I. Da Qiao's Hair
Pairing: Da Qiao/Sun Ce
Rating: PG-13 for mild language and mature themes
Category: Romance
Completion: One-shot, completed
Disclaimer: Dynasty Warriors belongs to Koei
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And he had always loved her best when she wore her hair like that, twisted up with little loose ends spilling out and downward, tickling at her neck, tracing themselves against the side of her jaw in that way that made his fingertips attempt to curl up with envy. He loved her when she'd wear it that way just for him, smiling rather awkwardly and trying to hide it, because she was wearing her hair up and it was spilling outward, going everywhere, laying low. He wished that she would wear it that way always and match her clothing and her personality to those little dangling strands, with her bra straps and shoelaces and sharpened wit all slightly loose and disorderly, the little hints of lighter brown in her eyes breaking out of order and twisting up like steam. The way those strands of long black hair would fall so simply, so tastefully against her smooth, creamy neck, the way she would push them behind her ears with the back of her hand, the way that she looked when she was trying so hard not to let him know that it was for him, all, everything, simply and undoubtedly for him, was when he loved her best, loving her in that obsessive way that all men do when they are in the presence of something that they could never hope to perpetuate.
And when he kissed her on the neck, he'd push the little swirling ballerina hairs away, sinking his lips into her skin and breathing in the scent of her shampoo. When he came in, it was to meet her and those hairs that slipped away from her bun and tumbled down in a little cascade of bounce and twist, and it was Da's hair that he buried his nose into to relieve it of the scent of blood, those things that he was usually so fascinated by. He allowed the way they dangled there, dangling so simply and so elegantly, to become his master, his entrancement fed and provoked by the way that she didn't even know what it meant to him to have those hairs there, by the way that she didn't know that he probably loved her hairs much more than he loved her some of the time.
And when he was done planning with Zhou Yu, when he had extinguished the lamplight and passed through the cobwebbed interiors of long-lonely passageways, when he'd brush softly and silently against a tapestry trying so fiercely not to wake the sleeping people, he thought of her, coming back always to the way that she'd worn her hair, the way that she put it up for him and how the little pieces fell out just like that, just so calmly, so rationally. In a world where there was not much to look forward to, her hairs were his. Maybe it was silly, maybe it was the Sun family scorn for love of a person, for passion for someone of a lower class than they, but he felt that those hairs were sometimes all he had to live for, all he had to grasp when Zhou Yu talked of the future to them and all of a sudden war was rushing closer and closer to meet them and to usher them into the vast, great, terrible, horrifying beyond. He didn't want to let go of them, he didn't want to. He couldn't.
He knew that she wore her hair like that especially for him, because she knew he loved it, because she understood somehow in her shallow, frightened, self-conscious existence that he somehow needed it, because she loved him in her own way and even though she blushed, she wanted him, she wanted him to see her with her hair that way if it pleased him, wanted him to want her.
And he knew that he loved at least her hair. That was what mattered. That was what was important.