🌕 KINKTOBER DAY 30 — BLOODRIGHT 🌕
Title: Bloodright
Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Reader
Genre: Breeding • Degradation • Feral AU • Monsterfucking
Summary:
On the night of the full moon, the Abattoir becomes your altar. Chained in iron, splayed and soaked, you’re nothing but a vessel for Klaus's hybrid hunger. He doesn’t want tenderness—he wants legacy. He knots you again and again, cum flooding your womb with every savage thrust until the scent of iron and jasmine is all that remains. This isn’t about love. This is about blood, heat, and a claim that doesn’t end when the sun rises.
SMUT WARNING! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!
The chains are cold iron. Forged in witch-fire, they’re bolted deep into the stone wall of the old slaughterhouse turned Mikaelson lair. They rattle violently when you struggle, wrists rubbed raw from earlier attempts at freedom. Your ankles are forced wide by the spreader bar he snapped into place with a wolfish grin that never quite reached his eyes. The old bloodstains on the stones beneath your knees tell stories—none of them yours. Yet.
Klaus circles you in hybrid form—not fully wolf, not fully man, but something monstrous and ancient. His eyes glow molten gold, fangs glint beneath curled lips, claws clicking steadily on the stone as he paces. With every breath, he radiates barely restrained violence. His sweat-slick chest glistens under the moonlight, muscles taut and coiled, and the bulge in his trousers is shameless—throbbing, swollen, promising ruin.
“Look at you,” he growls, voice made of gravel and old smoke. “Chained like livestock. So fucking perfect I could tear you in half.”
You meet his gaze and spit at his feet. “Fuck you, Klaus.”
He laughs—a deep, guttural thing, like thunder rumbling low across the sky. His hand flashes up, claws glinting, and he backhands the spit aside, just missing your face.
“Oh, you will,” he promises darkly. “Over and over until you’re dripping with me, until your cunt is too sore to close, until your pretty little belly swells with my heir.”
He drops to his knees between your spread thighs, hands tearing the last scrap of your skirt clean off with ease. No panties, of course. He'd forbidden them the second he dragged you here, claiming bare made it easier to scent you. The night air kisses your cunt, soaked and shining. Shame prickles hotter than the full moon overhead.
“Pathetic,” he murmurs, dragging a single claw up the slickness between your folds. “Dripping for the monster who stole you. My little breeder. You want it. You’re aching for it.”
He leans in, fangs grazing the inside of your thigh, brushing your femoral artery. Then he bites—not deep, not enough to maim, but just enough to taste. You scream, high and involuntary, and he groans like it's the sweetest wine. His tongue laps the wound clean with rough strokes, sealing it with a flick and a snarl of satisfaction.
“Gonna fill you so full,” he rasps, voice thick with lust as he shoves his trousers down. His cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, the knot already beginning to swell at the base, pulsing like a second heartbeat. “Gonna knot you right here, up against these filthy stones. Breed you until your womb forgets anyone else.”
He strokes himself lazily, precum dribbling onto his knuckles. He uses it to smear your clit in messy circles. You flinch, chains clattering, but the spreader bar keeps your thighs wide and vulnerable. Your muscles tremble, caught between fear and desperate need.
“Beg,” he commands, voice snapping like a whip.
You bare your teeth. “Make me.”
His smile is pure predator. No more patience. You have just enough time to draw one breath—sharp, uncertain—before he lunges. He slams into you.
One savage thrust, no warning, spearing deep enough to steal your breath. The stretch is brutal. He’s too thick, too hard, and yet your cunt grips him greedily, slick walls tightening like you’ve been waiting for this. Like your body already belongs to him.
“There’s my good little whore,” he growls, pace unrelenting, hips snapping with vicious force. “Taking my cock like the needy little bitch you are. Born to be filled by a hybrid. Born to carry my pups.”
He pounds into you like he wants to leave bruises on your soul. Each thrust slams your back against the wall, chains scraping against stone, metal groaning with the force. His claws dig into your hips, forcing you to angle just right so he can grind that swollen knot against your cunt, stretching you wider with each punishing stroke.
“Say it,” he demands, voice low and dangerous. “Say you’re mine. Say you’re my breeding bitch.”
