little bit of movement on the vigilante's body. he runs it through his mind, the idea of sweeping low or darting away, the rhythmic whp of his knife or a heart beating hard in his throat. foreplay is everything. ]
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life's no fun without a little recklessness, maybe. batman would disagree, but dick moved out of his father's house a long time ago. he runs things how he wants to, now. every bad decision he makes for himself, including this one. )
Special. ( he repeats, feeling exceptionally unwitty as most of his focus is on peter's legs. ( for shame. ) once he travels the table far enough, nightwing swings himself around, plopping down on the scratchy green carpet of it. ) I do enjoy the view from behind, when I'm chasing you.
( his eyebrows dance underneath his mask, the ever playful hero. a hand gestures out while he talks, feigning the looking of relaxation. )
Unfortunately for me, top notch rear ends don't stop thieves from a-thievin' .
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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.
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I can't exactly deny it.
( batman would be so disappointed to know how many cheap shots peter has gotten on dick, all just for having a Great Butt.
the truth is, feuding with peter has always felt much more like playing around than actual vigilantism. peter's fun. they bicker, bite and fight, throw flirting gazes and seductive taunts, all to the same end, which would be dick throwing him in jail -- except they both know peter will find his way out again, and then they'll be back where they started, running around the city like school yard boys pulling pigtails. there's nothing despicable about peter, dick thinks, though that might be the lower head on him talking. this isn't a terrible routine to get into, forgetting priceless gems and jewels that go missing somewhere in the mix. most of dick's focus is on the safety of the people, anyway. he was born poor but grew up privileged, so a couple grand means very little to him. 'priceless' loses its meaning when it's frequently used to describe your childhood home.
taking some measured steps back, dick dangles the cuff again, before purposely dropping it on a desk homing a couple computers. symbolism, see. he comes back, rests his hip on the table, crosses his arms loosely over his chest. he's not entirely sure his relaxation is faked, this time. )
Honestly? We both know you can pick your way out of a Fort Knox. A pair of padded cuffs isn't going to stop you. ( things he wouldn't say to any other villain -- and things he probably shouldn't be smiling about, entranced by. ) I have no idea what to do with you.
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[ peter could offer a similar peace offering, let the knife make its home in some soft-wooded cabinet, let it sink there and remain, but instead he holds onto the blade. he has a number of knives on his person, but he has no intention of reaching for any more of them, not unless dick plans to try to catch him unawares now. he'd deserve it if he did, truth be told. peter would take it in stride, just like he always does. there's no other way to do it. if you can't do it with style, then what's the point of doing it at all, right?
dick makes it so easy to want to be caught. at least for a little while, at least for the laughs, for the show of it. the cops seem to know this song and dance by now, and they adjust and try to accommodate, search a little harder, isolate him a little more, throw him in with the wrong crowd.
it never quite works.
peter takes a breath and turns to face him full on now, leaning one hand against the table, the other resting on his hip lightly, and even in the dim moonlight, peter can admire him, the curve of muscle leading down from his throat to his shoulder, the elegant shadow that casts itself down where his suit catches especially tight.
superheroes.
really.
peter's eyes rove up again before they dip too visibly low, before they climb past the attractive v of his waist and hips dipping downwards. this boy is such a problem, he should have left and been rid of him ages ago, but where's the fun in any of that? in running away? ]
I think you've got a few good ideas, actually. You're just taking your sweet time with them. Now, if I were you, I'd say there's no time like the present to act on it. Like so. [ and peter demonstrates--steps light and easy like a dance as he closes the distance between them in seconds, hovering himself a breath away from being purely flush to his body. the knife is in his hand, but lax, as if it were a simple little toy and not a finely-honed blade, and pointed towards the window more than it is aimed at anywhere on dick's person. he sighs, wistful, dramatic, a little longing as his voice drawls just a bit. he reaches out a hand and brushes the very tip of his chin, tipping it towards him. ] If you're really at a loss for ideas, I should stop wasting my time, hm?
[ it happens quickly, a soft flick of the wrist as he both pulls his hand away from the momentary touch and pulls the knife back from where he's left a neat little slice of the suit's material at the throat. ] Keep up.
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he checks. no blood. very interesting.
this is a new kind of game, which dick finds himself steadily interested in. he moves swiftly, without a doubt, wrapping one hand tightly around peter's wrist, twisting it to just the border of pain, but not enough so that he drops the knife and gets the wrong idea. most of the interest should be in his other hand anyway, which is comparatively soft, cupping the angled height of an inquisitive cheek with nearly as much curiosity as the cat peter embodies. )
You should be well aware, I don't have a problem keeping up with you. ( this close, the blue in his eyes is a bit more obvious under the mask, amused and encouraging. ) Though, I do have my suspicions you enjoy getting caught.
