Pairing: Harlequin x Reader
Warnings: Blood, blood drinking, flesh wound, biting, eluding to venom
A/n: This is for @p0isonsnake’s Caged Beast event! Just thought I’d whip a lil something up. I hope you all enjoy this. It’s kinda rushed so it may be bad. ~Fox🦊
You know you shouldn’t be here.
The deeper parts of the circus feel wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, like the laughter and color around are just a mask stretched thin over something darker. The further you walk, the quieter it gets. No music. No chatter. Just the faint creak of canvas and something…heavier lingering in the air.
You almost turn back. Almost. But then you see it, the cage.
It’s not just a cage, it’s reinforced. Layered iron, bent and twisted in deliberate ways, like it was designed to hold something that doesn’t follow the normal rules of nature. The bars are too thick, too close together, etched with faint marks you don’t recognize.
And inside—him, Harlequin.
At first, you don’t move, you just stare because he doesn’t look like himself. Not entirely at least.
His body is larger, warped into something more monstrous—limbs elongated, posture coiled like he’s always on the edge of movement. His skin looks almost wrong under the dim light, textured and shadowed in ways that don’t belong to anything human. Black tendrils curl and shift behind him slowly, like they have a mind of their own.
And his eyes they find you instantly. There’s no delay, no confusion, like he knew you were coming.
“Well,” he says, voice low, roughened in a way that makes it drag slightly. “Look what wandered in.”
Your breath catches, “You’re…locked up.”
He tilts his head, slow and deliberate.
“Punished,” he corrects lightly, “Jester does so enjoy theatrics.”
There’s a faint rattle as he shifts, something in his form brushing the bars. You don’t miss the way they hold. You don’t miss the way he doesn’t try to break them.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he continues, softer now. “This version of me is a little less…restrained.”
You should listen. But you won’t. Not when it involves him.
“I came to help,” you say instead.
There’s a pause. Not long—but it stretches. Just enough for something to shift. At first, it’s almost imperceptible. The easy amusement on his face doesn’t disappear, it tightens. Like a thread being pulled just a little too taut. The curve of his smile lingers, but it sharpens at the edges, losing that playful looseness and settling into something more deliberate.
His eyes change first. They don’t widen. Don’t narrow. They focus. What was once a passing glance becomes intent, steady, unblinking, dragging slowly over you like he’s reassessing something he thought he already understood. Like your words have given him new information, and he’s recalculating in real time.
There’s interest there now. Not casual. Not idle. Something deeper…
His head tilts slightly, just enough to study you from a different angle, and the silence between you feels heavier than before, like it’s no longer empty, but filled with something unspoken. When he smiles again, it’s slower. More controlled. Less like a reaction..
And more like a decision.
“Did you, Kitten?” he murmurs.
The air feels heavier near the cage. Warmer. Thicker. Like stepping into something that’s already alive.
“Careful,” he says, voice almost teasing now. “You’re getting very close.”
You stop just within reach.
You know it the moment his gaze drops to your arm. Your wrist—tracking.
“You’re not afraid?” he asks quietly.
“…No, I’m never afraid of you.”
That makes him smile, slow, predatory.
It happens too fast. One second you’re standing there, the next—his hand snaps through the bars. It wraps around your wrist instantly, fingers long and firm, grip unyielding as he yanks you forward. Your body hits the cage with a sharp jolt, breath knocked from your lungs as cold iron presses against you.
His voice is right there now.
Your arm is trapped between the bars, his grip tight but not crushing, just enough to make it clear you’re not pulling away unless he lets you.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
His face is inches from your skin. You can feel his breath: Warm, uneven, hungry. His other hand slides up your arm slowly, fingers dragging along your skin with deliberate care, like he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s missed.
“Such a kind thing,” he says softly. “Coming all this way… just for me.”
You swallow, “I said I’d help you—”
“You already are,” his lips barely brush your arm. Just enough to make you still.
The contact is slow, so slow it feels deliberate in a way that makes it impossible to ignore. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t take more than that first press of his lips, lingering there like he’s memorizing the warmth of your skin before anything else begins. You can feel the shape of his mouth against you, the faint shift of his breath as it steadies, as if he’s savoring the moment before indulging in it.
