Work Text:
Shen Qingqiu was not the sort of person to get flustered easily.
Or at least, he liked to believe that.
And yet, here he was, loitering by a silk vendor’s stall, his hands clenched behind his back like a guilty teenager caught sneaking out past curfew.
What exactly was he doing? Considering gifts for his husband. His husband. The word alone made him feel unreasonably warm, even after months of marriage.
It wasn’t as though Luo Binghe needed anything. If he wanted silk robes finer than imperial brocade, he could procure them with a flick of his hand. If he wanted rare treasures, they would practically fall into his lap. And if Shen Qingqiu asked him what he wanted, the answer would likely be some insufferable variation of Shizun, I only want you~ accompanied by a pitiful, expectant gaze.
Ugh.
Still, it was Valentine’s Day, and though Luo Binghe was ignorant of the tradition, Shen Qingqiu was not. No one in this world celebrated it, which only made it worse. If Luo Binghe ever found out the origins of this sudden outpouring of affection, he would never let Shen Qingqiu hear the end of it.
The thought alone made him want to flee.
“Something for your wife, gongzi?” the silk vendor asked brightly, holding up an embroidered handkerchief. “A little keepsake for your beloved?”
Shen Qingqiu choked.
“My what—” His expression twisted in offense. “I don’t—why would you—”
The vendor, an older man with the sly patience of someone who had successfully sold lovers’ trinkets for years, smiled knowingly. “No need to be shy, young master. The way you’ve been pacing in front of my stall tells me enough! Come, a little gift would surely make your wife happy—”
“I do not have a wife!” Shen Qingqiu hissed.
But the protest barely left his lips before something hot and treacherous unfurled in his chest—a memory, unbidden and far too vivid.
A darkened room, the scent of incense curling in the air. Warm breath against his throat, his skin flushed and burning. Luo Binghe’s voice, low and unguarded, murmuring against his ear—
“Wife.”
Shen Qingqiu’s stomach twisted. The way Luo Binghe had said it—not in jest, not even in that usual teasing lilt, but something deeper, something real. A single word spoken against sweat-damp skin, hoarse with reverence, worshipful in its intimacy.
His fingers curled tight at his sleeves, a sharp breath catching in his throat.
No. No, absolutely not. That night had been—He was not thinking about that.
He squared his shoulders, forcing the memory back down where it belonged. Buried. Forgotten. Denied.
“I do not have a wife,” he repeated, voice sharper this time. “And I certainly don’t need any ridiculous trinkets.”
The vendor only hummed, undeterred. “Ah, but that just means you’re in denial, young master. A fine man like yourself, surely there must be someone—”
Shen Qingqiu turned away, ears burning, only to spot a different stall selling sugared fruits.
Luo Binghe liked sweets.
That was an undeniable fact. Maybe that was the answer—something small, something thoughtful, something that wouldn’t make him feel like he was baring his entire heart on a platter.
Yes. That would do.
He exhaled, gathering his composure as he approached the merchant.
But he wasn’t as inconspicuous as he thought.
From a short distance away, unseen yet ever watchful, Luo Binghe’s gaze lingered.
He was beginning to suspect.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his Shizun. He did. With his life, even.
But there was something undeniably suspicious about Shen Qingqiu’s recent behavior. He had said he was going to talk with the villagers about a lingering spirit issue, yet he had wandered the marketplace instead. He had said he’d be back before lunch, yet he returned in the late afternoon, looking slightly flushed and agitated.
And when Luo Binghe had gently asked him how it went?
“Fine.”
Just fine.
No other details, no elaboration. If it weren’t Shen Qingqiu, Luo Binghe would have assumed some sort of affair.
The thought made his mood sink like a stone.
He knew, logically, that Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t leave him. He knew, logically, that there was no one else who could possibly hold his Shizun’s heart. But something was off, and the fact that Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t tell him only made it worse.
So, when Shen Qingqiu returned that evening, Luo Binghe was waiting—dinner already prepared, his expression perfectly neutral.
