#lee writes

"yo, boss. the creep is back."

hajime drops the bar to the ground, the weight plates clattering loudly and bouncing, using the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his forehead.

"again?"

"yeah." the younger guy grimaces. "he's been eyeing this girl for a while now. i've told him to stop a few times but he keeps playing innocent.

there's a dull throbbing sensation forming behind hajime's left temple, and a swift glance confirms that the repeat offender is indeed staring at you lecherously while you deadlift.

as if he senses his opportunity slipping, The Creep (hajime refuses to do him the courtesy of remembering his name) sidles up next to you under the pretense of grabbing a weight plate and "accidentally" grabs a handful of your ass as he goes by.

hajime's eye twitches, and he's already berating himself for not acting sooner as he strides across the dark rubber flooring. but before he can intervene, you've already taken care of it.

one moment hajime was preparing to forcibly drag the man out of his gym and revoke his membership, and the next your fist is moving through the air in a swift, brutal arc, landing square on the pervert's face with a satisfying crunch.

standing there staring at the woman who just ko'd a creep in his gym, hajime swears this must be it.

Because you were never adopted — per your own request, — because you have a father, six feet under, twelve feet above, and he’s there.

Maybe not like Bruce is. But he’s there.

Then here’s a two apples tall, Crime Alley bred, Gotham certified street prince. His name is Jason. He’s got duck yellow rain boots, a supernova beam, and he’s immortal in your chest.

And then he dies. And your arguments, your training, your regrets, your chance to take it back and replace every ugly with ‘I love you, I want to stay’ is gone with him.

And you don’t get to bury him. You don’t mourn properly. You don’t hug the coffin one last time. You just keep that Wonder Woman bear and the bubblegum bombs and his baby pictures.

And if you’re asked, ‘Do you think he forgives?’

You don’t say no.

"You don't need to like each other. However, you do need to be civil in my classroom."

The two boys wouldn't look at him. Parker couldn't keep his gaze on any one thing too long before jumping over to another part of the classroom. Kenner decisively stared at one point on the floor. He wouldn't be surprised if a hole suddenly started forming in the old vinyl.

"I've tried to let you settle it between yourselves but this will be your final warning. If this escalates any further I will be contacting your guardians to address whatever this is. Today in the lab was close, if I wasn't paying attention you or your classmates could have been seriously injured."

He should have assigned the seating. He knew that the two boys were having trouble but it was a simple lab and the kids liked when they got to choose their spots. The boys weren't at the same table but their desks were in the same line and shared the aisle. He thought it'd be enough. It was not.

Now, two beakers were broken and he'd just barely escaped settling fire to the science department. He still doesn't know where the ethanol came from but by golly he would find out and there would be heck to pay.

In his six years teaching he had never seen such an on-site hatred form between two students so quickly. Sure there have been rivalry and some light feuding between kids in the past, but that was normal. This pure form of hatred was something he'd only seen between certain member within the science community.

He was excited when he transferred to Midtown High, thinking he'd finally be free from the childish squabbles—a fools thought really. Now instead of preteen drama he was at the forefront to teenage drama. Yay.

Ryland sighed, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. "Mr.Parker-" he handed him a late slip, "you're free to go. Mr. Keener please stay behind a moment."

Peter made quick work of grabbing his things and rushing through the door, calling a quick apology as he left. Mr. Harrington would definitely be pulling him aside later in the teachers lounge for keeping the students so late but he needs to address this.

"Harley," he started, "I'm not upset with you. This is something that we are going to have to talk about but I need you to know I'm not upset."

Silence. Harley's eyes briefly flicker up to catch his before darting away. He's listening at least.

"Is it something I'm doing? All the other teachers say to two are fine in their classrooms but as soon as you two set foot in here its like I've let a fox loose in your chicken pen. If it's something I'm doing—or not doing—please let me know so I can make it right."

Harley's face scrunches up as he settles straighter in his seat. It's the most engage he's been since Ryland held them after class.

"It's nothing ta do with ya, it's just…" his arms flounder in the air, as if trying to grab something. "I can't escape his stupid face."

Ryland holds off the reprimand about the name calling. Tact, be tactful. This isn't a hill they need to fight on.

"He's in every class I'm in. I go to the library, he's there. I want ta eat outside, there again. I went to sign up for decathlon and lo and behold look who's already sitting front row. Then I go ta my internship and you'll never guess who I run into: Peter freak'n Parker. The one grace I got is he ain't in the robotics club."