Then his tongue follows, dragging along your arm in a single, unbroken line, unhurried and intentional, the warmth of it sharp enough to make your breath hitch. It’s not just the sensation, it’s the focus behind it, the way he pays attention to every reaction, the way his grip tightens just slightly as you tense, like he’s noting it, storing it, enjoying it.
The heat lingers where he’s touched you, spreading outward, and the contrast between the cold bars at your front makes it worse, makes everything sharper. When he pulls back just enough to look at you again, his eyes are darker, heavier, like he’s already decided something, and the faintest hint of a smile curves at his mouth, knowing, patient, and just a little too pleased with the way your breathing has changed.
“Still warm,” he murmurs against you. “Still alive.”
Your fingers curl against the bars.
“I’ve been good,” he interrupts, quieter now. “Locked away. Restrained,” his grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind, “I’ve been very patient.”
There’s something dangerous in the way he says it.
“And patience…” he continues softly, lips brushing your skin again, “deserves to be rewarded.”
You barely have time to react before his teeth sink into your arm—sharp and precise, the initial sting stealing the breath from your lungs as your body jolts instinctively against the cage. His grip tightens, anchoring you there, not cruel but absolute, keeping you exactly where he wants you. For a moment, it’s just pain—clean, bright, undeniable—until it shifts. The pressure eases, not releasing, just…adjusting, his mouth still pressed to your skin, breath warm against you. Then something else follows.
A slow, spreading heat blooms from where he bit you, curling outward through your arm in a way that makes your muscles go weak instead of tense. It’s disorienting—wrong, but not unpleasant—your breath catching again, this time softer, uneven. He feels it immediately. You know he does by the way he pauses, the faintest hum vibrating against your skin as he continues, drawing from you in slow, measured pulls. Not rushed. Not desperate. Controlled. Intentional. Like he’s savoring both the taste and the reaction, the subtle shift in your breathing, the way your body leans just slightly into his hold instead of away.
His tongue traces over the wound again, slower now, almost indulgent, and the warmth lingers, heavier this time, sinking deeper beneath your skin as his eyes flick up to meet yours: dark, knowing, and quietly pleased with what he’s done to you.
“There it is,” he exhales softly.
Your breath comes uneven now, catching and stuttering in a way you can’t quite control, your free hand tightening around the bars as your knees threaten to give beneath you. It’s not just the bite—it’s what follows. The slow, deliberate way he lingers, refusing to rush, taking only what he wants and nothing more.
His tongue drags over the wound again, unhurried, catching what spills with a careful precision that feels almost indulgent. The warmth from before hasn’t faded, it’s deepened, spreading through your arm in slow waves that make your body feel heavier, softer, like you’re sinking into the sensation rather than pulling away from it. He watches you the entire time, eyes half-lidded but sharp with focus, tracking every shift in your expression, every uneven breath, every small sound you try(and fail) to suppress.
His grip adjusts subtly, steadying you when you falter, not letting you fall, not letting you escape either. There’s something almost fascinated in the way he studies you, like your reactions are just as important as the act itself, his attention fixed and unwavering as the space between pain and something far more dangerous begins to blur.
“You came to feed me,” he murmurs, voice low and almost thoughtful, like he’s testing the shape of the idea rather than asking it. There’s no real question in it—only quiet certainty. His grip shifts on your wrist, loosening just enough that you feel the choice in it, the control behind how easily he could tighten it again. His thumb drags slowly along your pulse, not restraining, reminding.
“You walked all the way down here,” he continues softly, eyes lifting to meet yours, dark and intent, “came right up to the cage… stood exactly where I could reach you.” A faint smile curves at his lips, slower this time, more deliberate. “And you didn’t pull away.” He tilts his head just slightly, studying you like he already knows the answer. “…So tell me,” he adds, quieter now, voice brushing against something dangerously close to gentle, “what else was I supposed to think?”
You can’t tell if you’re supposed to answer.
He leans in just a little closer, lips brushing your skin again—this time softer, almost thoughtful.
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