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The Queen and His King

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“I unveil a statue,
I dedicated to myself,
and I cry.”

Milo Andreas Wegner
Post-Tenebras, Lux


“I’m not a bro, I’m a nerd. A fucking rich nerd. Now get out of my face.”

Martin hates these things; smile and wave socials, where his default role of unspeakable asshole is besmirched by the forced desire to be vaguely decent to the right people. If they were his friends, it’d be different, of course, but these guys are just career politicians, and low ranking ones at that. They’re fresh out of Ivy league colleges, mostly from old-money, and they have no idea what they’re doing, drawn to this ‘millionaires party’ like fruit flies to a shit pile of cognac and ‘networking opportunities’. He hates the fact they all assume that, in being invited, they’re his friend, and that he is, in turn, theirs.

If you really know me
what hand do I use?

He’d get onto his PA about it, but lord knows, he needs the publicity. Out on bail, with the lawsuit still looming over him like the potential Clinton presidency, the opportunity to rub shoulders with the sons and daughters of some of America’s most prominent republicans is a godsend. “Rub a little more than shoulders, with some of those daughters”, he thinks “and I’ll be off the hook in no-time.”

Only one person in the room knows that Martin Shkreli is gay, and it’s not the man himself. Proud of his exploits with women, and vocal about the fact, he’d never actually drawn much pleasure from the act. He’d figured he had a low drive, and left it at that: sex would always be more of a social symbol that an actual, physical act.

But Milo knows; he can read Shkreli easier than any novel. Forget ‘Paradise Lost’, the man is more ‘Catch 22’; handsome, charming, and utterly unaware of his own potential. Not that Milo hasn’t made his effort; especially tonight, rocking a scoop-necked black shirt under the white cardigan his boss at Breitbart had taken to referring to as messianic. Uncomfortably tight trousers dig into his crotch, and he endures the pain only in the vague hope that Martin will notice. Martin. It rolls of his tongue before he can stop it, and the man turns, his face lighting up in a grin best described as adorable.

“Milo! If it isn’t my favourite faggot!”

Other than yourself. Milo bites back the words. Not now, in front of all these people. He needs to get him alone, sometime. Help him open up. Open up.

God! Milo swallows, and forces a smile as Shkreli embraces him. The hug is brief, but the mental images that accompany is are overwhelming.

“Marty! Darling!”

Marty. Yes, Marty. Marty down on his knees, eyes wide, meeting Milo’s, then travelling down, and down.


The trousers are hurting even more now, and Milo’s forced grin begins to falter. But Shkreli seems distracted, babbling away about recent events, his talk in London, his time in New York.

“So, who were those kids you helped, in the UK?”

Fuck, what was the name? He should know, he’s the charities patron. He thinks back, to the assortment of students, about 400 in total, some wearing ‘make America great again hats’ whilst other’s plumped for the classic alt-right uniform of peroxide off-white hair. But what was the name! He pauses a moment, before it comes to him.

“Oh, the YBHS! Yeah, I expect great things of them.”

Shkreli chuckled

“You really think they’ve got a chance?”

“Well, I really hope so. But then, the way that British University campuses are going, they’ve really got their work cut out.”

“That’s fair.” Another chuckle

“So…have any fun in London?”

“Just one” Milo cringed; the politics talk had almost killed his boner “some delightful 1st year at the talk. A little heavy on the teeth, but it was his first time. I invented him back to the hotel, and he performed a bit better there.” He smirked “Adorable, really.”


“I wish. You have to take what you can get in a city like that.”

Shkreli cut him off with a gasp.

“Hold the fucking press, guys! Milo Yiannopoulos has fucked a white guy!”

He’s laughing, but behind his usual cocksure tone, Milo picks up something else. Excitement? Hope?

Or perhaps, he’s just genuinely surprised.

Don’t torture yourself, Milo. He’s gay, but not for you. And there’s plenty more fish in the sea.

Smirking, Milo eyes up a fellow partygoer; 20-something, white, with a ‘my-dad-owns-your-dad” type look, and demeanour. Cream chino’s clash horrifically with a red waistcoat and green jacket, but when the man meet’s Milo’s gaze, all thought of attire leaves his mind. His green-grey-gaze, soft yet unwavering, bleeds with something akin to lust, or desire.  He knows Milo, knows about Milo, and the older man imagines that he’s also suffering under those spray-on chinos.

