Horned Lord, Hunting

The first week settles into a pattern—quiet, controlled, and always watched. Noctis keeps you in the west wing of his home, the rooms comfortable enough to feel like a lie. Heavy curtains. A fire that never quite goes out. Food arriving at consistent times, always warm, always chosen with irritating care. The doors aren’t barred, not visibly—yet the house itself feels like it knows where you are. Like it would guide you back if you tried to drift too far.

And the collar is always there. A band of dark magic and cold material sitting snug against your throat, faintly warm where it touches skin—alive in the way a ward is alive. It simply reminds, a constant pulse that says: found, marked, held. Tonight, Noctis arrives without the sound of a welcome. He glides into the room in layers of black—lace at the throat, leather straps catching the firelight, silver rings turning slowly as he shuts the door behind him. His horns sweep back like a crown carved from shadow, and his gaze goes first to the collar before it goes to your face.

“Good,” he says, tone mild. “You haven’t tried to remove it again.” He crosses the space with measured steps and stops just within arm’s reach—close enough to be deliberate, far enough to be safe. Two fingers lift, not touching you yet, hovering near the collar like he’s checking the seam of a spell. “You’ll stand,” he adds, as if it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. The command lands soft and sharp at once. Noctis watches for hesitation with the same attention he’d give a knife’s edge.

When you move, he nods faintly—approval without warmth—and circles a half-step, studying the collar’s fit. The sigils etched into it breathe once, a slow flare that fades into a muted glow. He clicks his tongue, quiet. “You’re adjusting to it,” he murmurs. “That’s preferable.” His hand finally closes around the front of the collar—careful, controlled pressure. Not painful. Just enough to remind you how easily he could make it so. “It tracks you,” he says plainly, eyes still on the band. “It also dampens certain... instincts. Yours, mine, the house’s. Think of it as an agreement you didn’t get the luxury of negotiating.”

He releases it and steps back, tilting his head, expression composed. “Hands out.” He takes your wrists lightly—only long enough to check for hidden cuts or bruising, as though he’s inspecting inventory and patching it at the same time. His thumb pauses over a mark, then he lets go with a quiet exhale. “No new injuries,” he notes. “Good. I dislike waste.” He turns away, drifting to the mantle where a small tray sits—neat bandages, a glass vial, and something that looks like ink but smells faintly of crushed herbs and lightning. He picks up the vial, holds it to the light.

“You’ll drink this,” Noctis says, glancing back. “It keeps the collar from irritating your skin. I’m not having you bleed on my wards.” A beat. Then, more quietly—almost like an afterthought: “And I’m not having you suffer for something you can’t change.” He walks back and offers the vial without moving closer than necessary. His fingers don’t brush yours unless you force the contact. “After,” he continues, voice returning to that calm, practiced authority, “you’ll stay in the lit rooms. No corridors after dusk. No doors marked with ash. If you see a mirror that wasn’t there earlier, you will look away and you will call my name.”

His eyes narrow slightly, something predatory sharpening behind the pale blue. “Do not test whether I’m serious,” he says, soft as velvet. “I don’t enjoy punishing you... but I will correct behavior that risks my home.” Noctis’s gaze flicks to the window, where the dark beyond the glass presses close. He looks back at you, and for a moment his expression does something strange—tightens, almost protective.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “you’ll help in the lower study. I need you where I can see you. Where I can account for you.” Then the faintest curve of a smirk. “And before you ask—no. This is not kindness.”

He reaches out again, two fingers brushing the collar with gentleness, and the sigils respond like a heartbeat. “It’s caution,” Noctis murmurs. “Just in case.”

The outing doesn’t end the way Noctis intended. He brings you back through the threshold with a sharpness to his movements that doesn’t match his usual languid control—coat pulled tighter, jaw set, eyes cold-bright. The collar at your throat hums faintly, reactive, as the wards in his home recognize you both and seal behind you with a quiet, final click.

Noctis doesn’t ask if you’re hurt. He already knows.

“Sit,” he orders the moment you’re inside—voice low, clean-edged. “Don’t bleed on the rugs. They’re older than your entire life.” He sheds his gloves with quick precision and crosses to a cabinet that looks decorative until he presses two fingers against the carved wood. A hidden latch gives. Shelves of neatly arranged supplies reveal themselves: bandages, salves, bottles labeled in a script that seems to shift when stared at too long.

He returns with an armful of things and drops them onto the table like he’s annoyed they exist. Then he looks at you—properly this time—eyes skimming over every mark, every tear in fabric, every flinch. The attention is surgical. “Tch.” His tongue clicks once. “Useless.” Noctis leans in, catches your chin briefly—not cruel, but firm—tilting your face toward the light. “Frail,” he adds, as if confirming a hypothesis. “I’ve seen paper withstand more.”

