#give me a thread of the joker and jason having a fr fight

[thexwayward]

@anonymous asked: "I promise, you won't feel a thing." ( for Jason, love Joker in an abandoned warehouse with a crowbar :D )

𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖘 ;; 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 || find it here

            he wanted to fight it, to break past his former traumas and tear the killer clown to shreds. he’d pondered this moment, pictured taking his long awaited revenge, a crowbar in hand. he wanted to hear the soft protest of his leather glove against the hard wrought iron baton and swing. a white-hot flash clouded his vision.            what hurts more? a? or b?            vision granted once more, the broken-winged robin glared ahead, savoring the moment. he wanted to press his boot into the joker’s ribs and listen to them crack, a sound more beautiful than any tinkling of piano keys filling the balmy air around them as his story came to a close near gotham harbor. yet, here he lay, in much the same position as before he died, bound and left on the hard cement ground, staring at the shoes of the monster that put him in his grave. jason focused elsewhere, biding his time as a hard crack sounded from behind him, a sharp pain shooting up his spine.           forehand? or backhand?           long ago he’d learned that pain was temporary, and if ignored, all the better. the perk of being at the boot of an unhinged psychopath like the joker would always remain that a change of plans would bring new opportunity. he just had to wait.            a slow breath through his nose told jason all he needed to know about his surroundings; the musty, salt-caked air hinted at being near the harbor, the sour, mildewed stink of abandonment was thick in the air. ocean eyes darting toward the silvery moonlight filtering inside the shabby building dulled as it touched the grimy concrete. the fractured tin roof tiles that littered the floor spoke of its age, probably somewhere closer to the northern sector of the city, where the mafioso touch had long since faded.            he never counted the hits, never focused on the pain, but rather the growing mania behind his captor’s movements. the joker seemed angry, enraged he wasn’t able to strike fear where he’d once struck death. it was almost funny. another hit, another kick, and soon the joker was on one knee, fist coiled in jason’s black locks, a few white hairs clinging to the sheen of sweat that dotted his scarred brow. any moment now.              as the villain leaned forward, his crooked, red grin stretching wider, loathing in his eyes, jason struck, smashing his forehead forward. the sickening crack that sounded was the first few notes in a symphony that inspired movement. rolling from the joker’s grasp, jason brought his knees to his chest and unbound his ankles, swinging his bound arms beneath the curve of his bum and over his curled legs, leaving him free to move around, arms in front of him, ankles unbound. lethal and ready for the coppery sweetness of revenge on his lips.               three bounds forward, he brought his conjoined hands up in a wicked swing, his fists connecting with the underside of the clown’s chin in a tooth-snapping uppercut. cocking back, jason lifted his leg and kicked, slamming the full sole of his boot into the joker’s sternum, the crack of his ribs resonating in the emptiness that encased them.             proud and wicked all at once, jason rushed forward, swinging his conjoined wrists over the joker’s head to yank the madman back into a choke hold, leveling his lips with the side of the monster’s painted face.             “ think you have a collapsed lung, there, lambchop. ” he seethed. “        that always impedes the oratory. ”