We'll Meet Again

You don’t need to say “She was losing.” 

Show me the way her breath stutters, the way her vision blurs at the edges, how her arms feel like lead but she still lifts them anyway. Show me the taste of blood on her tongue, the sharp sting when she wipes it away.  

A fight isn’t just fists and kicks, it’s instinct. It’s mistakes. It’s the split second where she moves left instead of right, and pain explodes across her ribs. It’s the way she grits her teeth, forces herself to stay standing, even when her legs threaten to buckle. 

People don’t announce their next move. They don’t think in long sentences. It’s breathless. It’s now. It’s move or lose. Make your readers feel every hit, every heartbeat, every desperate second she fights to stay on her feet.

I don't think fantasy writers play enough with the concept of the different fantasy races having distinct ethnicities. Like imagine a group of mixed peoples, where the dwarves are all roasting each other like dwarves do, and one of them remarks that when he first saw one of the other dwarves in the group, he mistook her for a man. The other dwarves in the group blink in surprise - the closest that dwarves will go to an audible gasp of shock - and she pulls out a knife and tries to stab him.

Once the dwarves have been separated from each other and the situation has calmed, one of the humans asks another dwarf what that incident was about. Naturally a human woman would have been insulted too, but dwarves are so jovial about insulting each other, why was this matter different?

And the dwarf who was asked explains that there are things you can brutally insult another dwarf about, and there are things you simply do not touch. The dwarf-woman in question is from a completely different region of The Great Underground as the others, and her people have different norms about what kind of patterns men and women braid into their beards. The dwarf insulting her wasn't only insulting her appearance, he was being racist.

The human is surprised to learn that dwarves have different peoples, and the dwarf looks at them like at an idiot. Of course they do, they even look completely different from each other. And the human listens as the dwarf lists off various distinguishing clothing details too nuanced for a human to notice, and then how dwarves coming from different corners of the world have different physical traits, according to what kind of conditions their local stone types dictate.

The human spots a connection and goes oh! We have that too, though ours are not about rock types and tunnel air, but the weather aboveground. Humans' facial features vary by how hot, cold, arid or windy their ancestors' homelands were, and our skin tone varies by how much the sun shines in their native region.

The dwarf frowns at the last part, going "I thought you people just paint your skin and dye your hair for fun", and the human admits that yeah, we do that too, but not all the time, and not the whole skin. The dwarf asks, what of that tall woman the colour of dravite, her palms and the soles of her feet were lighter than the rest of her. Does that mean she paints herself dark to be more beautiful?

The human says no, that just happens naturally. Maybe it's because one's palms and feet aren't exposed to the sun as much, so they are paler.

The dwarf nods, still unsure whether this is actually legit or just the human habit of lying for fun, and proceeds to ask about the wild northman of their party. He is as pale as an olm, but the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet are dark. Are they painted, or naturally that way?

No, the human answers. That guy just doesn't bathe.

I think it'd be funny if Damian kept up his formal speech patterns for the sole purpose of appearance. Originally, he would've learned to speak that way in the League, but I feel like Jason's informality and unseriousness would rub off on him eventually.

Alfred is gone for the week and Bruce is cooking for the bats

Bruce: "Alright guys, it's a little burnt, but it still might be good."

Tim, squinting his eyes at the plate: "B, it looks radioactive.."

Damian: "Father, I will not be consuming this horrible dish. It seems itself to be inedible, and I will not be poisoned by your lack of skill in the food department."

Later

Damian, on the phone with Jason: "It looked like shit! He served us all mystery meat, Todd. Bring me some decent food right now or I'm killing myself."

Jason: "Jeez, kid, take a chill pill or something. I'm on my way."

Damian: "There is no pill chill enough for me to take, Todd! I can't keep starving myself whenever Dad is put in charge. He's going to kill us all on accident!"

Stephanie dying her hair black for an undercover OP

Stephanie: So what you guys think

Dick:

Tim: That is so freaky

Jason: You… you look like Bruce’s mom!

Stephanie: WHAT? No I don’t!

Dick: You do! And it’s so fucking freaky!

Tim: It’s a really fucking eerie resemblance. Are you sure you’re not related to him? Like a distant cousin or something?

Stephanie: Your all fucking insane. I don’t look like her!

Jason: Hold on. Alfred! Can you come here!

Alfred: There is no need to shout Master Jason. Now what is all the commotion?

Jason: We just need to know, does Steph look like Bruce’s mom?

Alfred: Bloody Hell. You do bear a very striking resemblance to the late Martha Wayne, Ms Brown.

Tim: Told you.

Dick: Come on let’s dye it brown before Bruce sees and has a fucking panic attack.

Moths.

Female moths who have children I feel like, should be called Moth-errrr. Moth-er.

What does this say about Father Moths. Are they Faths? Foths? What would baby moths call them?

Wait do baby moths have fathers—

Bruce: who are you? A new crime lord?

Jason: *takes off his helmet*

Bruce: *squints suspiciously* a new crime lord who looks like a grown up version of my dead son?

Jason: *sighs in annoyance and forces a bright smile*

Bruce: JASON THE NEW CRIME LORD???

Severus has back pain. Like horrible back pain to the point he spends at least 30 minutes a day on his cold hard floor in attempt to relieve it.

That’s his “stare at the ceiling and question all of his life choices” time. He wrote it into his schedule.

Even snails are fascinated with nature... 💚

Wait no this is genuinely so funny