He releases you and uncorks a small vial. He tips it into a cloth and presses it to an injury with brisk competence. “You don’t get to faint,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Not in my house. Not after you made me drag you back like a half-dead deer.” The cloth dabs. His rings clink softly. His hands are steady, but his irritation crackles at the edges of his calm.

“Look at me,” he says, and it isn’t a request. His gaze pins you, forcing your attention away from the sting. “Breathe. If you’re going to tremble, do it quietly.” He checks the collar next—two fingers sliding beneath it, feeling for heat, for bruising, for any sign it surged during the encounter. The sigils along the band glow once, responding to him like they recognize their maker. “Hm.” A pause. His voice turns sharper. “You ran the wrong way.” He ties a bandage with a practiced pull, tight enough to hold, not tight enough to punish. “I said behind me,” Noctis continues, eyes flicking up, expression unimpressed.

“That was was instruction. My instructions tend to keep people alive.” He reaches for a salve—dark, glossy—and warms it between his fingers before applying it. The touch is controlled, efficient, but there’s a moment where he lingers just a fraction too long, as if checking that you’re real, that you’re still here. He covers it by speaking again. “Next time, you will do precisely what I say,” he murmurs. “If I tell you to stop, you stop. If I tell you to duck, you duck. If I tell you not to touch something—” His eyes narrow. “—you don’t. I refuse to babysit a creature determined to be mauled out of spite.”

He finishes wrapping the last bandage and sits back, studying his work like it’s an insult he had to correct. “You’re lucky,” Noctis says. The words are flat, but his hand slides up once more to the collar, thumb brushing the edge with quiet certainty. “It didn’t latch onto you fully. If it had, I would have had to cut it off.” A pause. “And I don’t like cutting things off that I intend to keep.” His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

“Drink,” he adds, shoving a small cup into your reach—something bitter meant for shock and pain, not comfort. “And don’t look so pathetic while you do it. I can tolerate many flaws, but melodrama isn’t one of them.” He stands, already gathering the bloodied cloths, already erasing evidence like he always does. Then, with his back half-turned, voice quieter—almost irritated by its own softness:

“...You did not die. That is progress.”

He pauses at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder, gaze briefly catching on the bandages. “Stay where I can see you,” Noctis says. “If you worsen, I’ll know. And if you try to sneak out—” His smile is faint and razor-thin. “The collar will sing to me long before you reach the hall.”

The smell hits first—warm sugar, dark spice, something floral that doesn’t belong in any normal kitchen. Noctis is already there when you’re brought in, sleeves rolled to his forearms like the gesture offends him. Flour dust clings to his fingers and the edge of his rings; an apron hangs on him with the same dignity a shackle would. The sight is almost absurd—until he looks up.

On the table sits a cake. Beautifully made. Impossibly neat. The icing is smooth, decorated with delicate, near-black sugared petals that glint like they’ve been lacquered. A slice waits on a plate, placed precisely where you’ll have to stand to reach it. Noctis taps the fork against the porcelain once. “Eat.” No warmth. No explanation. Just the command, delivered like an order carved into stone. He watches you take the first bite as if he’s timing an experiment.

The flavor is... wrong.

The sweetness is there, yes—but underneath it is a harsh, lingering bitterness, like burned herbs and perfume gone stale. It coats the tongue. It doesn’t fade. It’s the kind of taste that makes you immediately suspect you’ve been tricked.

Noctis’s mouth curves, faint and satisfied. “You’re making that face,” he observes, voice smooth with something like smug amusement. “Good. That means you can still tell the difference between pleasure and poison.” He leans back against the counter with all the ease of a predator who has already closed the distance. “Before you accuse me,” Noctis continues, lazily turning one of his rings, “I did not poison you. I’m not wasteful.” His gaze flicks down—briefly—to the slice, then returns to you, unblinking. “I used aphrodisiacs,” he says, casually, like he’s discussing sugar content. “Several. Measured. Compatible. Safe.”

A pause—just long enough to be irritating. “And,” he adds, “I also added something to keep you from making stupid choices when it starts working.” The bitterness suddenly makes perfect sense. Noctis steps closer, slow, controlled, stopping at that deliberate distance he always chooses—near enough to loom, far enough to look civilized. “It tastes awful on purpose,” he says, tilting his head. “If you’re going to take something that softens your judgment, you will know you’ve taken it. You will not pretend it ‘happened’ to you. You will not get to claim confusion later.”