Maybe tonight won’t be all that bad.

Chapter Text

“I shall not be your passive victim
buggering my way to freedom.”

Milo Andreas Wegner
Nympholepsy, Part 1


The night is still young, even by a Chicago weekday’s standards’ but Martin is more than pleased when his drunk, dreary guests slowly begin migrating towards the apartment door. Brushing each off with a handshake and a hug, he searches the room for Milo; the only real person he actually wants to be there. No doubt, he has a room for the night, in some fancy hotel downtown, but Skreli had always enjoyed inviting him to stay over. The last few times, they’d stayed up till sunrise, bitching and joking like two middle schoolers. Providing Milo had drunk enough, he’d doubtlessly be up for a night sprawled out on one of Skreli’s large leather sofas, gradually teasing information from the millionaire, all whilst proving crude jokes and commentary.

But Milo was nowhere to be seen; even when the entire room had emptied, and his army of staff begun the long, laborious act of cleaning, only Martin’s PA, Ericka, remained, sipping red wine from a champagne flute like a 14-year-old playing with mommy’s glassware for the first time.

“Eri, have you seen Milo?”

She looked up, face flushed, and rolled her eyes

“Mr Yiannopoulos? Yes, he went upstairs with one of the other guests. Now if you don’t mind, it’s my night off.” With that, she finished the remaining wine, the started on the glass of champagne beside it (presumably abandoned   by one of the other guests)

‘Oh Milo, you dog! ‘ He shook his head, and smirked ‘I’ll let you have your fun, but it can’t go on all night…’


After helping Ericka finish off the remaining drinks, Martin begun his search for Milo; creeping slowly up the sweeping staircase that ran from the living room to the mezzanine, all whilst listening for the tell-tale squeak of bedsprings and moaning that would betray his friend’s location.  

It occurred to him that, whilst he and Milo had often spoken about their sexual exploits, he’d never actually caught the man in the act. In truth, he’d never even really thought about it, and started to wonder exactly what awaited him behind one of his guestroom doors.

Suddenly, a noise caught his attention, a small whimper, almost inaudible. He paused, until he heard it again, this time slightly louder. It was clearly Milo, and it sounded like it was coming from the room at the end of the corridor.

He continued creeping, following the sound, which was slowly increasing in amplitude. He realised his heart-rate was also increasing. Something deep in his gut throbbed.

Slowly, he approached the door, which had been left slightly ajar, most likely intentionally. The gap was just small enough to see through, so gingerly, he peered in.

My God.

Something was wrong, horribly wrong. His stomach lurched, and his breaths came in muted gasps. He was excited, the wrong kind of excited, and as he felt the heat in his crotch grow, he realised that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t look away.

The man on the bed was hard to make out in the low light, though his partner was perfectly illuminated. Milo’s eyes were squeezed shut, nostrils flared, pants and whimpers gradually mutating into deep, sensual moans, as he rode his lover. Every so often, he’d mutter something unintelligible, voice almost cracking, whilst the man below him rolled his hips and grunted. Both were naked, the sweat-slick-sheen on Milo’s chest giving his tan and almost literal glow, whilst his semi-erect penis bounced against his partner’s abdomen.

Oh my god.

Martin shuddered, almost convulsing as simultaneous waves of pleasure and discomforted rippled through him. What was this?
He reached for his fly, then stopped himself; spying was easy to explain, voyeurism less so. He could easily dart into the bathroom down the hall, but that would mean dragging his eyes away from the glorious spectacle before him.

It was a tough choice to make, but he had to make it quickly; he could see Milo growing gradually harder with each of his partner’s thrusts, and knew that neither was far from climax.

With a pained, wavering breath, Martin turned away from the door, and dashed down the hall to the nearest bathroom. As soon as the door was shut, and locked, he dropped his trousers and slipped a hand into his boxers. But before he could manage so much as a stroke, an agonized shriek broke the silence of the room.

It’s Milo. He’s…

The simple thought of it was too much, and Martin barely had time to grab a wad of tissue before he lost himself.

Oh god, what’s happening?

