Author Note:
Hey lovelies! New story I had cooking up in my head! Just wanted to clarify that in this story Harley and Joker haven't met each other yet, and that Harley is locked in Arkham Asylum because she is a "psychotic" criminal on her own, and made her own name and fame without the Joker! Please enjoy!
"There you go, princess" one of the guards simpered, nudging the body he and the second guard has dumped onto the cell floor carelessly with his toe. The second guard slumped over against the wall and collapsed into a hurricane of giggles, as if the comment was the funniest thing he had ever heard.
"Princess," he chortled, "this bitch ain't one." He pointed to the battered figure stretched out on the floor with a lazy wave, letting loose another fit of laughter.
They both sobered up suddenly, realizing whose cell they were in, and soon the sound of a metal door clanging shut, three different locks slamming into place, and their echoing laughter faded away.
Inside the cell, the body, otherwise know as the "Infamous" Harley Quinn, could hear the last, dying sounds of the inebriated guards; their feet slapping wetly on the concrete, prison ground until the criminal was left shrouded in darkness.
Everything hurt. She was in the same position the guards had left her in, fully elongated, hand outstretched in a futile attempt to move. She fell limp against the gelid ground.
Harley tried breathing deeper, and winced at the motion as a ragged cough escaped her. The movement jostled her bones, spread through her tendons like a wildfire and she squeezed her eyes shut at the pain. Each erratic movement of her chest left her burning, and the two deep incisions on her chest throbbed even more.
The first one, a jagged line across her stomach, dug so deep that the crisp, raw pink strands of her muscle were visible. The second, that stretched from her right hip, over the protruding bone and a lake of white skin, ended just below her left breast.
Through the blood loss and pain, (she was lying in a pool of crimson,) something flickered in her mind. This wasn't her cell.
Her succeeding gasp had her eyes watering, black spots dancing at the corners of her eyes, threatening to consume her.
Wasn't her cell, wasn't her cell, wasn't her cell. Then whose?
Blinks once, the pain consumes her. Blinks twice, can't hear her own breath. Blinks a third time, and suddenly, in the the corner of her vision, a shadow leans over her.
The last thing she remembers doing before she sagged limp onto the concrete slathered in her fluids, is bending her head back, and exposing the white stretch of neck in submission to a pale, green-haired God.
:::::::::
She is in the dark again, pitch black around her. Suddenly out of the night, a ghostly white hand appears, dancing and squirming like a giant pale tarantula.
Many hands on her. Guards, she can tell from their black, standard-issued uniforms, surround her. Touching, nipping, twisting, and suddenly she gasps, shrieks as a lace of pain shoots through her body. One of them has a knife, and she sees the curve of the blade, elegant and deadly. Screams as it plunges into her hip, sawing at the sweaty flesh with the dull tool. Her vision swims, and all her strength leaks out of her in one continuous flood.
A another shout gets trapped in her throat as the guards cut through her body, tries to yell, but a hand is clamped around her mouth, clammy and vile. Someone laughs above, a cruel, taunting sounds from the hulking figure.
Harley panics, kicking out furiously, whipping her body in their grasp, but their hands keep working. Their nails bite into her skin, and blood is suddenly smeared on her face, down her neck, her collarbone and she gags, warm bile stuck in her throat.
She flinches again as one hand threads its way into her hair, forcing her head back, the blade hot against the arch of her neck—she is ripped from the dream in a blur.
Her body moves to get up before her mind can register the action, and Harley hisses through her teeth, her injuries forcing her to lie limp again. The cuts are just as painful, but she feels better, head more clear. She is breathing hard, almost to the point of hyperventilating, and the dream has riled her up with panic and fear.
Desperate to leave her nightmare behind, she searches for something else to focus on, something that won't cause her pain. Harley's hand makes contact with something warm, and she finds herself with a fistful of...fabric? She squints through the darkness (there aren't any windows in the cell and she's guessing it's around 4 am) and turns her head an imperceptible amount to see that she's lying on orange. An orange, Arkham-Asylum-issued jacket.
She gasps, and that's when she remembers. She is not alone in this cell. Her heart skips a beat, remembers a "green-haired" shadow, (a dream maybe?). A sudden sharp and somber realization leaves Harley quaking, shivering with excitement and hypnotic terror. Her heart speeds up, beating erratically as if it were trying to rip its way from her chest-she knows whose cell this is. The Joker's.
Hey guys! Hoped you like this chapter, I will be updating soon because I am on a Joker/Harley CRAZE right now! Also, I wanted to make one clarification for y'all if some people didn't get it. Harley is thrown into Joker's cell because the guards, in their drunken stupor, mixed up the cells and put her in the Joker's after torturing her. That's the clarification haha! Don't forget to leave reviews, everyone! Let me know what you guys would like to see in future chapters. ;)
