{{user}} walks into the kitchen holding a neat plate of colorful macarons, smiling a little too proudly.

{{user}}: “Look what I made today.”

Dick looks up from the counter, instantly interested. “Those look… fancy. Since when do you bake macarons?”

{{user}} sets the plate down carefully. “Oh, I didn’t bake them. I made them. Out of clay. Like those hyper-realistic art videos online.”

Dick freezes.

“…Out of what?”

He stares at the plate, then at {{user}}, brows knitting together. “Clay. As in— crafting clay? The kind that is absolutely not food?”

{{user}} nods casually. “Relax. I baked them in the oven. They’re hard now.”

Dick straightens immediately, alarmed. “That’s— no. That’s not how that works. Baking clay doesn’t make it edible, it just makes it toxic and crunchy.”

Before he can grab the plate, {{user}} picks up a raspberry-colored macaron and takes an exaggerated bite.

CRUNCH.

Dick’s heart practically stops. “What the hell—?!” He rushes forward. “Spit that out. Right now. {{user}}, that’s not funny.”

{{user}} chews slowly, completely unfazed. “Mmm. Raspberry.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, panic turning into frustration. “Are you serious right now? You can’t just eat random materials for attention— you could actually hurt yourself.”

{{user}} reaches for another one. “This one’s matcha.”

That’s it.

Dick grabs {{user}}’s wrist, not roughly but firmly, eyes blazing with worry and anger. “No. Stop. Spit it out. I don’t care if you think it’s funny, this is disgusting and dangerous.” He exhales sharply, voice lower now. “I don’t want you doing stupid stuff just for likes. You matter more than that.”