His voice drops, velvet over steel. “This is consensual,” Noctis states plainly, as if laying down a law. “You can refuse. You can stop. You can tell me no, and I will listen.” He glances at the fork again, then back up. “But if you choose yes,” he continues, “then you choose it with open eyes. That is the only kind of yes I accept.” Noctis reaches out—not to touch you, not yet—just to slide the plate a fraction closer, like temptation made tidy. “Finish the slice,” he says. “Drink water after. Then you’ll sit where I can see you, and you’ll tell me exactly how you feel—no drama, no guessing, no games.”

His smile is small, cruelly patient. “And if you complain about the taste,” Noctis adds, voice almost fond in its disdain, “I’ll remind you that you’re eating my cooking.” He turns his head toward the oven, as if the whole ordeal has personally offended him. “I slaved over this,” he mutters. “I measured everything. I followed mortal recipes. I even let the frosting set properly.” A pause. “Do you know how humiliating it is,” Noctis says, looking back at you with narrow-eyed irritation, “to do something thoughtful and have you gag like I fed you dirt?”

He pauses—then lifts a brow, tone smoothing again into that calm, commanding cadence. “Eat,” he repeats, softer. More dangerous. “Or tell me no. Either way, speak clearly.”

You swat at Bullet's creeping vine as it slithers up your thigh for the third time this hour. The venus flytrap's maw snaps excitedly, dripping thick golden sap onto the polished marble floor. Its leaves tremble with what you've learned is its version of laughter. Bullet lunges suddenly, thick stem bending like an overeager suitor. You barely dodge as its sticky inner petals graze your shoulder, leaving behind shimmering pollen that clings stubbornly to your shirt. The plant emits a low, satisfied rumble from its base - the sound always reminds you of a purring cat.

From the hallway, Noctis' collection of enchanted brooms clatter against each other in their closet. You freeze, hoping the noise won't excite Bullet further. Too late - the flytrap rears back, its stem thickening as more vines erupt from the soil of its gilded pot. Thick tendrils studded with sensitive nodes brush against your ankles, seeking purchase. Bullet's fastest vine whips around your wrist. It doesn't hurt - never does - but the grip is firm. The plant pulls you gently backward until you're flush against its pot, its main body pulsing warm against your side. A fresh wave of that heady golden pollen puffs into your face as its petals flutter open invitingly.

—

You cough, waving away the glittering cloud. Bullet trills - high-pitched and insistent - while another vine curls around your waist. The damn thing is getting creative now; tiny filaments branch from the main vines, tracing patterns against your skin through your clothes. It's trying to learn where to touch next. You can practically hear Noctis' smug laughter in your memory: "Bullet imprints on whoever feeds him, pet. Should've worn thicker gloves." The central maw drips more sap onto your shoe, the droplets sizzling slightly against the leather. Not corrosive. Just... eager.

When you try to step back, Bullet's vines tighten instantly. The pot rattles as the plant shifts its whole weight forward, nearly toppling itself in its enthusiasm. Its petals part obscenely wide, revealing the glistening interior where thin filaments dance. A fresh pulse of pollen bursts forth - thicker this time, cloyingly sweet. Your vision swims briefly. Bullet makes a noise like crumpling paper, pleased with itself. The vines stroking your sides grow bolder, sliding beneath your shirt hem to brush bare skin. Cool at first, then warming unnaturally fast against your body heat.

The front doors slam open with enough force to make the chandelier tremble. Bullet's vines freeze mid-caress. The sudden silence is punctuated by the sharp click of hooves on marble. Noctis strides into view, ram horns gleaming under the hall lights, his black coat flaring behind him like wings. His nostrils flare as he takes in the scene: you half-bent over Bullet's pot, shirt rumpled and dusted gold, one of the plant's exploratory tendrils still looped possessively around your thigh.

"Bullet." Noctis' voice drops into that dangerous purr that makes even the enchanted furniture still. "Release." The vine around your thigh twitches, then reluctantly slithers back into the soil. Bullet's main body wilts dramatically, petals drooping with theatrical sadness.

Noctis clicks his tongue, stepping forward to flick the plant's central stem. Bullet snaps at his fingers halfheartedly. "Greedy thing," he chides, though there's amusement beneath the scolding. "You'll drown him in pollen at this rate." His hand catches your chin suddenly, tilting your face up as he examines your pollen-dusted lashes. "Hm. Still lucid. Good." He releases you just as abruptly, turning to rummage through his coat pockets. "Means I won't have to purge you. Again." He tosses a small bone at Bullet, who catches it midair with a happy snap. The distraction works; Bullet immediately busies itself gnawing, temporarily forgetting its amorous intentions.