Gingerly, he pulled up his pants and begun washing his hands, ears still straining, in the hopes of catching more of the action down the hall. But even with the tap off, and the door open, all his could hear was loud panting, and a long, contented sigh. Clearly, they were finished.

Maybe, if I’m quick, I can dash in and see Milo before he redresses…

Ashamed, he chased the thought from his mind. He wasn’t gay. Milo was nothing more than a friend. He was just drunk, and confused.

So terribly, terribly confused.t

Chapter Text

"Making love these days,
 seems a lot like listening to the end"

Milo Andreas Wegner
Nympholepsy, Part 1


“Benji, baby, so good to see you.”

That voice. God, that voice. The sickly-sweet sarcasm, the subtle tease. It made his blood boil.

Ben Shapiro had never been a fan of parties. But this post-election shindig was the sort of thing everyone who was anyone in the conservative movement was expected to be at. Shkreli’s idea, obviously, the pompous show-boater that he was. Boats, themselves, a sore point: Marten’s flat was the perfect venue for showing face, appearing in a few press shots, then leaving. But no, it had to be the boat, didn’t it? Anchored just off the LA coastline, lit up like a smashed mirror in a glowstick factory, weighed down with spirits, drugs and deviants. Hell on earth, in Ben’s book, and that was before Milo Yiannopoulos sauntered over to him, a shit-eating grin smeared across his face.

“Milo. What a pleasure.”

“Oooh, Benji, haven’t you scrubbed up nicely?” Milo smirked, running a finger along the lapel of Shapiro’s freshly-pressed tux, “…is the lovely wife around to appreciate this?”

“In the bathroom. Just fixing her make-up”

Shapiro smiled coolly; he was alone on the boat, but the last thing he wanted was Milo to realize that. Slowly, he took a swig of his drink, a piss-weak complimentary champagne he’d been nursing all night.

“Aw, such a shame. I was hoping you’d turned up to this little do alone. You see…”

He flashed his trademark grin, and winked.

“…It’s been a while since I sucked a circumcised cock.”

Ben spluttered, almost dropping his glass, spit and bubbly trickling down his chin as he fought to maintain his composure. Milo, meanwhile, burst out laughing, seemingly oblivious to his companions growing fury.

“Oh my, I sure now how to push your buttons…but you are always pushing mine…”

Barely tipsy, yet overcome with a sudden rage, Shapiro drew himself up from his semi-slouch against the boat’s railing, and squared up to Milo.

“You ever say anything like that again…”

His voice was little more than a low, angry hiss.

“…I swear, I will destroy you.”

Ben sunk down from his tiptoes slowly, but before he could draw away, Milo placed a hand on his shoulder and lent forward, his mouth flush to Shapiro’s ear.

“Benji, darling, I’d love to let you destroy me…”

Ben could tell each world slipped out from between lips curled in a coy smirk.

“…I’ve never been a fan of lube, and you strike me as a guy with a lot of pent up frustration. Someone who fucks people hard. Someone who loves being rough.”

In retrospect, Ben would be ashamed of his reaction: hurling the remainder of his drink at Milo, then storming off bellow decks. All the while, he could hear his wife chiding him, her soft tone in stark contrast to the burning disappointment she felt whenever he lashed out in anger. It was the same every time he shot back at Milo with an angry tweet or column.

Don’t let him get to you darling.
Don’t sink to his level.
Keep your head.
You’re better than that

Yet here he was, hiding in a dark corner below deck, listening the sound of a drunken party slowly drawing to it’s close. Although the sudden noise made him jolt at first, he couldn’t help but rejoice at the sound of the boats engine’s roaring into life. Soon, he’d be back on the shore, ready to hop into a taxicab and speed back to his wife.

“Mr Shapiro, sir, are you down here?”

The voice that broke the relative peace of the lower deck (despite being barely audible above the engine noise) was not one he recognised. Slowly, he began walking towards it’s source, rounding a corner to come face-to-face with a slight, timid-looking redhead in a surprisingly modest black cocktail dress.

“Oh, Mr Shapiro sir. I’ve been looking for you. Martin wanted me to tell all the guests we’ll be coming into port in about ten minutes.”

She paused momentarily, taking in their surroundings.

“What are you doing down here anyway? The main party is upstairs.”