Ah yes, Harley's internship. Working under some mechanic at Stark Industries. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and alternating weekends Harley would take the train uptown to Stark Industries where he would do who knows what—NDAs really were a fickle thing. Ryland knew he was gunning for a position in the company after he graduated, but with graduation two years away there was a lot of time to make his mark and build steady relationships in the company.

Having a bad relationships with your colleagues could be career ending if the young man wasn't careful.

"That can be very frustrating."

"Right!" The chair screeches back as he begins to pace the font of the room. "Then when we're both at Starks he's practically glued to the mans side and I can't get a word in edgewise. He already spends more time at the tower then I do so you think he'd give the guy some breathing room, but no—it's always the Parker show with that guy."

Harley is in his own world, ranting and throwing his arms in large sweeping motions. The fact that Peter and him shared the same mentor was nothing new but it always surprised Ryland anyway. Harley was interested in the mechanic side of things while Peter was a known chemistry nerd. Stark Industries hired a wide assortment of people but he still can't understand how two brilliant young men got lofted with the same mentor.

"Harley, I know this can't be easy for you right now: new school, new city, new friends, but you and I both know this antagonism you share can't keep progressing as it is."

"You don't think I know that!" He doesn't shout but the words lay heavy in the air. "And jeez, not everything is about you. I'll figure it out, alright? You don't need to call his parents, or whatever."

Ryland waits. Lets the silence settle like a blanket as Harley breathes. Waits for his shoulders to lower and for him to lean against the closest desk. Meet his eyes.

"Okay," Ryland starts slowly "then I'll keep doing what I'm doing: next time I'll assign lab seats so this doesn't happen again and make sure you two have enough space during class time. But, kiddo, I-" He doesn't know what to say. Mouth just opening and closing like a fish. What does he even say?

"I know." Harley deflates, taking his silence and folding in on himself. He's refusing eye contact, angling himself away and scrunching his shoulders.

Ryland need to be better. Learn how to be better then this.

"Are you still heading to Robotics club after school?"

"Ya."

"Text me when you leave okay? I'll make sure something warm is on the stove when you get home."

"Sure."

And we've digressed to one words answers now. Never a good sign, but there's nothing Ryland can do to fix it right now.

"Okay, here's your slip. Head straight to Mr. Harrington, I'll apologize to him later for holding you back. I'll see you at home later."

A grunt is what Ryland receives as Harley slowly gathers his things and heads for the door. He doesn't look back as the door closes behind him and Ryland knows its going to be a rough few days between them.

When the sister that he hadn't spoken to 16 years called him out of the blue and asked him to house her kid for the next few years, this wasn't what he'd been expecting. He doesn't know what he expected really.

He just knew that his little sister cut ties with the family shortly after graduating high school to support her boyfriend of the time. He knew he didn't like her boyfriend. He knew that she didn't tell anybody where she was moving and shortly changed her number there after.

It was hard, not being able to find her, she had basically gone off grid. New number, new name, no connections. She was the reigning champion of hide and seek when they were younger and the title carried with her far into their adulthood.

So here he was, housing his nephew for the next few years. He was happy she reached out—and he probably agreed to the arraignment far too quickly, but he didn't want to loose her. Loose the small olive branch she tossed his way.

Harley was a good kid, smart as a whip, but they didn't know each other. Ryland had dozens of kids under his care before, but having one under his roof was different.

They danced around each other the first few weeks.

Harley staying in his room—the spare office Ryland had emptied—and Ryland basically tiptoeing around his own home. He had to do a lot of work to make it habitable; buying actual food and not just mac and cheese or spaghetti. He deep cleaned, tried to make the space into an area the kid would actually spend time and not a room he'd avoid.

They had gotten better. Spending time talking to each other and learning how to be roommates. It was slow, but it was progress. Doesn't feel like it now, months later and almost a quarter through the semester.

Ryland really doesn't want to call Peter's guardian. May Parker was a lovely women and he's sure she'd be open to talking but he'd need to bring in a third party to mediate. Make sure he wasn't bias during the conversation. That he wasn't playing favorites.

Golly what a mess this was turning out to be.

I'm Lee. And welcome to my domain!

This blog is for me to express my love and obsession with Resident Evil's diva: Ada Wong through writing :)

GIRL-COCK ADA ENJOYER/WRITER👩‍💻🚶‍♀️🤺‼️‼️

MEN AND MINORS DNI/DNF!

