Thread by @xiaofanfan888

Been thinking about post-canon #yanshen, after they’ve grown old together and retired as Huanyue zongzhu and Xuandu Shan zhangjjao.

Yan Wushi and Shen Qiao shared a lazy afternoon together, a platter of snacks sat forgotten on a wooden table, half eaten sweet rice cakes scattered across the dish.

Under the cover of haitang blossoms at Yan Wushi’s residence in Funing County, Shen Qiao cradled his mischievous husband in his lap, carding his fingers rhythmically through Yan Wushi’s hair as the weak afternoon sunlight filtered through the branches.

Years had passed since their meeting at the bottom of Banbu Peak, when Shen Qiao was on the brink of death and Yan Wushi had cruel intentions to darken the Daoist who fell in front of him.

Both were changed people since the first time Shen Qiao woke in this manor, when he had lost his memories and Yu Shengyan insisted that he call him “shixiong.”

Shen Qiao experienced deep suffering, yet at every turn chose to return the world with kindness. His worldview grew from his sheltered upbringing on Xuandu Shan.

Through meeting Yan Wushi and entangling with him, Shen Qiao attained a level of enlightenment that he likely wouldn’t have achieved had he stayed secluded on the mountain.

And everything that had passed, whether painful or joyful, mundane or peculiar, filled Shen Qiao with contentment of a life well-lived alongside the man who lay splayed out beneath him, napping like a cat in the temperate climate.

As Shen Qiao played with his husband’s hair, his hands brushed the back of Yan Wushi’s skull where it had once been cracked open after his fight with five other grandmasters.

Using his finger pads, he gently massaged Yan Wushi’s scalp. Though the most powerful man in the jianghu loathed to admit it, he occasionally had headaches that stemmed from his near-assassination.

Shen Qiao could always tell when Yan Wushi clenched his teeth and his eyes pinched as he tried to suppress his pain when those headaches hit. And regardless of what they were doing, Shen Qiao would make excuses to lead his husband away from prying eyes so he could rest.

And each time he would brew him herbal tea and hold him until it passed.

And each time, Yan Wushi would squeeze his hand in thanks, the only acknowledgement he made of his condition. (Though in the nights after he recovered, Yan Wushi would show special attention to his husband in their shared bed.)

In his older age, Qi Fengge’s disciple spent more time reflecting on nostalgic and painful memories. Without the responsibility of running a sect (and not having to keep up with his husband’s complicated political machinations), he’s had more bandwidth to think.

In moments like these, when it’s just the two of them, and Yan Wushi is still, Shen Qiao can stare at his husband unobstructed.

And he /looks/.

Time has been kind to Yan Wushi. Though he sprouts more crows feet around his eyes and his long, unbound hair has turned completely white, his face remains handsome. Grizzled sideburns that faded into a strong jawline and paired with long, narrow eyes with full lashes and —

— a sharp nose — he’s only grown more charming, aging like the mulberry wine Yan Wushi buried on his property.

Something fine. Something tasteful. Something treasured.

Shen Qiao placed a hand on Yan Wushi’s broad chest, feeling the expansion and contraction of his ribcage as he dozed, and marveled.

What a miracle it was that they sat together under a tree, enjoying each other’s company. After decades of living side-by-side, hundreds of partings and reunions, their love hadn’t changed.

It’s nearly impossible to believe that the demonic sovereign who was cynical and believed most people were ants would yield to Shen Qiao. That after years of walking in bloodshed and navigating a twisted world he would find joy in the arms of a Daoist he sold for his old sword.

But he did. And he loves Shen Qiao.

A slight shift of Yan Wushi’s body alerted Shen Qiao his peace was about to be broken.

“A-Qiao,” his husband sighed as he roused from his nap. He shifted his hands and traced meaningless patterns on his lover’s clothed thigh, languid and unhurried as the last dredges of sleepiness faded.

Shen Qiao looked down and saw dark brown eyes blinking open, lips curving into a familiar smug smile.

“Yan-zongzhu,” Shen Qiao replied warmly.

Yan Wushi clicked his tongue in displeasure. “A-Qiao, we’ve been married for so many years and you still address me so coldly,” he whined. “And besides, are you confusing me with Bian Yanmei? He took over my position years ago,” he pouted.

This complaint was also familiar. Though it’s true Yan Wushi handed over the title of zongzhu to his first disciple, Shen Qiao could not break the habit of referring to his husband as “zongzhu.”

Shen Qiao sighed and smiled exasperatedly. His notoriously thin face will never be a match for his lover’s thick face, but he is better now at dealing with his husband’s incessant teasing without blushing or spitting blood.

And this time, he chose to indulge in what Yan Wushi was fishing for.

He leaned over to press cool lips to the crown of Yan Wushi’s head before sealing his mouth gently against Yan Wushi’s.

When they broke apart, Shen Qiao caressed Yan Wushi’s cheeks with his thumbs and murmured, “I would never mistake you for another … Yan-lang.” /end.

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