Something about the woman put Ben instantly on the back-foot. He found himself blushing as he stuttered a reply.

“I…I had an issue with one of the other guests. I…I decided to remove myself from the situation.”

“Mr Yiannopoulos?” the woman shook her head, knowingly, “yes,  he’s been putting noses out of joint all night. Rather an ass, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Shapiro chuckled, still blushing slightly, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name?”

“Oh!” The woman smiled, though somewhat shyly “I’m Ericka, Marty-Mr Shkreli’s PA.”

“Ericka…” Ben murmured, his tongue dancing over all three syllables “…that’s a lovely name, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Not at all, thank you Mr Sha-“

“Please, call me Ben.”

God, this woman! She made him feel giddy! Was the alcohol driving him? He’d never been much of a drinker. But then, most of his single drink of the night was soaked into Milo’s dinner-jacket. Still, it could be having some small effect. He just had to think of his wife, and this strange mood would shift.

“Well then, thank you Ben. I like your name too. It suits you.”

“How so?” Ben cocked his brow, sincerely quizzical, as opposed to teasing.

“Ben, Benjamin. It’s traditional, all-American. Ben goes out, get’s things done. Ben gets the highest GPA in his high school class, gets a good degree, gets a good job, brings in money…actually, a lot like you, in that regard. Graduating high school at 16, published book at 17, columnist and law graduate by 20…”

Lord, was this ego nursing just normal, polite PA behaviour, or an attempt to flirt?
It’d been so long, Ben couldn’t even pretend to know. As he saw it, she had no reason to endear herself to him further, her whole persona already drew him in, not to mention her body

Christ! What was he thinking, looking at a woman like that? He had a wife! Two kids! He had always lived life as an orthodox Jew (and received a fair share of abuse for it.) Heck, his whole life had always revolved around religion.

And fuck, did he hate it.

“Ericka…” he began, slowly, voice trembling “…how long did you say it was till we came into port?”

“About 8 minutes now, by my estimate at least, Mr Sh-Ben.

“And, erm, any idea what you want to do in those 8 minutes…”

Ben shuddered slightly, partly in the November chill, partly in anticipation of whatever came next. Most likely, rejection. Hopefully rejection.

Ericka smiled warmly, taking a step closer to him.

“Well, Ben…” She’d perfected the PA tone of voice, partly nervous, clearly naive, very eager to learn “…ever since I heard you were coming to this party, there’s only one thing I’ve wanted to do.”

With that, she gently pressed her lips to his, her kiss cautious, her muscles tense, clearly wound tight for fear of rejection. But her rigid form quickly melted into Shapiro’s as he returned the kiss, tongue softly probing her lips, teasing them open.

Ben! Stop! You can write it off, write it off as an instinctive reaction. You can just push her away, leave, and…

His mind continued screaming. His body trembled, dick throbbing, pressed against her abdomen.
He couldn’t fuck her, that was for after marriage. But lord did he want to: right there, in the shuddering underbelly of this great grinding beast. Her screams of pleasure drowned out be the engine roar, his own groans and grunts equally muted. Fuck marriage. Fuck everything. He needed her, right now. Nothing else in his life, not school, not college, not his books, nothing had mattered as much as this primal desire: newfound, hence raw, and threatening to tear him apart.

“Ericka, I…” he whimpered, breaking the kiss and giving his companion a moment to check her watch.

“Six minutes.” She smirked, eying Shapiro’s crotch “…think you can finish me that quickly?”

“Oh yes…

Without another word, he was on her, pushing her dress up and tearing away her underwear. When he’d made love to his wife on his wedding night, it’d been a slow, sensual process: this, however, was different. He did not have time to study every inch of her body, ravish her cunt with soft kisses, groping her chest all the while. He had six minutes. Five. Four…

It was just as he removed himself from his boxers that he heard the crunch: metal on metal, a dull screech that pierced his very consciousness, forcing him to recoil from his new lover. A moment later came the jolt, sending him sprawling, erect cock still in hand, Ericka collapsing beside him.

He felt the whole boat beginning to list heavily to the right, moments before the sound of rushing water and screams drowned out the dying engine’s weakening roar. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. Freezing water began pooling around his back, slowly but surely beginning to flood the lower deck.

And Ericka,

Ericka wasn’t moving.