Shen Qingqiu sat, picked up his chopsticks, and chewed.
It took him only a few moments to notice.
“Binghe?” He eyed him carefully. “You’re unusually quiet.”
Luo Binghe continued to eat. “Am I?”
“…Yes.”
A pause.
Shen Qingqiu squinted at him.
Something was off. Luo Binghe was being perfectly polite, perfectly attentive, but there was a subtle downturn to his mouth, an edge of…melancholy?
Shen Qingqiu hesitated, then set down his chopsticks. “…What’s wrong?”
Luo Binghe sighed. “Shizun,” he said, quiet and hurt, “I know you weren’t where you said you’d be today..”
Shen Qingqiu stiffened. “I—”
“Why are you lying to me?” Luo Binghe’s eyes shifted, hurt flickering across his face as his brows knit together. His lips parted slightly before pressing into a small, trembling pout. “Why are you sneaking around? Is there something you don’t want me to know?”
Shen Qingqiu froze.
Oh. Oh.
The blood rushed to his face so fast he thought he might actually die from secondhand embarrassment. Luo Binghe thought—he thought—
His mind blanked, his mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Luo Binghe, of course, saw his hesitation and immediately misread it. His face fell.
Shen Qingqiu panicked. “I—Binghe—just—” He swallowed, grasping at words. “Just trust me, alright? You’ll know everything soon, I promise.”
Luo Binghe looked wounded. “Shizun…”
Shen Qingqiu winced.
“…Fine,” Luo Binghe relented, though his voice was soft with disappointment.
It didn’t sit well. But what else could Shen Qingqiu do? Explain the concept of a modern-day holiday and a tradition of giving gifts and love confessions? Absolutely not.
So instead, that night, he made sure to reassure him.
When they lay in bed, Shen Qingqiu held Luo Binghe close, pressing a silent promise into the curve of his shoulder. He stroked his hair, slow and deliberate, letting his fingers card through the soft strands as he murmured quiet praises—about the meal, about his thoughtfulness.
He felt the way Luo Binghe relaxed beneath his touch, tension unwinding bit by bit. The way his grip tightened for just a moment before loosening, as if still afraid this comfort might slip through his fingers. Still uneasy. Still uncertain. But comforted, if only for now.
Shen Qingqiu stayed awake long after Luo Binghe had dozed off, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. His heart felt impossibly full, and impossibly heavy all at once.
He had been through so much. They had been through so much.
Shen Qingqiu tightened his hold ever so slightly, pressing his forehead to Luo Binghe’s temple.
Soon.
Soon, he would show him.
Days passed, and with each one, Luo Binghe’s anxiety grew.
Shen Qingqiu meant well—he truly did. But in his preoccupation with finding the perfect gift, he failed to notice the subtle shifts in Luo Binghe’s demeanor. The way his smiles became just a little more strained, the way his grip lingered a little longer, as if afraid Shen Qingqiu might slip away.
By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, Luo Binghe had reached his limit.
When Shen Qingqiu attempted to slip out of bed that morning, internally frantic over his failed attempts at finding the perfect gift for his husband, he was immediately thwarted by a warm, clinging weight pulling him back.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe murmured into his neck, voice thick with sleep, his breath warm against Shen Qingqiu’s skin. “Don’t leave again today.”
Shen Qingqiu hesitated.
Luo Binghe’s hold on him tightened, arms wrapping around him with quiet desperation. His body was warm, solid, and so unwilling to let go. He buried his face against the curve of Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder, lashes fluttering as he pressed closer. “Stay with me.”
Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly, lips twitching. “Binghe…”
“Just for today,” Luo Binghe pleaded, his voice almost a whisper now, as if afraid to shatter the fragile moment between them. He shifted, tangling himself around Shen Qingqiu like an overgrown octopus, his embrace possessive yet achingly gentle. “Don’t go.”