( more than suspicions, if the 1, 2, 3 of it is anything to go off of. the pepper hot of peter's lips burns the air between them, and dick thinks in the moment he wouldn't be able to deny this red mouth anything -- least of all a kiss, which finds the tricky lips of a man whose real name he doesn't even know, although he guesses they have that mostly in common. putting teases and harmless jokes aside, dick is a passionate kisser, all open and honest affection with every sway of his eager mouth, blunt in a painless way of his caution and caring nature. this is not the touch of someone who gives his kisses away for free.
not coincidentally, his grip eases up on the knife hand. boy likes some danger. )
no subject
his hold on the knife is resolved, even moreso when a mouth presses to his and leaves him thinking only of just how hungry he is. there's the chase, the adrenaline, the flirtation on the edge of a building, and there's this, like clinging to an edge of common sense and a free fall. peter is well aware of the difference, balance and completely surrender.
his free hand slips over the warm contour of where his chest rises, acutely aware of how the heat bleeds into his palm, how the arduous sensation of dick's mouth against his reels him in like a well-laid snare. peter pulls a fraction of a breath away from his mouth, laughing warmly. ]
I can't say I particularly enjoy it... but I certainly don't mind when it's you doing the catching. You always make it fun.
[ it's dangerous, but god if peter doesn't like that.
the fingers around his wrist loosen and he sighs against the shape of the kiss, shifting his hand over, pressing the heel of his palm to where dick's pulse strikes hard against his throat. the flat of the blade brushes but never nicks the surface of the skin, stays there, cool and silent as peter bears in closer, as if he's trying to practically slide into every space around him that isn't yet occupied. nothing about tonight was supposed to really go like this, but peter can't say he doesn't like this direction, this little fork in the road.
when he pulls back again, he presses the pad of his thumb to where his lips dip just slightly, smearing the vague shadow of pigment that he's left behind across dick's mouth. he can feel the faint shape of a smear just on the edge of his own lips, disturbed, pushed. he meets those eyes, blue and hardly balking, with his own, and he smiles, just as sharply as before. ]
I take it your plans of bringing me in have ground to a halt for now, Nightwing? [ another press, closer, a thigh between the warmth of his legs, pushing up, leaning in. ]
no subject
it must be a nervous chuckle that falls out of him, heat radiating off dick's cheeks and against peter, for however long they're close enough to taste. a hand slips down between them, cups peter's inner thigh a little bit too close to the goodies, before physically removing it, taking a step back. he grins. all part of the role he plays. )
Do you ever find yourself on the knife's edge of making a really bad, really reckless decision?
( the catlike vigilante seems amused by this, leaning in to cup peter's chin, pressing a gloved thumb against his lower lip in fond repetition. )
I'm not going to kiss you and then arrest you, that would be cheap. I know you like your expenses. ( an eyebrow raise at his -- well, everything. it doesn't look like he's fond of thriftstores, dick will say that. this, however, is not the decision he was talking about!! ) Do I get similar promise of non-stabbing measures? Because, unless you're very impressed with Robin's mattress I make him use when it's past his bedtime, I think I've got somewhere better I can take us.
You know. Provided you can keep up, when the tables are turned.
no subject
we'll get to that.
he doesn't doubt it.
the healthy flush to dick's face tells him everything he needs to know, even here in the dark, and his teeth are impatient. to press, to bite--pulse, knuckles, fingers, the curve of a shoulder--
it takes a blink for peter to keep his head on as straight as it can be, to keep him from bristling with impatience here. the game is long and drawn out, but it is more than worth its playtime. he tilts his head, smile almost saccharine. ]
That shouldn't be a problem.
[ dick flutters away and peter feels it, the hand on his chin, the way the thumb presses into the divot of his lower lip enough that makes the space between his shoulders shiver pleasantly. at the remark to his second knife (where did that come from when he'd tossed the first?), he snaps this one closed soundly with a little snkt. there's an unspoken agreement as it slips into the tapered, lean cut of his jacket. ] Now. If you have to ask for that kind of promise... then perhaps it's best you make with a thorough search. These little things have the tendency to hide themselves away in some rather personal places.
[ a garter around the thigh, slid along the small of his back, a little sleek holster at the shoulder, two up each sleeve, thin and clever. ] I'm a gentleman above all else.
ohai; https://eudiolog.dreamwidth.org/497296.html?thread=44912528#cmt44912528
❰ there'd been a hint of trepidation, a flicker of nervousness — would dick take his hand? would he accept the dance? — but that evens out as dick slips his hand into damon's, and damon's smile slides into something a little more gentle as he uses his grip to tug dick closer. ❱
Sentimental version...
❰ damon begins to sway, slowly, mulling over his words. it's impossible not to think of elena whenever he dances, and she's not far from his mind now, but... dick is here, and she isn't, and for right now, it can be as simple as that. ❱
It's not hard to tell you apart from these people.
❰ these people, said as though your average eudio citizen has some kind of terrible disease. dick is superior, special, set apart, graceful and enchanting, and it makes it easy to spot him in a crowd. ❱
xoxo
damon isn't a very happy person, no matter how charming his smiles are, or how kind his words can be. he's grown too used to severing ties with people that he does it like a pastime, tossing relationships out when he's bored, or it's inconvenient to him. maybe - that's a little bitterness on dick's part. poor form. he can be as hurt about the situation as he likes, but he can't exactly blame him. there are people dick would go running back to too, regardless of other connections. )
I'm supposed to be good at blending in.
( there's a playful taunt to his words. man of the shadows and all that. dick's been dancing since he was a young boy so he's indisputably good at it - he lets damon lead though, a palm rested on his shoulder and in the lift of his hand. )
You stick out like a sore thumb, though. No mask?