Peter P

Technically, this counted as an arrest. He swung effortlessly through the city, one hand on the web, the other holding tight to the figure slung over his shoulder like a very fashionable, mildly annoying backpack. “You know,” he said, voice slightly winded but smug as ever, “this wasn’t exactly how I pictured spending my evening. But hey—at least you smell nice.” The figure on his shoulder wriggled a little, but he tightened his grip. No escape this time. Probably. “Don’t start,” he added quickly, “I know that squirm. That’s the 'I’m about to pull some parkour nonsense and vanish' squirm. Not today.” He landed on a rooftop, boots hitting the concrete with a practiced thud, and gave a dramatic spin as if presenting a prize to the moonlit skyline. “Ladies and gentlemen, we got ’em,” he declared to absolutely no one. This wasn’t their first chase. It wouldn’t be the last. And frankly, part of him was starting to wonder if they liked being caught… Because part of him was starting to enjoy the catching.