Hello people! Again, so sorry that it took so long to get this out. It sounds like a lame excuse but school is still really crazy, especially my school which is quite competitive. I've also been quite sick, which means I haven't been able to write as much as I'd like. Thank you for all the lovely reviews! They really keep me going, especially the longer ones that really analyse the story. Keep them coming!
Thanks so much to everyone who keeps coming back despite how long it takes me to upload, it really means a lot to me! And hello to any new readers :)
Hope you enjoy this chapter xo
11
Bells stood in the Joker's firm grasp, her breathing shallow and fast. His fingers were digging into her arms, exacerbating the pain from where he had fucking bit her. She couldn't even bring herself to feel too angry with him; to his crazed mind biting someone to show ownership probably seemed like a reasonable thing to do. Ownership. Did he really own her? Was the assumption of ownership the same as true ownership? He definitely seemed to think that he owned her, and in her limited experience what the Joker wanted, the Joker got. Getting in the way of his wants was suicide, and Bells wasn't one for suicidal tendencies. Perhaps this was easier – it was exhausting trying to challenge him all the time.
And if he desired her…
Bells already knew she was attracted to power. Look at Simon; he had been wealthy, smart, powerful, and her little crush on him had never really gone away. The Joker, now he was powerful. He was like a cat with a mouse, taunting Gotham, cruel and punishing, and enjoying it. Worst of all, she was enjoying it. She felt liberated. Here at the warehouse she was free to do as she wished, although only as long as what she wished was in line with what the Joker wished. There was no society, she decided, and that was what made the difference. No rigid set of social constructs designed to support the wealthy and tread on the poor. Here there was no wealth; there was no need of it. Here there were no little men in their big glasshouses, lobbing bricks of deceit and lies and fakery. Life was simple here. Life was easy. At least, as easy as it could be in the circumstances.
Bells looked up at the Joker again. His makeup was messy and sunken into the lines and scars on his face, the white greasepaint blending into the red, tinging it pink. She had never realised what plump lips he had, so distracted by the scars as she always had been… No, plump wasn't the right word. They were full but purposeful; full of the life that he lived, issuing orders and taking lives with one word. It was a powerful mouth, pulled taut by the scars that he had claimed and moulded himself around. How painful they must have been, how brutal the story behind them.
'Like the scars, do ya?' the Joker said, startling Bells out of her thoughts.
Bells didn't know how to reply, and simply stared at him, clenching her fists in frustration.
The Joker took in her widened eyes and tense jaw and started to giggle, shaking with mirth. Bells tried to struggle out of his grasp, trying to push him away, but he gripped her all the harder. Just as suddenly as it had began, the laughter stopped and he straightened, looking at her coldly.
'Wanna know how I got 'em?' he whispered throatily, putting his head down towards hers. He was calm, not jittery - a bad sign. What was the saying? The calm before the storm.
Bells shook her head, not wanting to look at him in the eye.
'Oh, you don't?' he asked, giving her a little shake, but his voice had returned to its usual high-pitched state, bubbling with maniacal laughter. Bells relaxed, knowing the danger had passed. She raised her eyes to his, the whites of his eyes standing out so harshly against the thick black of the greasepaint encircling them. He was still shaking, but it had reduced to a slight tremor in his fingers and shoulders – an ever-present part of him. Perhaps it was constant adrenaline coursing through him, causing him to shake like he did. It must be exhausting. Even now she could feel the heat of him radiating between them, in close proximity as they were. How long could his body endure this constant assault before it burnt out? Bells wondered how long he had been like this, and how much it had shortened his lifespan. Bells was almost disgusted by the flash of fear that this thought brought her. It was horrifying how quickly her subconscious had become attached to him.
'Penny for your, uh, thoughts?' the Joker said, snapping her out of her reverie. The pressure on her shoulders increased, and Bells remembered how little the Joker liked to be ignored. His tongue flicked out to lick his scars, and he smacked his lips, waiting for her answer.
