Hamlet is a slut.
The whole town knows that Hamlet is a slut.
They would never dare to call him such, especially with his grieving mother and his new father controlling half the economy of the town, but they all know what he is. Hamlet has slept with all the girls and all the boys at his college and a third of the teachers too.
He is with Horatio, yet he is not. Before Hamlet’s father’s death, they held hands and kissed and read greek mythology together. They would lie alone on Hamlet’s bed for hours and just talk, their peaceful mutterings filling the world alone. Now Hamlet will not touch Horatio. They talk, yet Hamlet’s words are edged and harsh.
He is with Ophelia, yet he is not. When Hamlet Sr. was still alive, Hamlet would lavish Ophelia with kisses every moment they were together and adorn her with poorly crafted handmade flower crowns which she adored. Now Hamlet only visits Ophelia when Rosencrantz or Guildenstern refuse to get high with him. Ophelia always has the best weed.
Hamlet is with everyone and no one. He skips classes to meet up with strangers who only want him against a wall or kneeling in a bathroom stall. He likes it. He does not want a relationship or loving words, Hamlet only wants sensation, he wants pain.
The day after his father died, Hamlet entered into Horatio’s room, hair mussed up and eyeliner messily applied. He walked sloppily, leaning against the doorway.
“Fuck me,” he demanded, pressing sloppy kisses to Horatio’s mouth and running his hands down his chest, stomach, down to his groin.
“I need you.”
Horatio stepped back, pushing the man away.
“Hamlet you’re drunk. I can smell the alcohol on your breath,” he stammered, stepping back.
“Horatio. I want you to fuck me,” Hamlet demanded, moving forward, reaching out for Horatio.
“Hamlet, we can wait until you’re sober,” Horatio said, standing his ground as he swatted away at his friend’s hands.
“Fuck me Horatio. I need to feel something. Please,” Hamlet begged, falling to his knees as he began to pull at Horatio’s zipper.
“No, Hamlet,” Horatio sternly, growled, pushing Hamlet off himself.
In his drunken stupor, Hamlet fell over, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Horatio I need you. Please, please do it,” he sniffed.
“Hamlet, if you really want this, we can do it once you’re sober and calm,” Horatio tried to sooth, kneeling down to reach Hamlet’s height.
“Fuck you,” Hamlet snarled, moved forward to slap Horatio across the face. “Fuck you!”
And he ran from the room, wiping tears from his face.
Ophelia called Horatio later, having texted him earlier with no reply.
“Is Hamlet okay?”
“What- I don’t. . . What’s going on?” Horatio stuttered.
“His father is dead. . . Horatio I don’t know where he is.”
Chapter 2: Laertes
Hamlet liked Laertes. He liked how Laertes smelled, how he could relate to fathers too busy with court matters to tend to their children, and most of all, Hamlet liked how Laertes would fuck him.
They had never been close before. Laertes had always been jealous of Hamlet’s position as prince and Hamlet had always wished for Laertes spot out of the limelight. Yet Laertes grew, Laertes trained, and left for France and forced his father to give him the attention he needed.
Hamlet had always been closer to Ophelia. They had played together as children and grew up under the restrictive court together. Ophelia didn’t put on a different personality when she was reminded of Hamlet’s family; she treated Hamlet like a friend, like a brother.
Of course, they were closer than siblings could ever be. Hamlet would never kiss a sibling or finger a sibling in her room under her fairy lights or even take a sibling’s spouse after their death.
But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was Laertes’ dick, throbbing against the back of Hamlet’s throat. Laertes’ muscular, calloused hands were twisted deep into Hamlet’s hair, shoving his face against his groin.
Just when it felt like Hamlet would pass out, Laertes released him. Hamlet pulled back, inhaling in quick, rushed breaths. His dark eyes met Laertes’ eyes, gleaming with a sick satisfaction.
Laertes pulled Hamlet to his feet, grasping the back of his head. Hamlet’s lips crashed into Laertes’, a tsunami smashing onto a beachy shore. Laertes’ bit at Hamlet’s lower lip, their breaths mingling in Laertes’ dark dorm room. The heat from their bodies grew as Laertes left Hamlet’s mouth to nip at his neck and up at his ear.
“Hurt me,” Hamlet whispered, in aching groans. “Please.”
Laertes stepped back with a wicked grin and pulled his arm back, holding it in the air a second too long, as if giving the other boy a moment to escape. Then he swung forward, slapping Hamlet across the face. Hamlet gasped, but his lips curled up in satisfaction.
“What do you want, pretty boy?” Laertes demanded, moving forward to grab Hamlet’s face.
“I want you to fuck me as hard as you can,” Hamlet spat back. “Until I can’t feel anything else.”
Hamlet did not like Laertes. But when he was with Laertes, he couldn’t feel the tightness in his chest and the looming fear that he was some how drowning on dry land. When he was with Laertes, he could forget.