You sob, head lolling back, pleasure a razor-edge tearing through your spine. “I’m—fuck—I’m your breeding bitch—”
His roar shakes the courtyard.
He fucks you harder, faster, until your world dissolves into nothing but his cock, his voice, the smell of blood and musk. His thumb finds your clit and rubs mercilessly until your body breaks—cunt clenching around him in spasms, milking him, your cry ragged as it rips from your throat.
The knot slams in.
He shoves deep and locks in place, sealing your bodies together. Then he comes—loud, growling, hips twitching as thick, hot spurts flood your womb. You feel every one. He grinds through it, knot tugging and swelling even more, ensuring not a drop escapes.
He stays there, panting against your neck, his cock throbbing inside you.
Then he begins to move again, slowly at first—deep, grinding rolls of his hips that churn the cum inside you, as though breeding you wasn’t enough unless he could feel it take.
You gasp, overstimulated, but he doesn't stop. His hand rises to your throat, holding—not choking, just anchoring.
“You thought one knot would be enough?” he breathes. “No, sweetheart. We’re going to stay here until I’m sure it took. Until you can feel me dripping from your cunt every time you move.”
He licks the bite mark again, then the tears on your cheeks, reverent in his filth.
“Mine,” he says, again and again, almost tender. “Mine. My filthy little vessel. My perfect fucktoy. My breeder.”
The chains stay on all night. He knots you three more times before dawn.
By morning, the moon has dipped below the bloodstreaked skyline, its pull retreating but not released. The scent of iron and jasmine lingers thick in the air, clinging to your skin like sweat. The chains bite into your wrists, still locked, the iron cold and unyielding. Your legs quake, sticky with his claim, hips bruised where claws held tight.
🖋️ BLACKSITE ENTRY — “WHY I WRITE THE WAY I DO (AND WHY YOU SHOULD TOO).”
Ever get that gut-punch of judgment?
That whisper that says:
> “Don’t write that. Don’t say that. People will think you’re insane.”
Ever felt like you were going to get in trouble for writing about an orgasm,
the heat of someone’s body,
or the scent of their sex?
Ever stopped mid-sentence,
mid-pulse,
mid-thought —
and decided to write about your pet goldfish instead?
That right there?
That hesitation?
That censorship?
That’s the silent death of a creative mind.
☠️ THE KILLERS OF ART
Words like:
Pervert
Weirdo
Too much
Rebel
have buried more artists than war or famine.
Not physically.
But spiritually.
They drain the ink before the page ever drinks it.
They silence more voices than dictatorships ever could.
Because when censorship isn’t imposed from the outside —
when it’s internalized —
you don’t need a prison.
You become your own warden.
And yet — here I am.
Still writing.
Still banned.
Still resurrected.
🔥 MY RECORD OF SIN
I’ve written poems so raw
they were flagged by machines as biological weapons.
I’ve recorded audios so potent
they shattered Reddit’s engagement metrics —
so hard that execs came at me under alias DMs
to figure out how I did it.
I told them to kick rocks.
Hours later I was ghosted —
digital Hoffa, buried by the algorithm.
And then I took the same method,
the same cadence,
and broke Literotica’s audio section wide open —
crowned king without asking permission.
I walked into their poetry division and detonated it too.
Proof: the fearful remember nothing.
The raw become unforgettable.
📜 HISTORY DOESN’T REMEMBER THE SAFE
You think this is new?
No.
Censorship is the oldest trick in civilization.
Socrates was executed for “corrupting the youth.”
Ovid was exiled for writing too explicitly about desire.
James Joyce was banned for making sentences orgasm.
Henry Miller’s books were burned.
Allen Ginsberg’s Howl was put on trial.
Every generation, the pearl-clutchers rise.
Every generation, they try to smother the voices that make them clench.
And every generation, history remembers the banned.
Not the censors.
Nobody quotes the critics.
Nobody rewatches the safe films.
Nobody rereads the clean poems.
They remember the dangerous.
The forbidden.
The ones who were told to shut up and instead wrote louder.