'I was just,' Bells stammered, 'you know… thinking.'
Where was the confident girl (murderer) from a few days ago?
The Joker gave a taut chuckle that told her he wasn't amused in the least.
'That much was obvious, don't you think Bells?' he said in a sing-song voice that made her cringe. His fingers were digging hard into the bite, and she couldn't help but let out a sob of pain, flinching away from him.
'A ta ta ta ta,' the Joker said, still in the same high-pitched sing-song voice that grated on her ears. He dug his thumb deeper into her shoulder, and Bells bit back a cry, uncomfortably reminded of the first time she had met him as the scar on her cheek twinged. The Joker pulled her closer, almost flush against him, 'Don't be rude Bells.'
'I'm sorry,' she gasped, hating how weak she sounded. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her, and she slackened in the Joker's grip, suddenly unable to hold herself up. Idly she wondered how much blood she had lost; she could still feel it running in rivulets down her arm, dripping off her fingers and onto the floor. She looked up at the Joker, a question forming on her lips, but her vision blurred and his face morphed into a ghastly sight, the red and black and the white clouding together until it was just the shapes that remained. Bells gasped and tried to struggle away, the ghoulish mask seared into her vision, but he only held her tighter, confused and wary of her sudden panic.
'Uh, Bells?' the Joker asked, and the sound filtered into Bells' hazy mind. Blinking, her vision cleared and she looked up at him, almost crying in relief when his features were once more discernable.
'Blood loss,' she whispered, feeling too weak to form the words properly and hating it.
'Oh my,' the Joker said exaggeratedly, feigning gentlemanly concern. 'We'd better get you seen to hadn't we?'
He leered at her, and Bells gazed unwittingly back, still dizzy. The Joker grasped her by the wrist in one leather-gloved hand, and with the other he held her chin, his fingers grinding into her jaw. Weakly she lifted a hand to swat at him but he dodged it easily, giggling as he did so. He took a step forwards, and Bells stumbled back, her bare feet catching on her top discarded on the ground. He took another step, and another, until Bells felt the cold cement wall slam into her back, icy on her bare skin. She gasped at the contact, and tried to twist away, but the Joker pinned her with his hips. It took a moment for her to process his arousal, significant against her. Bells let out a cry, and, her vision clearing for a moment, she pushed away from him with her free hand, shoving at his shoulder. Unfazed, the Joker grasped her wrist in a vice-like grip and slammed it up against the wall, bring her other arm up to follow it. Pinioned against the cement, her wrists in one gloved-hand while the other rested gently wrapped around her throat, Bells, even in her dizzied state, realised what a hopeless situation she was in.
'Please,' she whispered, looking at him, pleading with him to let her go without finding the words.
'But it's my pleasure,' the Joker responded mockingly, continuing the charade. Bells felt tears coming to her eyes as the strain on her shoulders increased, the pain multiplied tenfold by the throbbing bite wound that still steadily dripped blood. The Joker leant forward, so close that their noses were almost touching. Bells could feel his breath on her lips, and a shiver crept down her spine. Without even a twitch of warning, the Joker brought his lips crashing down onto hers. Bells gasped, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth. She gave a muffled noise of protest, struggling against the cage of his hands, but the Joker nipped her lip in response and Bells couldn't help but sigh. He kissed her hungrily, pushing his knee between her legs, securing her more firmly against the wall. Bells let her eyes slide closed, leaning into the kiss. His scars were harsh against her cheeks, but it was a pleasant sort of feeling: even with her eyes closed, she knew it was him. She kissed him back, unable to stop herself from arching her chest into his, the vest coarse against her bare nipples. The Joker was everything Sly wasn't. Even his smell was intoxicating: grease paint mixed with gunpowder and gasoline. Nothing had ever smelt better. Nothing could ever smell as powerful.
