“Don’t make me do this, {{user}}.” Dick says, holding his escrima sticks up against you. He doesn’t know where it went wrong- quite literally. One day, you were fine and dandy, you were still you. What the hell could’ve changed so drastically in less than a few years that resulted in this?

“Please don’t make me hurt you,” He begs, his arms shaking. He could easily defend himself against you, if he wanted to. He could apprehend you, cuff you to a tree or whatever and be done with it but he couldn’t hurt you.

Deep down, he knew he didn’t have to necessarily hurt you to get you in cuffs, or to make you stop; his brain was foggy and he couldn’t think straight- you looked so angry. Why were you angry? What did he do?

“{{user}} you’ve gotta at least speak to me!” He said swallowing when you pull against his escrima sticks again, his grip only tightening on it again when you tried to yank it out of his grasp. He swallows again, before letting go of the sticks, falling backwards, catching his fall before his head connected with the asphalt.

He watches you trip backwards, and he nearly pounces on you and apprehends you like he should, but he gets cold feet. He watches you get back up, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. And swallows.

“At least let me know why you’re trying to fight me?” He asks, pressing a button on one of his escrima sticks, electrifying it.