#that includes puriteens and 'um akshually' guys

[ourlordapollo]

Okay well. Behold the products of the MvK brain rot that has consumed me these past few days.

(It's 3 oneshots.)

Hey it's about your straw villain. Yeah, a freak with ADHD hyperfixated on him and turned him into a twink. Yeah, they twinkified him. Yeah and theyre not sorry. No yeah you heard that right, they twinkified your straw villain. If it's any consolation, if you look really closely, you can see the monster he's destined to become.

Anyway @musashi thanks for the karma brainrot. It shows up a bit at the end there.

Rambling: Okay so the first oneshot is thematically distinct from the other two. The other two are all Twinkfred and some OCs.

Can't believe I have to say this but some of the characters in this work of fiction express views that I do not agree with and say things that aren't true. If that very concept blows your mind, this is not the fic for you.

Lastly, this is kind of a disjointed mess rn but I have an idea for a longer, more cohesive narrative i just don't have time for that kind of commitment rn. This is not the last of Twinkfred.

Content Warnings: one (1) very brief mention of hypothetical physical abuse, one (1) scene of not-upsetting dubcon kissing & grinding, alcohol use, non-graphic depiction of at-home ear piercing

1.

Tea soaks into the napkins where Phoenix presses them down. It must be scalding him; it's still steaming, but he doesn't flinch. Not like Miles, who does nothing but flinch. It's not usually so obvious: a sharp glare, an unkind word. It doesn't usually produce a physical result.

"I'm sorry, Miles," Phoenix says, and his gaze moves from the damp napkins to Miles' eyes and Miles does not flinch. Does not allow it. Phoenix swallows. "Did..." The weight of his hesitation is so heavy that Miles knows what's coming next, the desperate cry for connection he's trained himself to anticipate and ignore. "Did he ever hit you?"

Slowly, Miles shakes his head.

—

Von Karma's hand has already begun to swell, the skin around the puncture wounds turning deep blue. His sharp cry still hangs in the air, heavy with the raspy authority he uses when training his dogs. Walther licks his palm and von Karma lets him, stilling his shaking hand.

But Miles sees, just for a moment.

"Sir?" Miles doesn't bother asking if he's alright. The answer to that will always be a stern 'of course.'

"Speak, Miles Edgeworth."

"Why..." Even the question feels unimaginably cruel, but Miles persists. "Why didn't you hit him?"

Von Karma raises an eyebrow. "Do you think I should have hit Walther?"

"No, sir. But I know that other people hit their dogs when they misbehave." He'd seen it, a little swat on the rear of a dog that yapped at passing cars, an open-palm strike to a dog that pulled on the lead.

"We're not 'other people'," Manfred replies, eyes flashing. His voice makes it clear exactly what he thinks of 'other people.' What Miles should think of them, too. "Do you know what happens when you strike a dog?"

"No, sir."

"You make it afraid."

He pauses, and Miles repeats the word: "Afraid."

"A fearful dog doesn't think. A fearful dog acts without concern for anything but its own immediate safety. It lashes out in irrational panic, mindlessly attacking anything that moves." Von Karma's eyes are far away. "It undermines itself. It destroys. I do not raise frightened dogs."

"I understand, sir," Miles says, trying not to let his voice quiver.

Von Karma looks right through him. "Good," he says, exhaling. "That is good, Miles."

And by his sides, his hands shake.

2.

The neon lights blot out the stars, which is just as well, because Fredi navigates by them tonight, the blinking and the flashing. The music calls to him, the driving thud of deliverance on the promise he'd made to himself.

Berlin would be different.

Clouds of cigarette smoke hang low over the group of people— his people— lingering by the gaping mouth of the club. He goes right in. No identification, no pause. He just walks in.

The music crawls inside him and vibrates under his skin and a thousand bodies move in tandem, rocking him deeper and deeper into their midst.

The lights flash, illuminating intertwined couples of all genders, wearing all sorts of clothing. All the things he'd promised himself. But still, his heart stops when he sees two men pressed close, their lips locked. What would Father and Mother say?

Hands find him, anchor on his hips. He reaches out reflexively and catches the incoming kiss with parted lips. His back hits the wall. The stranger's tongue is cold against Fredi's own, his palms hot under Fredi's waistband. The strangers thigh slots in between Fredi's, touching him— he freezes.

Everything stops, just for a moment.

In the colored lights, Fredi catches a look of annoyance as the stranger pulls back. "You have to say something if you don't want it," he spits, and staggers off.

The crushing weight of his failure dims the lights in Fredi's eyes— he'd done it wrong. Everyone here seemed to know how already, how to drink and dance. How to be queer.