The Joker released his grip on her neck, the free hand now sliding down her bare chest. He tweaked a hardened nipple, and Bells gasped into the kiss, straining to free her arms from his hold. His only response was to hold her wrists more tightly, so tightly it was almost painful, the delicate bones grinding against each other. Bells gave a startled cry, pulling away from the kiss, their lips parting with a loud smack. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving. The Joker looked at the bright spots of colour on her cheeks, one side lovingly baring the scar he had given her. He watched her eyes lose focus, and she slumped forward into him, held up only by his grip on her wrists. Blood loss, she had said.
Bells' vision was swimming, the exertion too much for her in her weakened state. Suddenly the vice-like grip on her wrists disappeared and she fell forward onto the Joker, unable to catch herself in time. With an amused snort he shoved her off of him, and she fell, her knees then elbows slamming into the cement floor. Bracing herself on the ground, her eyesight blurry and distorted, she heard the Joker walk past her. She saw him pause at the threshold of the door, an indistinct blur against the grey wall.
'Thanks Bells. I sure had a blast,' Bells heard him say, mirth bubbling in his voice, before the door slammed closed.
Bells braced herself on her hands and knees, feeling nauseous. Her breath was coming in gasps as blood continued to run down her arm, pooling on the floor under her palm. Weakly, she reached for her top, still balled up on the floor, and pressed it feebly against the bite, hissing in pain. She needed medical attention, stat. It was a pity that the only person who would have obliged was cooling on the floor. Bells looked at Sly sadly, her eyes focusing just long enough to see that the Joker had retrieved his knife before he left.
Bells got up slowly and staggered over to where the medical kit was left abandoned on the floor. Hissing, she reached for it, grabbing the handle and tucking it under her arm. She had seen enough movies to know that she needed stitches, but she sure wasn't going to be able to do it herself. Bracing herself against the wall, she slowly made her way to the door, fumbling for the handle. She paused as her hand touched the cool metal, hearing voices outside of the thin wood of the door.
'What do ya think happened?'
'Dunno, but there sure was a lot of noise.'
'Heard the girl scream.'
'Think he raped her?'
'Wouldn't put it past him. Sicko probably likes them struggling.'
'She's probably into - '
Bells pulled the door open, cutting the conversation off mid-flow. A group of men were clustered around the door, looking suitably abashed at being caught eavesdropping. Striker was standing in the front, his bulky frame almost filling the doorway. He glanced down at her naked torso without seeming to realise he'd done it.
'If you're quite finished,' said Bells, shoving the medical kit into his arms, 'I think I need stitches.'
Striker looked down at her shoulder, grimacing as he did so, giving her a sympathetic look before doing a double take. Bells saw disgust cover his face. He looked back at the men behind him, a sneer half-forming on his mouth. Bells touched a hand to her cheek, confused, and flinched when it came away pink. The greasepaint.
'Wait here,' she muttered, pushing past them all. She staggered down the hall to the bathroom, weakly pulling the door closed after her. Bracing herself on the sink, she slowly looked up, facing herself in the mirror. It was worse than she had imagined. The Joker's paint had come off on her cheeks, the red and white smeared and ghoulish. It had sunk into crease of her scar, and Bells shuddered. Her lips were swollen and cracked, bleeding where he had nipped her, the blood mingling with the red greasepaint that covered her mouth like hastily applied lipstick. The entire effect was disquieting. No wonder the men had been repulsed.
Bells lowered her eyes to her shoulder, and had to immediately look away, feeling faintly sickened. The blood was startlingly crimson in her peripheral vision. Bells closed her eyes, leaning against the mirror and fogging the glass with her breath. Tremors of adrenaline and arousal still coursed through her, making her hands shake. How could she have done that? Sure, it was one thing to fantasise about a crazy mass-murderer, it was quite another to kiss one. To be fair, she reasoned to herself, she hadn't had much of a choice.