Shen Qingqiu smiled faintly, feeling an unexpected warmth bloom in his chest. Luo Binghe had always been like this—hungry for closeness, for reassurance, for proof that Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t disappear the moment he loosened his grip. And though he often grumbled about it, deep down, he didn’t mind. Not really.
With a quiet sigh, he reached up and threaded his fingers through Luo Binghe’s hair, the strands soft beneath his touch. He felt the way Luo Binghe relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing, the way his breathing evened out as if this—just this—was enough to soothe him.
He indulged him just a little longer, letting his hand trail down to rest against his back, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breaths. The weight of him, the warmth of him. A reminder that he was here, real and unwavering, waiting for Shen Qingqiu to simply stay.
And that was when he realized what a fool he’d been.
It wasn’t trinkets, tokens, or keepsakes that Luo Binghe longed for. It wasn’t an embroidered handkerchief from a market stall or any other thing Shen Qingqiu could buy. What Luo Binghe wanted was this. The quiet, unspoken moments. The mornings where he woke up to find his Shizun still beside him, real and warm beneath his touch.
Him.
Luo Binghe, half-asleep, just tightened his arms around him, as if anchoring him there, where he belonged.
Shen Qingqiu let out a soft sigh before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Luo Binghe’s head. “Alright,” he murmured at last. “…Let’s spend the day together. Just you and me.”
Luo Binghe froze.
Then, slowly, his head lifted, wide, dark eyes searching Shen Qingqiu’s face as if afraid to believe it. “…Really?”
Shen Qingqiu chuckled, warmth threading through his voice as he leaned down to press a kiss to Luo Binghe’s forehead. “Yes.”
Luo Binghe’s entire face lit up, joy so unfiltered, so immediate, that something in Shen Qingqiu’s chest clenched tight.
And then, before he could think, before he could prepare, Luo Binghe surged forward, capturing his lips in an eager, breathless kiss.
Shen Qingqiu made a soft noise of protest—more out of reflex than true resistance—but Luo Binghe only deepened the kiss, coaxing him open. The heat between them built slowly, unfurling like embers catching fire, the space between them vanishing as Luo Binghe’s arms tightened around him, pulling him closer, closer—
Shen Qingqiu sighed against his lips, surrendering, just for a little while.
Luo Binghe held him close. His kisses were unhurried but consuming, lingering as if to make up for all the times Shen Qingqiu had slipped away before he could properly hold onto him.
But today, he wouldn’t.
There was no looming disaster, no urgent matter demanding Shen Qingqiu’s attention. No excuse to leave. Just the quiet warmth of morning, the soft rustling of blankets, and the steady press of Luo Binghe’s heartbeat against his own.
So, they spent the day together.
Cooking breakfast side by side—though Shen Qingqiu quickly realized that Luo Binghe, ever the overachiever, had no intention of letting him lift a finger.
“Shizun, just sit. I’ll take care of everything.”
Luo Binghe all but guided him into a chair with an eager determination that was both endearing and exasperating. Shen Qingqiu sighed, resigned, but as he watched Luo Binghe move around the kitchen with practiced ease—sleeves rolled up, his expression was focused, warm in the soft morning light, and though Shen Qingqiu would never admit it aloud, his husband truly was unfairly handsome.
Later, they walked by the river, the afternoon breeze carrying the scent of fresh water and blooming wildflowers. The sun caught in Luo Binghe’s dark hair, casting auburn glints through the strands. His beauty was the kind that unsettled—sharp and striking, yet devastatingly soft when he turned those eyes on Shen Qingqiu, filled with nothing but adoration.
Shen Qingqiu exhaled, glancing down at the space between them. His fingers twitched at his sides. It was just a simple gesture, nothing unusual. And yet, his heart thudded painfully as he hesitated—before finally, tentatively, reaching out.
Fingers brushed.
Luo Binghe immediately entwined their hands, as if he’d been waiting for it all along. His grip was warm, steady.
