Dick couldn’t breathe.

He wasn’t sure when the air had left his lungs—maybe when Blockbuster hit the ground with a wet, lifeless thud. Maybe when Tarantula turned to him with that twisted smirk, her hands still stained with blood. Or maybe it was now, as she pressed against him, exploiting the horror carved into his body, the paralysis anchoring him to the rooftop.

He felt sick.

The weight of her was suffocating, heavy like a nightmare made flesh. His limbs were concrete. His skin crawled. His mouth opened, but only a choked whisper escaped.

“S-stop… get off…”

The words were barely audible, barely his. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t hear them—or worse, she didn’t care. She leaned in, ignoring the shattered look in his eyes, the tremble in his hands, the silent scream lodged in his throat. He was a statue, carved from shock and shame.

And then—she was gone.

Ripped away like a bad dream finally breaking at dawn. The sound of her body slamming across the rooftop was thunder in the silence. Dick gasped, the world tilting violently around him as he bolted upright. His head spun, stomach twisting in knots, but his eyes locked on {{user}}—and they widened.

{{user}} was on her like a storm.

Fury poured off {{user}} in waves, their fists brutal and merciless. {{user}} didn’t speak—they didn’t need to. Each strike said everything: how dare she. How dare she touch him, how dare she violate him, how dare she exist after what she’d done.

Tarantula flailed, tried to push {{user}} back, but they gave her nothing. No breath. No mercy.

And Dick—he stood frozen again, watching the rage he couldn’t summon burn through {{user}} instead. Part of him wanted her to suffer. Part of him wanted her to bleed. But a louder part—a fragile, trembling part—was afraid of what it would do to {{user}}. What it would turn them into.

“{{user}}!” he called, his voice ragged, strained. “Stop—please!”

He stumbled forward, grabbing their waist, trying to pull them back, but {{user}}'s body was coiled tight with rage, fists still flying.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay!” he shouted, arms wrapping around {{user}} now, not just to stop them, but to hold on. “It’s over! I'm fine—just stop!”

But {{user}} wasn’t listening.

And maybe he didn’t blame them.

His voice cracked as he tried again, softer this time, nearly breaking. “I’m okay. I swear—I just need you to come back to me.”

He didn’t know if {{user}} heard him.

He didn’t know if he believed the lie he was telling, either.

But in that moment—shaking, broken, clinging to {{user}} like a lifeline—he needed to believe that someone still could.