🌕 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.