Shen Qingqiu huffed in quiet embarrassment, already regretting his decision, but then—Luo Binghe looked at him. And the sheer, unguarded joy in his expression made it impossible to pull away.
His husband, the all-powerful Demon Lord, looked as though he had just ascended to the heavens from sheer happiness.
Shen Qingqiu sighed. There truly was no saving this fool.
And yet, as Luo Binghe’s thumb brushed over his knuckles in a soft, reverent caress, he thought—perhaps he didn’t want to.
Later, beneath the starlit sky, as the quiet hum of the day had faded into the distant murmur of the night, Luo Binghe finally asked:
“Shizun…why were you acting so distant before?”
Shen Qingqiu hesitated. The answer was simple, yet somehow difficult to say aloud.
Then, softly—
“…I just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”
Luo Binghe stilled. And then—before Shen Qingqiu could say another word—he was being pulled into his arms, kissed breathless, held as though he were the most precious thing in existence.
And as Luo Binghe whispered his name between reverent kisses, hands cradling him with an almost unbearable tenderness—
Shen Qingqiu thought, maybe, he had succeeded.
Luo Binghe was happy.
No—happy was an understatement.
He was elated. Overjoyed. Practically glowing from the sheer amount of affection Shen Qingqiu had showered on him today.
Holding his hand in public? Cuddling him so openly? Saying, “Let’s spend the day together” without any coaxing?
If he hadn’t experienced it firsthand, he would have assumed it was a fever dream.
Even now, long after the sun had set and the warmth of the day lingered in his chest, Luo Binghe could still feel the ghost of Shen Qingqiu’s fingers between his own, the soft press of his hand, the quiet indulgence in his kisses. It had been real. Shen Qingqiu had chosen to stay.
And yet…something nagged at him.
This wasn’t just a moment of indulgence. Shen Qingqiu had meant something by all this. He had planned it, intentional in a way he rarely was when it came to displays of affection.
Luo Binghe was certain. But what?
He frowned, his grip tightening ever so slightly around Shen Qingqiu’s waist as they walked. Was it a test? A distraction? Or… was it leading to something more?
He didn’t know. But he would find out.
As they lay together in bed that night, Luo Binghe nuzzled against Shen Qingqiu’s chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—cool sandalwood with the faintest hint of ink.
“Shizun…” he murmured, voice thick with drowsy curiosity. “Why today?”
Shen Qingqiu stiffened ever so slightly.
Luo Binghe noticed.
His grip tightened the barest fraction, his lashes fluttering against Shen Qingqiu’s collarbone. Sleepy as he was, there was a quiet attentiveness in the way he waited—a patience that meant he wasn’t going to let this question slip away.
Beneath the cover of darkness, Shen Qingqiu hesitated, his mind racing for a plausible excuse. Something vague. Something that wouldn’t lead to further questioning.
But exhaustion made him careless, and after a long sigh, he absently rubbed slow, soothing circles against Luo Binghe’s back, murmuring, “It’s…Valentine’s Day.”
A beat of silence.
Luo Binghe blinked against his chest.
A long pause.
Then, muffled against his robes, “…What is that?”
Shen Qingqiu froze.
Oh no.
A normal person would deflect. A normal person would make up some vague excuse and call it a night.
But Shen Qingqiu was still half-asleep, and before he could stop himself, he mumbled, “…It’s a day where people give gifts and show affection to the ones they love.”
The room fell silent.
Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, Luo Binghe’s arms tightened.
Shen Qingqiu’s eyes snapped open, the weight of his own words crashing over him too late.
Luo Binghe quivered with joy, a shudder that coursed through his entire body like a bolt of divine enlightenment. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a dangerous mix of delight and smug realization.
“So…Shizun spent all this time secretly preparing to celebrate a day of love with me?”
Shen Qingqiu, now fully, terrifyingly awake, went rigid.
Luo Binghe lifted his head, peering at him in the dim light with barely contained glee. His eyes gleamed—soft with adoration, but sharp with victory.
