Hey...sorry life has been mad. Enjoy this first installment of a Twelfth Night inspired bdsm slow burn romance. And the main is non binary - like me. She/they for either of us. Thanks and be safe! This story will jump a lot of categories, so you have been warned.
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I felt the looks as I rushed down the hall to my seminar and internally shriveled like a leaf. I knew that despite the little suit and my chest binder and my hair being up and my little hat, they did not see a person, even less one that was fluid. They saw a girl. I looked too soft, I was 5'4 no matter what I did, my hair that I loved was too long. And the irony is when I would feel womanly, I would think my face was too mannish, my manners too awkward, and my hair too much.
Please, I have to present my question on Midsummer Night's Dream tonight. Please, I need things to go well.
"Welcome Ms. Crawford! Right on time!"
Fuck.
I sat down, the eye more friendly but still unsettling. I grabbed my book and my slip of paper. I didn't really remember asking the question afterwards, but my interest in the role of deception in the love portrayed in the play was well received.
Love potions, asses heads, the changeling boy. How at the end the love birds were back to where they were emotionally before the strife began...love potions in fiction reveal what was always there.
Theories were floated, from love itself being a dream, to the forest representing some sort of cleansing mental state. The discussion was incredibly lively and I did my best, getting encouraging glances from my friend Laurie all the while. But while I was supposed to be happy, my mind was in a different place, a bad one. I suppressed a curse as I noticed my binder getting uncomfortably tight - I had worn it too long.
I'll tough it out. I've toughed out much before.
Before long class had come to an end and it was here where things really went wrong. First, I forgot my to-go mug and had to run back for it, colliding with a professor in the process. Secondly, I had to wait in the ladies room to slip off my binder,trying to ignore the looks. I thought myself safe when I finally emerged, my jacket wrapped around my shoulders and dragging my little canvas backpack. I began a sprint back to my dorm over the brick walkways - and slipped on a discarded doughnut.
The world spun as I fell and on instinct my hand shot out.
OWWW OW FUCK DO I HAVE A HAND ANYMORE?
I sat back, and hesitantly looked at my slight hand that had just saved me from a mortifying death by clumsy. Warm soft blood dripped onto the brick and three small rocks from the landscaping gravel were embedded in my palm. The pain was one of those messy pains that sound like they shouldn't feel like much, but practically knock you flat. My hand ached like one of my debilitating migraines, and all I could do for a moment was cradle my wounded hand in my good one, willing myself not to cry and calm down. I want to slip away and nurse myself in peace.
Why can't I ever get it right. Why can't I be normal and high achieving and not worry the one adult who really gives a shit...
"That's a pretty nasty wound. Need some help?" A welcome and yet not voice sounded above me, and I heard a slight rustle of fabric as he bent down next to me.
If someone randomly asked me who Gale Witmore was, I might have said he was a fellow student, the head of the fencing club, and a brief member of the same creative writing club I belonged to. If pressed, I might have added that there were rumors about old money, that he was into climate activism, and that he was often pulled together except for a massive bag of pistachios that he would munch on while ruminating. If really really pressed I would add that I found him interesting.
I would lock away the fact I found his style dashing, that I admired the way he took the lead in class discussions and stated all his points with elegant self assurance (unlike me), the way he was always thoughtful to others and tread them with respect, and the way his butt looked in jeans when he went up to the blackboard to do a demonstration - definitely not that last one.
Or worse still, the little flash of butterflies I got as he put his hand on my shoulder and at the little unidentified edge in his voice as he asked "Are you okay?"
"Yes I'm fine thank you I really should be going," I blurted out in a run on sentence as I started up and tried to grab what I could, feeling my cheeks glow with mortification.
I'm a real Sisyphus, aren't I? Definitely never going to be together acting, however much I try.
"You're going to need help," Gale was picking up my books and putting them back into my bag unbidden, and I noticed for some unfathomable reason how well his mop of dark curls and strong cheekbones went together. I flinched internally as he picked up the precious notebook with all my scribbles in it. My stories and essays and shitty poems and secrets.
But he gently brushed it off and put it back as carefully as the rest. I made to rise and thank him in an attempt to salvage my dignity and because he really helped me. I very rarely allowed anyone to help me.
"Nope. Stay right there. I'm going to check that you have all your stuff, and then we're going up to my suite. I have a first aid kit and one of my aunts is a doctor so I know how to do bandages," and without skipping a beat he pressed a handkerchief on my hands. "Wrap it temporarily and not firmly. You should probably notify a friend of where you are. I know you don't know me well...what is your full name, Mx. Crawford?"
What. What the hell is going on. The audacity. He thinks he can just get me to follow him to his suite? What a fucking joke. OF COURSE he's just a weird creep! And he just admitted it! He doesn't know your name!
