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August was well deep into their novel when they noticed Tara watching them, her head tilted, her long, straight red hair falling over her shoulder and spilling over the couch cushions.
It was late on a rare night when the both of them had free time, so they’d opted to sit on the couch together by the fire. Tara was the further one from the fire, as usual, given her high body temperature kept her warmer than August’s did for them.
At length, without lifting their gaze from the page, they said, “You’re doing that thing again, love.”
“What thing?” she asked, her head tipping further to the side.
“You tip your head when you have a particular thought,” they informed her, marking their place with their finger and softly closing the book over the digit.
They glanced up just in time to catch her canting her head the other way in thought, then jolting, shock coloring her features. Her silver eyes were wide and her red lips popped open, a hand flicking up to her cheek.
“Oh, my stars! I never realized—!” she blurted, visibly torn between mortification and amusement. Her cheeks flushed red and she caught their gaze, demanding, “How long have I been doing that?!”
They chuckled at her, tickled by her reaction. “For longer than I’ve known you, I assume.”
She gave a soft curse in Thiryian, her mother tongue, scowling at the floor.
They tugged her chin back up, curious about what had been on her mind before. “Don’t worry about it, my love. It’s one of the things I adore about you.”
Her blush worsened.
Adorable.
“What did you want before I so soundly embarrassed you?” they teased, smirking at her, a brow arched in question.
Her mouth opened, then closed, her gaze skittering away. “Ah, well…” she hedged, shifting in discomfort. “I was wondering how… when?” she asked herself. Shaking her head, she caught their eyes again, saying, “I’ve been struggling with myself for a while, now, trying to think of how to say this. I’ve clearly not come to a decision yet.”
August’s lips quirked, idly stroking their fingers over her cheek. “Perhaps try just saying it?” they suggested.
“But I don’t want to offend you,” she argued, “and this is — well, it could offend you.”
They were starting to get an idea what her question was. “Idling certainly won’t help,” they pointed out. “And don’t worry about that, either. I’m well aware that you’re not the best with words.”
“Point,” she allowed. She took a steadying, thoughtful breath, then finally said, “I suppose a good way to phrase it is…what was it — or when, or…anything — that made you conclude that you aren’t…ah, strictly…masculine?”
The way she hedged and hesitated over certain words made it painfully obvious what she was worried about, but all it managed to do was amuse August the tiniest bit. Rather than be offended, they were glad she’d asked; they were always glad to share their perspective on the subject.
They put their book aside for this, facing her. They had an inkling why she was asking this, too, though they opted not to suggest it just yet. Instead, they cast their mind back, ordering a series of developmental milestones from their past.
“The short answer,” they started, “is that I’ve always preferred feminine things to masculine ones. Clothing, largely, but also mannerisms and possessions. It always felt right,” they told her.
She gave a slow, thoughtful nod, processing that.
“As a child,” they went on, “I liked to wear dresses. I liked how it felt, liked how I looked in them. But Argyria has strict gender roles: dresses for girls, breeches for boys. On top of being the witch heir of a witch school, I was also considered a freak of nature, too.”
She winced at that. “It must have been…difficult,” she offered carefully.
“In certain ways,” they allowed. “Surprisingly, the other children were the most accepting of my predilections. I would borrow dresses from other girls my age and they simply liked to share them.”
She considered that. “How did your parents take it?” she asked.
They gave a shrug, trying not to recall some of their more painful encounters from their youth. “My father has always been a fairly apathetic man. He didn’t particularly care, so long as I did my duties as his heir.” Which, they admitted, they would never do now that they’d left their home and largely denounced their own family name.
Oberon was probably annoyed with them now.
“And your mother…?” Tara asked. “You tend to speak of her like she was a nightmare.”
They gave a laugh. “She’s been a pain in my ass for my entire life,” they informed her. “Frustrating her became a pastime of mine over the years. She was very strict about our way of life,” they explained, “especially when it came to navigating the social hierarchy of Argyria. Stepping out of line was a punishable crime, as far as she was concerned, and I was constantly stepping out of line.”
Tara smiled, but it was a sad thing. “Definitely sounding nightmarish,” she observed.
August sighed, gazing off towards the fire. “It got easier once I convinced Mother that me wearing heels and skirts was far from offensive. Almost every other country didn’t particularly care what anyone wore, so long as they could still do what they were meant to do — and magic and politics have never been hindered by what shoes you were wearing at the time.”
Tara bumped their shoulder with hers, her smile much more genuine. “Well, I’m glad you managed that,” she said, “because you look fantastic in those boots of yours. Just the sound of you walking around in them gets me going, you know.”
They blushed, both thrilled and embarrassed at her words. They gave her a look, taunting, “I’d love to see you in a pair of them sometime, too.”
That had her blushing, her head canting as she considered it. Then, shaking herself, she said, “I’ve definitely thought about it, and yes, that is entirely your fault, darling.”
They chuckled. “To answer your original question,” they started over, “I’ve simply always found femininity more appealing. Growing up I even tended to find boys more attractive than girls.”
At that, she looked a little flustered. Her eyes clouded and she glanced away.
Not allowing that, they tugged her chin back to them, kissing her soundly on the mouth. “Have you forgotten, my love?” they teased her, giving her a firm look. “I believe I told you before to keep your eyes on me.”
She flushed again. “That was months ago,” she pointed out.
“And in that time, have I ever rescinded the order?” they returned.
Her lips twitched, amused. “No,” she admitted. “So this order is without a limit, then, is it?”
