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Mando’a solves this problem by having 5 or so verb conjugations in total, and leaving tenses to prefixes!

Learning languages is SO FUN right up until you need to learn conjugation and then suddenly it turns sour real fucking fast

The wooden door creaked loudly as it swung open after being unlocked with the key in hand. The room inside was lit with a candle that casted a warm glow on the walls and more specifically on the man sitting on the bed. Sitting may have been an understatement. The man was laid back on a pillow, one leg hanging off the bed and the other crooked. In between his legs was a meaty but flaccid cock hanging in front of a pair of large balls. Hair littered his body in thick patches going all the way up his legs, arms and belly to his bearded face. 

His eyes stared at the doorway, gesturing to it with a bottle of whiskey clutched in his large hand. “Well, I wasn’t planning on having company, but if yer gonna come in, then come in, slut,” Drax said gruffly. 

“My cock’s been lonely. I’m sure your mouth would be a nice companion. Or would you rather have it stuffed up your hole?” Taking a long swig from the uncorked bottle, his other hand rested on his belly, fingers itching to the greasy hair. 

The stench wafting off of his body would have made anybody’s nose wrinkle in disgust. As he stretched his arm above his head to set the whiskey down on a side table a heavy musk and sour odor curled up from his thickly haired armpit. 

With both hands free Drax patted his thighs, his dick twitching with an oncoming wave of arousal. “Come sit on my lap, ye fucking whore. I’m sure you’ll look lovely stretched around my cock.” His hands were rough and calloused, scars and his long gritty fingernails made them unpleasant to the touch. 

“Fucking bitch don’t even have a make on yer flesh. I can change that for ye though don’t ye worry.” His cock started to rise to attention in the forest of black hair as if he was getting off on talking about causing pain. 

One of his hands reached up and squeezed until he felt the thumping of blood and the blossoming of a bruise start to form. The room grew to a hazy black until he released his hand and clasped it on his cock. He chuckled at the few labored breaths and the squirming on his lap before a loud smack of his palm on flesh echoed through the room. 

“Yeah don’t ye fuckin’ worry I’ll take good care of you. Really fucking good care of ye.”

Happy birthday @needs-to-stop-looking-at-valves have a Drax, your disgusting hubby💚

Alright i wanna add to this

Eventually, Jason does get bothered of standing in the sidelines. Watching them was bittersweet at first, but then they stopped aging. Or at least keeping in shape, unnaturally.

He thinks about snooping around, finding out why they – mostly Bruce – aren't getting worst at their job. He doesn't, though. Too risky, he knows he could do a good job at it, but not good enough to evade all of his family.

So he decided, to just, not hide. He would sometimes go out at day, after his first death there was no public persona to uphold. The only people that would notice him would be the ones he wanted to notice him. He warned his people in the slums that he would be gone, to, if they ever saw him again, not recognise him. So he had a foolproof plan.

At least he thought it was foolproof.

He had planned to go out on the streets, wearing a simple cap to hide his very identifiable colored hair, for less than an hour to scope out his surroundings. In the morning, of course, he hadn't seen anyone hopping rooftops yet so he was fine. (Even though he earned to get discovered, to find someone that knew him.)

Instead of what he had planned, in the first 5 minutes of his stroll, he saw Tim. Right across the street, there he was, talking to someone on the phone, walking somewhere with intent, not like Jason was. He made sure he wasn't staring for too long, just a glance, continuing walking.

Unfortunately (or fortunately) for him, he felt eyes in the back of his skull. Staring at him, violently. Since he was a normal civilian and definitely not a trained vigilante, he continued walking in a normal pace, as a normal person would.

He turned a corner, feeling the stare eventually fade, and immediately went back to his hideout. Not directly, he knew he wasn't being followed but it was better to be sure and do a few wrong turns.

Jason didn't do it again for the next months. And was right to do so, since the bats had upped their appearances, maybe not because of him, but they were around more often and he did go the extra mile at faking his death.

He could wait a few decades. (He didn't)

Just an idea:

As a result of the lazarus pit jason is now immortal he doesn't ageand he cant die, realizing this he fakes his own death. Would love to hear your take on this idea

Ah alright so I can’t go full sad because I’m very much incapable of writing angst where one person has to watch all their loved ones age and die, but I can do an element where… none of them age. But Jason thinks he’s the only one thanks to the pit (his immortality still works different).

So… he fakes his death.

And it’s good. He goes the whole nine yards. Fake body, DNA samples, footage of himself frantically trying to escape yet another warehouse rigged to blow, the panicked call to the rest of the Bats to “Please, please, not again please, get me out of— please, i don’t want to burn again-“ that has everyone in a mad scramble trying to save him him…

But they arrive “too late”. Again. (Jason’s last hurrah at Bruce for the shit he pulled since his return).

And then Jason Todd is… dead.

He watches them from the shadows. Sometimes from continents away (but he can’t escape Gotham. Something pulls him back time and time again, no less than once a year.)

And at first.. it hurts. It hurts watching his family grieve him. But it’s better this way. He can’t stay and watch them age out and die. It would destroy him. But this way— this way he can focus solely on keeping them alive. To give them the longest life possible in their line of work. No more dead Robins. (No dead Batman.)

It hurts, but he makes it work. Watches years pass in which Tim grows up first. Then Damian. And then… it just stops?

After a decade Bruce still only has that faint shimmer of silver to his hair, movements neither slowing nor becoming sloppy with age.

Dick still survives on an unholy cocktail of sugar topped with more sugar, in peak physical condition despite it all.

And finally— finally Jason catches on that something might not be quite right here.

(And they still mourn him. Acutely aware of the loss of one of their own. Of the empty space at the dinner table. Of the silence down the comm line they still keep open religiously. Just in case. Just in case….)