I Sealed the Demon Lord for a Hundred Years, Now He Wants His Jailer novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Soup and Chains

Wuhen wakes chained to the demon lord's bed, insults the first meal, and takes Chenjue's mouth on him; under his ribs something glows.

"Yes," Wuhen said. "I signed it myself. Don't make a speech."

Chenjue's hand stayed flat on his belly, and the heat in it climbed until it almost hurt.

"You think I'm going to shout."

"I think you're going to do something worse and call it a favor," Wuhen said.

"Hm."

Chenjue took his hand away and stood.

The red lanterns threw his shadow across the whole wall, horns and all.

He went to the door, said three low words to someone outside, and came back to the bed.

"Here are my terms, Jailer."

"I wasn't aware I was negotiating," Wuhen replied.

"You sleep in my bed. You eat what I put in front of you. You do not die in my palace."

Wuhen looked at the jade link on his ankle, and then at the man.

"And in return?"

"In return I put back what the seal took," Chenjue answered.

"How?"

Chenjue's mouth curved.

"Your core is empty, and mine is full. There's only one fast way to pour one into the other.

You know exactly what it is."

Wuhen did know.

Heat went up the back of his neck, and he hated it.

"Say it plainly," he said. "You want to fuck me."

"I've wanted to fuck you for a hundred years."

Chenjue leaned down until his horns almost touched the pillow.

"I'll be furious with you the whole time. Both of those are true."

"How restful."

A knock came at the door, and a servant with a lowered face brought in a tray.

Chenjue set it across Wuhen's knees himself.

There was black rice and a roasted bird with its skin burned to glass.

There was a dish of pickled ash-leaves and a bowl of something steaming and brown.

Wuhen had eaten plain rice and boiled greens in a stone hut for a hundred years.

His stomach clenched so hard he thought he'd be sick.

He picked up the chopsticks with a hand that was not quite steady.

Then he tasted the bird, and put the chopsticks down.

"Well?" Chenjue said.

"You've slept a century, and you still can't hire a cook."

"You're eating it," Chenjue said.

"I'm starving. It's a different thing."

"Eat," Chenjue said.

"This bird died angry."

Chenjue sat back and watched, one elbow on his knee, the red eyes steady and bright.

Wuhen finished the bird, the rice, and every ash-leaf.

He drank the brown soup last, grimacing at each swallow.

"It tastes like a boot," he said, and drank the rest.

When the bowl was empty Chenjue lifted the tray away and set it on the floor.

"You're quicker than I remember at talking," he said. "Slower at everything else."

"I was sealed. What's your excuse?"

"I woke up and found my jailer chained at my feet." Chenjue put one knee on the bed. "I'm very busy being delighted."

His hands were big, and they were not gentle.

He turned Wuhen's chin to the lamp again and looked at the white at his temples.

Then he kissed him.

It was not the kiss from the old days, which had been quick, hungry and stolen.

It was slow, and deep, and it tasted of anger.

Wuhen should have turned his head.

He fisted both hands in the front of that black robe and pulled the man down onto him.

Chenjue made a low sound in his throat and kissed him harder.

His tongue went in, hot and sure, and his hand slid up under the torn white robe along the ribs.

His thumb found the old claw scar and stopped there.

Wuhen went rigid.

"Don't."

"It's mine," Chenjue said against his mouth. "I made it. I'm allowed to touch it."

He did not ask what the scar was for.

He only pressed his palm over it, and kissed down Wuhen's jaw to the throat.

The robe came open, and then it came off.

The air was cool on Wuhen's bare chest, and his ribs stood out under the skin.

Chenjue's eyes moved over them slowly.

"You're so thin."

"Stop looking," Wuhen replied.

"No."

He bent and put his mouth to one nipple, and sucked.

Wuhen's back came off the bed.

The sound that came out of him was not one he had made in a hundred years.

"You're sensitive." Chenjue sounded pleased, and a little rough. "Good. You can't hide it now."

"I wasn't hiding anything."

"You were hiding everything. Be quiet," Chenjue answered.

"Make me."

Chenjue laughed against his skin.

He worked down the length of him with his mouth, over the ribs and the hard flat belly, kissing each place the seal had starved.

Wuhen's cock was already stiff and wet at the tip.

It had been so long that it hurt just to be looked at.

Chenjue put a big hand on the inside of each thigh, and pushed them wide.

"Demon Lord, that isn't necessary."

"Wrong."

He took Wuhen into his mouth all at once, to the root.

Wuhen's hands flew into the black silk.

Hot, wet and tight, and the tongue worked under the head like it knew every nerve he owned.

"Ah. Stop, I'll..."

"You will."

The mouth pulled, slow and heavy, and then sank down again.

A big hand came under him and gripped his ass to hold him still, while the other pinned his hip to the bed.

He couldn't move, and he couldn't breathe, and the chain on his ankle rang against the bedpost.

"I can't," Wuhen said. "It's been too long, I can't hold it, Demon Lord..."

Chenjue hummed around him, and Wuhen broke.

He came with a shout, hard and helpless, and his whole body shook with it.

Chenjue swallowed every drop.

He did not stop until Wuhen was spent and trembling and gasping at the ceiling.

Then warmth flooded into him.

It was not the warmth of the body.

It was qi, thick and clean, pouring up through his belly and chest into a dry bed.

His empty core shuddered and took it greedily.

Wuhen cried out again, softly, and his fingers dug into the silk.

Chenjue lifted his head, his mouth wet and his eyes dark.

"One," he said. "Good. You take it like you were made for it."

"That was thirty seconds," Wuhen said hoarsely. "Don't be smug."

"It was less."

"I hate you," Wuhen said.

"I know. Lie still."

He crawled up the bed and pulled Wuhen against his chest, one arm around his waist.

Wuhen lay there with his heart pounding and his skin burning.

His cultivation had stirred for the first time in a century, thin and bright, like a candle someone had finally lit.

Then something moved under his ribs.

It was not the core.

It was lower and colder, and it flickered once through his skin in the dark: a pale gold light, shaped like a lock.

Chenjue's arm went hard as iron around him.

"What was that?" he said.

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