PRONOUNS: she/her

MASTERLIST and RULES

Just below the cut <3

First things first motherfuckers, let’s get one thing straight: Basic as a language does exist in this AU!  It’s just less common outside of the Core/Mid Rim.  SO.  What does that give us?  Well, it gives us way more interesting conflict, for one thing, and for another, so many languages.  Let’s get crackalackin! 

In the Outer Rim, Huttese is largely The Language To Speak.  If you don’t speak Huttese, you might as well just hurl yourself into the nearest bottomless pit now and save yourself the time and trouble.  Even in the Core and Mid Rim, Huttese is a very common language just because of how useful it is if you ever find yourself in the Outer Rim.  Most bounty hunters (i.e. Jango Fett, just for one completely random example) speak Huttese fluently, alongside their native languages.  Naturally, then, this is a language Anakin is very familiar with.  In fact, when he became a Jedi, it was the language he knew the best, and most people thought his speech was stilted in Basic because of this.  He spoke Basic maybe once every month on Tatooine—can you blame him?  

In the Mid Rim, each planet has their own language and conversations between diplomats are typically done as they are on Earth—via interpreters, to avoid any misunderstandings.  Padmé, for instance, does speak Basic, but that is the language she would use in the Senate, not on Naboo.  The same goes for Palpatine, but we’ll get to him in a minute, because he sucks and I want to not talk about him for as long as I feasibly can.  

The Core means Basic, Basic, Basic, because of just the sheer number of people making it necessary.  Coruscant is a weird case because of how communities develop there.  Since it’s kind of like a gigantic version of a modern city (I’ll use NYC as an example because I know it the best), it’s broken up into enclaves.  Cultures clump—it’s a thing.  Some neighborhoods in NYC are predominantly Jewish, some are predominantly Italian, the list goes on.  The same goes for Coruscant, although on a supersized scale.  There’s some areas where non-Mandalorians need not apply, some where everyone is a Twi’lek or Togruta, some where everyone is a Mirialan, et cetera.  Also, Coruscant dialects of certain languages are very much a thing.

Anyway.  Let’s talk Kamino, because that’s why I started this to begin with!  

Jango Fett is a Mandalorian.  He’s also a bounty hunter.  He’s from Concord Dawn and was a True Mandalorian.  Therefore we can guess he probably at the bare minimum speaks two dialects of Mando’a (Concord Dawn, True Mandalorian) Huttese, and has at least passing Basic.  He probably speaks more than that given how well-traveled he is, but those are the ones I can name for sure.  So Jango Fett, who speaks Mando’a and Huttese and Basic, encounters Count Dooku.  Count Dooku is from Serenno, but he was also a Jedi, so he probably speaks Serennese, Basic, Huttese, and a few more.  He may even speak Mando’a, but his dialects wouldn’t be likely to overlap with Jango’s.  Count Dooku tells Jango to go to Kamino and let them clone him in exchange for an exorbitant amount of money.  Jango does, because Jango is a thinking human being and thinking human beings under capitalism do not turn down exorbitant amounts of money in exchange for what amounts to (at most) being a three or four-time sperm donor.  

And on Kamino, our intrepid Mandalorian encounters something a bit weird.  The Kaminoans, being that they are an extremely isolated species and thus have absolutely no reason to have developed humanoid vocal chords, have to rely on droid translators.  Cool!  This means Jango can speak to them exclusively in his native language (Concord Dawn Mando’a), and they can speka to him exclusively in theirs, and everyone’s largely happy.  Jango negotiates the finer points of the contract, acquires an infant who he names Boba, and calls up some old friends (and acquaintances) to teach the clones to kick ass.  He informs them they don’t have to worry about speaking Basic, so they don’t bother speaking Basic.  

Thus, we have our setup.  The Kaminoans have no reason to make the clones speak Basic because literally none of these outsiders are bothering to inform that oh yeah there’s this whole common language thing going on, and said outsiders have no reason whatsoever to tell them because it would ultimately just be an inconvenience.  They’ve got a good thing going, and Jedi are required to speak more than one language anyway.  The clones can definitely find at least one in common!

So the clones learn to speak Mando’a, understand Kaminoan, and speak and/or understand one extra elective language.  Most pick something weird because they can—everyone around them speaks either Mando’a or Kaminoan so why would they bother with languages they don’t care about, like Basic?  Unfortunately for the Kaminoans and the trainers in equal measure, they do also realize that in order to express themselves in private they need their own universal language, so they acquire one.  They just call it clonespeak to keep things simple, and for most of them, that’s their native language.  They feel most comfortable speaking in it because that’s the language they associate with safety and with their siblings/parents.  

Thus: the predicament.