But you kissed him back. Are you fucking crazy?
Bells sighed, her internal monologue as usual being uncomfortably correct. She had kissed him back… It was the blood-loss, definitely the blood loss. She wasn't in her right state of mind. She had been weakened, she couldn't have fought him off even if she'd wanted to.
Even if you'd wanted to?
With a groan, Bells opened her eyes. Who was she kidding, the kiss had been amazing. The Joker kissed like he lived: hungrily. It had felt so… so potent, kissing him. Bells felt a blush rise in her cheeks as she thought about it, and her nipples hardened once more. Heat ran down her spine, pooling at the base of her belly. He had marked her. He desired her, that much was obvious. Bells grinned, forgetting the throb of her shoulder. It felt powerful, being wanted by someone so powerful himself. Who would have thought, boring little Isabelle being wanted by a homicidal psychopath. What would her parents say.
Bells snorted. It's not like they would ever care what she was doing. She sighed and found a washcloth, running it under the water before gently sponging off the greasepaint on her shoulder, hissing at the pain. She wondered if she needed something antibacterial. What was the protocol for being bitten by a human?
The door to the bathroom slammed opened, and Bells spun around, regretting the sudden movement instantly as her vision swam and her head pounded. Striker stood in the door, his hands curled into fists as he trembled with suppressed anger.
Bells frowned, 'Wha-'
'What the fuck,' he hissed, cutting her off. Bells stepped back, shocked at the intensity of his anger.
'What are you talking about?' she asked wearily, unable to think of anything but the persistent throbbing in her shoulder. She eyed the medical kit Striker still held, hoping he wasn't too angry to give her medical attention.
'What am I talking about?' snarled Striker, taking another step into the room. 'I'm talking about the fucking dead body you just left on the ground, you whore.'
Sly. That would explain it.
'Oh shit,' Bells muttered, closing her eyes briefly.
'What the fuck happened, Bells?' Striker asked angrily, slamming the medical kit onto the bench that spanned the tiled wall, knocking bandages and bottles onto the floor.
'What do you think happened,' Bells said tiredly. 'The Joker happened.'
Striker clenched and unclenched his fists.
'Why would he kill Sly?' he hissed. 'What did you do?'
As Striker spoke he strode forward, grabbing Bells by the arm and shoving her up against the wall, face first. Bells gave a pained, angry snarl as he jostled her shoulder, the blood from the wound smearing onto the dirty grey tiles. Bells let him hold her there, knowing that she was too weak to fight back.
'He walked in on Sly kissing me,' she answered strategically. It was probably safer that Striker didn't know that she had been the instigator of the kissing session. 'I guess he was… jealous?'
Striker snorted, and let her go. 'Don't be thick. Joker isn't interested in anyone.'
'So Peyton and him never?'
'Like I said, Joker isn't interested.'
Bells felt triumph bubble in her chest. She was the first. She was special.
'So he killed Sly,' Striker sighed, running a grease-stained hand through his unkempt hair.
Bells nodded mutely.
'Look,' she said tiredly, 'I don't mean to hassle you, but I really think I'm in need of stitches.'
She gestured to her torn shoulder, leaning back against the sink before her legs could give way. Bells saw Striker glance quickly at the greasepaint that was still smeared across her mouth, unable to hide the look of disgust that flashed across his face. Nevertheless, he gathered up the supplies that had fallen to the floor and arranged them haphazardly on the sink. Bells let her eyes fall closed as he rummaged through the kit, exhaustion hitting her hard.
'Sit,' ordered Striker, and Bells let her legs give out from under her and she slid down the wall, crumpling in an ungraceful heap at the bottom. She drew her knees up and leant her head against them, closing her eyes once more. She heard Striker settle down in front of her, felt his cool hands on her shoulder. She hissed at the sudden contact, the pressure next to her wound sending a flash of pain down her arm.