He knew.
He knew, and he was enjoying this far too much.
“I—no, I—” Shen Qingqiu floundered, his entire body burning as he grasped for an escape, a denial, anything—but his mind had betrayed him, left behind in the haze of exhaustion.
Luo Binghe grinned. Smirked, even. The unbearable brat!
And then, with a voice positively dripping with satisfaction, he murmured, “Shizun…did you court me today?”
Shen Qingqiu let out a strangled noise and immediately shoved Luo Binghe’s face back down into his chest.
“Go to sleep!” he snapped.
Luo Binghe’s muffled laughter vibrated against his skin, smug and utterly insufferable, but his hold on Shen Qingqiu only grew firmer.
His heart was so full it ached.
His Shizun loved him. Not just in words, but in action. Shen Qingqiu had planned something, had worried over it, all just to make Luo Binghe feel cherished.
Even if Shen Qingqiu refused to admit it aloud, Luo Binghe knew.
And that knowledge was sweeter than any gift.
Luo Binghe drifted into sleep that night with his arms securely wrapped around Shen Qingqiu, feeling warm, content, and perhaps just the tiniest bit smug.
Shen Qingqiu thought the matter was over.
It was not.
Because the next morning, Luo Binghe was unbearable.
He trailed behind Shen Qingqiu from the moment he woke up, his expression so obnoxiously happy that it was downright suspicious.
Shen Qingqiu picked up his teacup. Luo Binghe beamed.
Shen Qingqiu sat down. Luo Binghe beamed harder.
Shen Qingqiu breathed, and Luo Binghe looked like he might ascend to immortality out of sheer bliss.
Shen Qingqiu regretted everything.
“What,” he gritted out, “are you so pleased about?”
Luo Binghe just sighed dreamily, as if recalling the most beautiful moment of his entire existence.
“Shizun,” he murmured, resting his chin in his palm, “yesterday…I was really so happy. My heart still feels full just thinking about it.”
Shen Qingqiu choked on his tea.
Spluttered. Coughed. Nearly died.
Luo Binghe watched with deep satisfaction, radiating so much affection that it was nearly blinding.
“I didn’t know there was a whole day dedicated to love,” he mused, his tone suspiciously thoughtful. “I think we should celebrate it every year, don’t you, Shizun?”
Shen Qingqiu wiped his mouth aggressively, glaring. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
Luo Binghe didn’t even bother to deny it.
And as Shen Qingqiu met the pure, unrestrained delight in his husband’s face, he had the sinking feeling that he would never, ever live this down.
Of course, now that Luo Binghe knew about Valentine’s Day, things escalated.
The following year, as February approached, Luo Binghe’s anticipation was palpable. One evening, he leaned in close, his breath warm against Shen Qingqiu’s ear, and murmured, “Shizun, it’s tradition for lovers to exchange gifts on this day, isn’t it?”
Shen Qingqiu, caught off guard, could only nod, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
The year after that, Luo Binghe’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. Each day leading up to Valentine’s, Shen Qingqiu discovered small, meaningful gifts awaiting him:
-A finely crafted jade pendant, symbolizing protection and longevity.
-A collection of rare teas from distant regions, each selected to suit his palate.
-Handwritten poems, the calligraphy elegant, expressing Luo Binghe’s deepest affections.
Each gift was more carefully selected than the last, reflecting Luo Binghe’s deepening love and attention to detail.
And the year after that?
Shen Qingqiu entered their bedroom to find it transformed. A silk canopy of red rose petals draped elegantly from the ceiling, casting a warm, romantic glow.
He stared at the display, speechless. “Binghe, this is…”
Before he could finish, Luo Binghe closed the distance between them, capturing his lips in a kiss that was both passionate and tender.
When they finally parted, breathless, Shen Qingqiu managed to say, “This is absurd.”
Luo Binghe’s eyes sparkled with mischief and love. “Only the best for my Shizun.”