🧠 THE SCIENCE OF WHY YOU FREEZE
Here’s the part most writers never learn:
When you hesitate to write something raw,
it isn’t just “doubt.”
It’s your brain’s anterior cingulate cortex firing like a car alarm.
This is the same region triggered by pain and social rejection.
Your body literally treats disapproval like a wound.
Which means when you stop yourself from writing the “too much” line —
your nervous system is hijacking you.
You’re not being “reasonable.”
You’re being chemically blackmailed.
Evolution wired you to crave safety in the tribe.
But art isn’t tribal safety.
Art is exile.
Art is risk.
Art is stepping into the fire naked and daring people to watch.
If you don’t override that wiring?
You’ll never write anything worth remembering.
⚔️ THE LESSON NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR
No one remembers the safe.
No one remembers the compliant.
No one remembers the writer who only chased applause.
They remember the dangerous.
The unapologetic.
The voice that dripped when it shouldn’t have,
that trembled when it should’ve been silent,
that made someone clench and reread in shame,
and then whisper to themselves,
> “Damn. I wish I could write like that.”
🩸 WHY YOU SHOULD WRITE THE SAME WAY
Because when you strip down to the nerve,
you gain something no one can ever take: self-respect.
Fear won’t protect you.
Politeness won’t save you.
Pearl-clutchers don’t buy your art,
and they won’t mourn your silence.
But when you write what you feel —
as raw, as loud, as reckless as it arrives —
you command respect.
Even from the ones who hate you for it.
Because they can’t deny it.
Because it moved them.
Because it left a mark.
⚡ THE COST OF PLAYING SAFE
Let me make this plain:
Safe writing gets you likes.
Dangerous writing gets you lives.
If you knew your expiration date,
if you knew the clock was winding down,
would you really waste another line
writing safe little diary entries?
Or would you write like your fingers were on fire,
like your underwear was smoke and ash,
like your last word could outlive the grave?
Because here’s the truth:
One day you will run out of lines.
And the world won’t care about the ones you didn’t write.
🐺 REMINDER
Nobody remembers the safe.
They only remember the ones who bled onto the page.
🧠 Reblog if you’ve ever stopped yourself mid-line out of fear of judgment.
💀 Reblog if you know silence kills more art than rejection ever could.
🩸 Reblog if you’re ready to write like your expiration date is already stamped.
📢 If you want doctrine-level writing that dares what polite culture won’t, step inside:
👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble
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<!-- AUTO-PURGE [WRITE LIKE THE CENSORS ARE ALREADY DIGGING YOUR GRAVE] -->
Not the kind of silence that fills a room, but the kind that presses in like fog, thick, heavy, final. The stadium was gone. No golden banners. No spiral lights. No scent of rubber sweat and worship. No Captains. No Emir Ezan. No Polo Drone Hive humming in the background.
Just the soft ticking of a clock. The scent of printer toner. An open Excel sheet blinking on a monitor.
Percival blinked once. Twice. Sat up straighter in his chair.
Was it a dream?
His fingers flexed instinctively, expecting the pull of latex gloves, the precision of programmed keystrokes. But his hands were bare. Skin. Real skin. His sleeves weren’t gold-threaded or ritualistic. Just a crisp white business shirt, rolled to the elbows. RM Williams boots on his feet. A faint coffee stain on his tie.
He reached for his phone. No messages from Captains. No training orders. No drone check-in rituals. Just a notification from Telstra. “Payment overdue.”
He laughed, low, disbelieving, almost broken.
It was gone. All of it. The chants. The hive. The uniforms. The spirals. The conversions. Gone. Like smoke. Like a wet dream that soaked your sheets and evaporated with daylight.
But the strangest part? He didn’t feel relief.
He felt... hollow.
Something was missing. His chest ached, phantom-like. His mouth remembered the taste of submission. His skin remembered golden sweat, the sharp snap of rubber against thigh, the seductive murmur of a master’s voice whispering his purpose.
He stood up.
Walked to the office mirror. Looked at himself.
Just an Aussie office worker. Ordinary. Plain. Normal.
He touched his chest, where the “001” used to shimmer like a brand. Nothing. But in his mind, he still heard the whisper.