“Interminable,” they agreed.
She snorted. Leaning back against the couch, she checked, “So this was just a feeling you’ve always had — no big revelations or anything?”
“There were… moments,” they allowed, leaning back as well, holding her gaze. “The first time I put on my mother’s rouge, for instance. I didn’t like the color, but I instantly liked that I could put color on my lips, and I liked the feel besides.”
“Really?” she prompted, surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear rouge.”
“I generally keep away from makeup regardless,” they said, “for the simple fact that it’s impractical. It takes up too much of my time to apply it, and, well…I never had a very good reason to, either,” they hedged. “I only dated very rarely, and my job consumed almost all of my time.”
She inclined her head in a vague agreement.
Then, gesturing her, they asked, “And what about you?”
“Me?” she checked, brows lifting in query.
“You asked me this question with a purpose,” they said, certain of it. “What was the purpose, Tara?”
She bit her lip, her gaze shifting to the floor, darting about from spot to spot. “I suppose,” she murmured, subdued, “I was looking for some insight.”
They’d thought so. “And did you find it?” they asked softly, gently.
“A bit,” she allowed. “You put some things into perspective for me.”
They didn’t want to push her to say anything she wasn’t comfortable admitting yet, so they merely asked, “Has it helped?”
She nodded, her lips turning in a little smile as she looked back up at them. “As it turns out,” she said, “we’re more similar than I’d thought. I’m the opposite of you — I’ve never felt or particularly liked anything feminine. I don’t have anything against dresses and skirts and jewelry,” she explained, “but I’ve never liked it, either.”
They could definitely see that, August thought. Of everything Tara was, feminine had never been one of them.
She continued, “I didn’t have a lot of freedom in my childhood to wear pretty things, but the few times I did, I didn’t like the way it looked or felt on me. I suppose you could say my reflection looked wrong,” she told them. “It just all felt weird.”
“Do you feel weird?” they asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve never had a problem thinking of myself as a woman,” she answered, “I’ve just always been more drawn to masculine things. Clothes and fashion, especially. Like,” she added, thoughtful, “I can tell, objectively, when something is beautiful or pretty or cute. I recognize it just fine. I’ve just rarely liked things like that.”
Your magic is beautiful and unique, just like you, she’d told August all those months ago, a few days after they’d met. Aloud, they said, “You said I was beautiful.”
“You are,” she agreed, giving them a warm, fond look. “You’re absolutely stunning. I’ve never been so ridiculously attracted to someone before. I don’t think I could ever put into words why, but I also don’t think it matters much. I love you,” she said, sliding closer to them, “and that trumps everything else.”
August shifted with her, the two of them slipping together like two perfect puzzle pieces, their arms circling one another without need for direction.
“That,” they murmured to her, nuzzling into her cheek, “is exactly how I feel about you, too.”
She grinned. “Sounds like we struck gold with each other, didn’t we?” she teased.
They ran their fingers through her hair, watching the way the red strands slipped from their grip, admiring the fiery color and how it strongly opposed their own bluish-black hair.
“Opposites attract,” they mused, withdrawing far enough to give her a loving smile. “Romantic as it is, I always thought it was truly impossible in the real world.” Catching her eyes, they purred low, “I’ve never been happier to have been wrong.”
She kissed them, leaning into them, guiding them back. They moved together on the couch, legs tangling as the kiss grew gradually deeper and deeper.
She broke the kiss after a few moments, bracing herself over August, her hair falling around them like a curtain. Her head canted as she looked down at them, and then she grinned.
“What are you thinking?” they wondered, stroking along the side of her neck.
“I’m thinking…of switching things up a little bit,” she answered. Leaning down, she nipped at their jaw, explaining, “You drive me wild so often and so well, my darling… I’d love to do the same to you this time.”
A heavy thrill raced through them, knotting in their belly and sending tingles all through their body. The very concept she’d outlined was already making them react, their magic starting to dance along their skin.
Their voice wasn’t quite steady as they asked, “So you’re going to give me orders, then, love?”
She made an affirmative noise, kissing down their neck. When her lips made it to the base of their throat, she finally lifted her head again, giving them a wicked grin. “I’m going to tell you what to do and how,” she purred, “and you’re going to do it — no questions, no complaints, no arguments. Deal?”
They bit their lip, hard, nodding. “Deal,” they agreed a little breathlessly, a little shocked and a lot delighted with the way their life had gone.
Meeting Tara was, unequivocally, the best thing that had ever happened to them. In some ways it was almost ridiculous to consider, that August Willenheim (elegant General-turned-Lieutenant, master witch, control freak, and closet smut enthusiast) could find themself so desperately in love with Tara Sand (relentless Hunter, battle-hardened warrior, and alternately disrespectful and submissive wildling).
Where they were cold and strict, she was hot and explosive. Where they were self-controlled and eloquent, she was brash and playful. Where they were thin and flawless, she was tattooed and scarred. Where they looked beautiful in pastel blues and violets, she looked killer in blacks and dark reds.
Yet they had so much in common too: their predilections for justice, their knee-jerk reactions to protect the defenseless, their love of books and reading. They liked the same foods, the same wines, the same horribly-written smut.
They ran the Enforcers and the Hunters in nearly opposite ways, but even those differences were vital; they both knew their side of the Agency better than the other, knew the ways they needed to handle their underlings.
And, they mused as her hands started to wander over their chest, undoing the buttons of their clothes, they suspected they were going to learn another way they were complete opposites very, very soon.