And honestly…
Shen Qingqiu couldn’t even be mad about it.
Bonus Scene: Love Day
Shen Qingqiu never intended to start a tradition.
Truly.
He had only ever wanted to do something simple—just a private little gesture, something quiet and personal for Luo Binghe. A way to show him, year after year, that despite everything, despite his own awkwardness and reluctance to say it outright…he loved him.
So, every year, on that same day, they spent it together.
It wasn’t always extravagant. Some years, it was just a shared meal in the mountains, Luo Binghe cooking while Shen Qingqiu sat nearby, correcting his knife techniques and pretending not to enjoy being doted on. Other years, they traveled to peaceful little towns, wandering through bustling night markets, fingers brushing as they walked side by side.
And sometimes, it was something even simpler—a quiet evening beneath the stars, their hands clasped, Luo Binghe resting his head in Shen Qingqiu’s lap as he whispered, “This is my favorite day of the year.”
Shen Qingqiu always grumbled about that—because what about his birthday? What about New Year’s? But Luo Binghe would just smile, nuzzling closer, and say, “Because this is the day Shizun always makes me feel the most loved.”
And every time, Shen Qingqiu would feel something squeeze unbearably tight in his chest.
He never thought much about the outside world noticing.
But of course, they did.
After all, Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe were not ordinary people.
And people watched them.
Cultivators, merchants, even common townsfolk—those who saw them over the years remembered. Stories spread of how the great Demon Lord and the revered Peak Lord of Qing Jing would, every year without fail, take a single day away from the chaos of the world…just for each other.
No battles. No politics. No war.
Just love.
At first, it was just an odd rumor.
But then, the idea caught on.
Some young cultivators, hearing the tale, began following the example. A single day set aside to cherish the one they loved—what could be more romantic?
Merchants, ever opportunistic, began selling small trinkets and sweets to commemorate the occasion. Scholars wrote poems about the devotion between Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe, their love so steadfast that it had carved out a day in time itself.
And then—inevitably—a song was written.
A traveling bard, having once glimpsed them in a small town, composed a ballad about the two lovers who, despite heaven and earth trying to pull them apart, found each other again and again.
And just like that…a tradition was born.
A day for love.
Not just for grand, legendary romances like theirs—but for everyone.
Shen Qingqiu did not realize any of this until much, much later.
One day, as they were passing through a village, he overheard a conversation between two young disciples.
“Did you prepare a gift for the Love Day festival?”
“Of course! How could I not? Everyone knows if you don’t spend the day with your beloved, it’s bad luck.”
“Oh, I read that tradition started from that old legend! You know, about the Qing Jing Peak Lord and his demon husband?”
“I heard they take this day every year, no matter what, just to be together.”
Shen Qingqiu paused mid-step.
“…Binghe,” he said slowly, turning toward his husband, “what—what are they talking about?”
Luo Binghe blinked at him, all wide eyes and feigned innocence. “What do you mean, Shizun?”
Shen Qingqiu gestured vaguely at the entire town—red banners, couples exchanging gifts, vendors selling sweets and poetry scrolls—his expression rapidly descending into horror.
“This—this is because of us?”
Luo Binghe smiled, utterly pleased. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
Shen Qingqiu stared at him.
“No, it is not wonderful, Luo Binghe, it’s mortifying!”
Luo Binghe just sighed dreamily, looking around with the utmost satisfaction. “Our love became legend, Shizun. It’s poetic.”
Shen Qingqiu covered his face with both hands.
And, unfortunately for him, the story had already been written in history.
No matter how much he denied it, no matter how many times he tried to ignore it—every year, without fail, when Love Day arrived, the world would celebrate.
Just like he and Luo Binghe always did.
And somehow, that made Luo Binghe happier than anything else.
Thus is the story of how Love Day, a.k.a. Valentine’s Day, became an official holiday in the cultivation world—thanks to one lovestruck Demon Lord and his eternally suffering husband.