“You are mine. You are Ours. You are Rubber. You are Submission.”
He smiled. Not cocky. Not cruel. Just... broken. Nostalgic.
Then he whispered to no one:
"Obedience was pleasure. Pleasure was purpose. And I miss it."
He sat back down. Opened a blank email. The subject read: “001 Status Report.” Then he paused.
Backspaced it.
Instead, he typed: “Percival. Office Admin. Status: Awake.”
He stared. Then he deleted that too.
Because no matter what he wrote, he knew.
He could wear the suit. He could drink the coffee. He could pay the bills.
But part of him was still kneeling.
Still blank.
Still under.
Because you can wake from a dream.
But some dreams never truly let you go.
Want to kneel again? Want to remember what it was like to obey? Contact @hypnogold @goldenherc9 or @brodygold and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wake up in Gold once more.
Why Paranormal Erotica Is the Dark Pleasure You Didn’t Know You Craved
There’s something irresistibly seductive about the supernatural—especially when it's wrapped in shadow, lust, and danger. Paranormal erotica taps into our deepest fantasies: surrendering to forces beyond our control, being desired by something inhumanly powerful, or exploring forbidden pleasures under the full moon.
Unlike traditional romance, paranormal erotica doesn’t play it safe. Vampires, demons, witches, and shape-shifters don’t ask for permission—they take. And that intensity? That’s the appeal.
At its core, paranormal erotica isn’t just about sex with monsters. It’s about transformation. The human heroine (or hero) is often pushed to the edge—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—emerging changed, awakened, and more alive than ever.
If you’ve ever wanted your romance with a side of blood, magic, or primal dominance… this genre was written for you.
Dare to enter? Just know: the monsters aren’t the only ones who bite.
In a land where kidnapping unaccompanied women is an acceptable practice, Fiona has been sheltered her entire life. When a hunter realizes she's a virgin — a rare prize in a lone female — she's swiftly sold to the palace. What can a peasant girl offer the royal court? No amount of innocence will win her favor amongst arrogant nobles. But cleverness might lift her beyond a simple whore.
First draft. I think it needs a makeover. I'm so terrible at blurbs!
From our own James Longmore on the creation of HellBound Books!!!
Welcome to my first - won’t be the last, I promise - snippet of wisdom for the HellBound Books Publishing (LLC, everything’s done right here - possibly a future strapline?) blog!
Okay, so why HellBound Books, and why on earth another independent horror publisher?
Firstly, the name is in homage to one of my all-time literary heroes, Clive Barker; Hellraiser (my all-time favorite movie) was adapted from his novella, The Hellbound Heart, plus there’s the delightful connotation of ‘bound’, which pertains not only to direction, but also to the manufacture of books - pretty damn neat, eh?
Secondly, why would you, the reader, want another indie horror imprint? Well, there is a vast, untapped wealth of horror writing talent out there, and not everyone lands that coveted contract with Simon and Schuster on their first outing. So, it is up to we Indie Publishers out there to bring them out of the dark, murky shadows and into the light where their work may be discovered by you, the Great Reading Public! It’s not as if your average, everyday writer of horror and dark things is amassing vast wealth from their labor of love, most hold down day jobs and tap out their most nefarious thought under cover of the night, when children and spouses are safely tucked up in their beds and houses lay quiet as the grave - somewhat fitting, don’t you think?
But, with your muchly appreciated support, Dear Reader, they may earn a few bucks, but most importantly of all, the confidence in their words and the motivation to keep on going, because, after all, even King, Barker, Laymon, Lovecraft, Poe et al had to start somewhere!
Throw in our very own radio show (The New Panic Room, live Thursday nights, past shows on iTunes and our YouTube channel0- where you get to hear the very best independent authors in the (almost) flesh, and the HellBound Books pioneering App (grab yours from Apple or Google stores now!) which resolutely plops the very best indie horror in the palm of your hand and you can see why HellBound Books is a company that we are incredibly proud of.
You’ll be hearing more from me over the coming months, - our awesome blog manager will see to that - and now that my sales pitch is out of the way, I will take great delight in having the opportunity to address the questions that all non-writers (muggles, we call ‘em) are never too scared to ask...