'Hold still,' muttered Striker, and she looked up at him just in time to see him thread a needle with tough-looking string.
'That doesn't look very professional,' she observed, eying the sharp point apprehensively.
'What do you think I am, a fucking doctor?'
Bells shook her head and settled her head between her knees once more. She hissed as she felt the needle go through her flesh, but the sharp pain was almost eclipsed by the throbbing burn of the bite. She wondered why Striker was doing this for her. She supposed now that he knew the Joker was interested in her he probably wanted to rack up some brownie points. She wasn't going to complain.
'This is real messy, Bells,' said Striker, pulling the thread through the broken skin. 'It aint gonna be pretty.'
'I can deal with that,' she replied, her voice muffled by her knees. 'He seems to enjoy disfiguring me.'
Striker chuckled. 'You're not wrong.'
Several minutes later, Striker tied off the end of the thread, admiring his work. It was a pretty messy job, but it had been a pretty messy wound. There were tiny snakes of stitches coiling over her shoulder: two semi-circles almost forming a full circle. Around them were assorted shallower marks that still dripped blood, too small to bother with stitches.
Bells was breathing shallowly, looking pale. She wondered just how much blood she had lost.
'You need to sleep,' Striker observed.
'Where?' Bells muttered. 'There's a body in my room.'
His eyes narrowed at the mention of Sly, but after a moment he seemed to shrug it off. 'You can sleep in my room, if you like.'
Bells snorted. 'Do you really think that's gonna be a good idea?'
Striker frowned, and replied, 'You're right. I don't particularly want to end up knifed in the neck.'
Bells chuckled, and looked down at her shoulder. Striker had done the best job he could - it couldn't have been easy.
'Thanks. And I am sorry about Sly,' she said, looking up at him. 'I liked him.'
Striker sighed heavily. 'Yeah. We all did.'
Both of them flinched as the door swung open with a rusty creak. The Joker stood in the doorway, surveying them with a slight smile on his face. He took in Bells sitting against the tiled wall, medical supplies scattered around her, Striker crouching next to her with her blood on his hands.
'If you're finished playing doctors and nursies,' he drawled, 'I need you to get the guys ready. We're going out.'
Striker nodded, getting quickly to his feet and leaving the bathroom without a glance to Bells. The Joker stepped into the room, one hand fiddling with his ever-present knife. Bells looked at him in apprehension, but couldn't stop a shiver that ran down her spine at the site of the smeared paint around the Jokers mouth, a mirror of her own.
The Joker crouched down in front of her.
'I like the decoration,' he said, gesturing to her mouth. 'Who knew it'd suit you.'
Bells felt a blush rise to her cheeks at the back-handed compliment.
'Wasn't exactly the colouring I would have chosen myself, but I think it really brings out my eyes.'
The Joker grinned, his yellow teeth thankfully no longer stained with her blood. Bells sighed, exhaustion once more colouring her vision a dull blur. Her head lolled forward, feeling heavy on her neck.
'I need sleep,' she admitted, her eyes straining to see him.
'Do you? And here I thought we were all going out.'
Bells sighed, and shook her head, regretting it immediately as her head began to pound.
'I'll slow you down.'
The Joker surveyed her, his eyes lingering on her shoulder.
'Look at you, all tuckered out. Go to sleep then Bells.'
She nodded, getting slowly to her feet. Bracing herself against the wall, Bells took a step towards the door, but heat rose in her neck and a roaring noise filled her ears. Stumbling, she grasped at the lapels of the Jokers jacket to steady herself, but her vision went grey. She felt him grasp her arms, and opened her mouth to speak, but darkness rushed into her vision and the world went black.
Hope you enjoyed the chapter, make sure to leave a review so I can get your feedback, positive or negative. I'd especially like to know if you think Bells is Mary-Sueish, I'm trying my utmost for that not to happen, but what do you think?
Hopefully the next chapter will be out a little sooner :) Remember to REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!