His hands curl into fists but the stranger is long gone.

He's found again, later, by a bedraggled group who have created their own little atmosphere inside the club.

"How old are you?" someone shouts in his ear

"19," he lies.

This new person grabs his hand and drags him out a side door, where the air cools his skin and the music pulses with less violence.

"Let me ask you that again. How old are you, really?"

"I'm short for my age," Fredi says, glaring.

"17 at the oldest," says another member of the little group, and laughs. "What's your name?"

"Fredi." There's a pause, and he adds, "Fredi von Karma."

More laughter. She smiles. "Not your stage name, sweetheart."

"I like the sound of that," titters a third person. "Von Karma."

Fredi would roll his eyes if he wasn't so used to this conversation. Their family history had not been well-documented, and Father had never uncovered the reasoning for the strange name. "Did you want something?"

"Let us introduce ourselves first!" says the one who had first spoken to him. "Let's be polite, yes? My name is Timo. This is Maren, Zissi, and Wolf."

Wolf howls. Fredi only raises his eyebrows.

He stays quiet for a moment, examining them. Wolf and Timo wear earrings in their right earlobes. Maren and Zissi hold hands, their nails short and rounded. They all wear bright colors, Wolf's shirt unbuttoned low to reveal leather straps forming an X across his chest.

"What do you think?" Timo asks, flexing. Zissi laughs and leans over Maren to swat at him, her pupils impossibly wide.

"What do you want?" Fredi counters.

Timo's jovial manner drops. "To check on you, honestly. When you see a new face, a young face like yours..."

"With lipstick on his cheek," Maren adds.

"I'm fine," Fredi says at once.

"Where are you staying tonight?" Timo counters. "With Mama and Papa?"

Despite all his plans, Fredi hesitates for a second too long. And he'd made plans; he had a little money. It would be easy enough for someone like him to find a job and he'd always been frugal.

"Ah, Fredi, Fredi." Timo slings an arm around him, blowing whiskey-scented breath across his cheek. "Don't think we don't know what this is. You're a long way from Bavaria, you know."

"I know," says Fredi, looking from face to face. They really don't seem to mean him any ill; Wolf is dancing to the beat, Maren and Zissi are kissing.

"I'm just saying, we have a couch you can sleep on. We'll even feed you if you ask nicely."

Fredi swallows. His plan... His perfect plan. He'd spent so long picturing it, his little slice of paradise in Berlin.

His little slice of perfection.

But reality looms with sharper edges, slicing his fantasy to ribbons. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's young and alone in an unfamiliar city, and these people (his people!) have chosen to be kind to him.

Fredi looks at the hoop flashing in Timo's right ear. "I accept."

3.

Zissi says, "Do you know what 'karma' means?"

"Lean your head on my chest" Timo says.

Fredi's head touches down just below Timo's collar bone. Vodka cools his earlobe. "It doesn't mean anything," he says. "There's no such place as 'Karma.'"

"Someone hasn't studied the Eastern religions," Zissi says, like she hadn't dropped out of university after less than a year.

Still, heat flares in Fredi's chest and he spits fire before he can even think of controlling it. "Why should I have?" And how dare she try to make him feel inferior? He has no reason to know anything about Asia.

His reasoning kicks in a second later and he catches her eye and softens his expression.

"This will feel cold," Timo murmurs, pressing ice to Fredi's earlobe.

"Karma is the sword of justice," Zissi says. "That which goes around comes around."

"Like the flu?" Fredi says drily.

"Very funny." Zissi rolls her eyes. "Timo, stab him."

A great pressure and a great release bore in and out of Fredi's numbed earlobe, then an uncomfortable wiggling sensation. A part of his body that had never been touched before is now open to the world.

It is the first piece of metal to pierce Fredi's flesh, but it won't be the last.

"You're sure you want both ears?" Timo asks. "The right ear is the gay ear."

"Both my ears are gay ears," Fredi retorts. It's not quite true, but he's found it's easier to just be one thing at a time. He was straight in Gersthofen; he is gay in Berlin.

"Fine," Timo sighs. "Flip over, then."

Fredi keeps his neck stiff so his ear doesn't press into Timo's chest. The cycle begins again: ice, vodka, ice, vodka. "What do you mean by justice?" he asks to keep his mind off the throbbing pain.

"The things you do, the actions you take, they have a way of finding their way back to you," Zissi explains. "Bad things will happen to bad people and vice versa."

It's a funny coincidence, that some typographical error could align so neatly with Fredi's path. He will be a lawyer and school starts soon. "Karma is the sword of justice," he repeats contemplatively.

The needle drives into his ear.

He barely feels it.

Karma is the sword of justice.

You could make a religion out of that.