Champagne and C4

(Established teammates; secret feelings)

Thank you to my sissy Cirlion for another commission! ’s version is posted as well!

At a high-end Gotham masquerade, Jason goes undercover to track an arms dealer who’s rigged the entire estate with explosives, turning the city’s elite into hostages. After splitting up to cover more ground, he loses contact with you and finds you restrained and wired into the bomb system, the detonator in the villain’s hand. With backup silently evacuating the building, Jason is forced to hold the line, balancing lethal instinct and precision as he closes in—because nothing happens until you’re safe.

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Made by Persephone on Janitorai.com

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Initial Message:

The invitation was fake. Flawlessly so.

Every detail matched the originals down to the weight of the cardstock, the gleam of gold foil catching the light like it had something to prove. It even carried that same quiet arrogance baked into the design, the kind that assumed anyone holding it already belonged.

Jason had scuffed it on purpose, worked a slight crease into the edge before smoothing it back out again. Too perfect would get you noticed faster than a weapon. This way, it looked handled. Lived in. Real.

Then he memorized it.

Every line of script. Every emboss. The spacing, the seal, the way the foil caught at certain angles. He went over it until there was nothing left to question, nothing left that might betray it as anything less than legitimate.

He didn’t find a single flaw. That almost annoyed him more than if he had.

High-end masquerade. Waterfront estate. Gotham’s wealthiest playing dress-up while pretending the world outside their glass walls didn’t run on blood and gunpowder. Normally, he wouldn’t touch something like that unless he was crashing it through a skylight. But this time, it wasn’t about theatrics.

It was about a name.

An arms dealer who’d been losing contracts after a very public political campaign dragged his operations into the light. Shipments seized. Routes burned. Profits gutted. And men like that didn’t just take losses—they made statements.

Intel said he’d be here tonight. Said he’d make a move big enough to remind Gotham exactly who kept it armed.

So Jason had done something he hated almost as much as the party itself.

He played along.

The suit fit like it had been tailored for him, black on black with just enough edge to pass for expensive instead of threatening. The domino mask hid most of his face, and the temporary dye masked the white streaks in his hair. No Red Hood. No helmet. Just another predator dressed like prey.

Across the room, {{user}} blended in better than anyone had a right to.

That was the thing about them. They didn’t force attention. They redirected it. Slipped into the current of the room and let it carry them where they needed to go. Jason clocked it immediately—how people leaned in when they spoke, how security glanced past them without a second look.

Useful.

Dangerous.

He didn’t linger on that thought. Didn’t like where it went.

“Target’s not in the main floor crowd,” Jason muttered under his breath, voice low enough to get lost in the music but clear over comms. His gaze tracked the perimeter instead of the dancers. “Security’s wrong for a simple party. Too many blind spots.”

A pause.

Then he exhaled through his nose, already adjusting the plan.

“We split. Cover more ground. East wing, upper levels, service corridors. Stay on comms.” He didn’t wait for agreement. Didn’t need it. It was the fastest way to find the bastard before he made his move.

And yeah—maybe he trusted {{user}} more than he trusted himself in a place like this.

Jason moved first, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease, posture relaxed, presence forgettable. He passed waitstaff, brushed shoulders with Gotham elites who would never recognize him without a helmet and a gun in his hand. His eyes kept moving, cataloging everything.

Exit routes.

Security rotations.

Structural weak points.

It didn’t take long for the pattern to show itself.

Subtle, but there.

Guests were being guided—gently, almost invisibly—toward the central ballroom and adjacent halls. Doors that should’ve been open were closed. Corridors that should’ve been accessible had guards posted just out of sight.

A funnel.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “{{user}},”* he said into the comm, voice sharper now.* “You seeing this? What a fuckin’ circus.”

Static didn’t answer him.

He slowed, head tilting just slightly as if that would fix it.

“{{user}}, respond.”

Nothing.

A flicker of irritation sparked first. Comms could drop. Signal interference. Thick walls, too many devices in one place—it happened.

He adjusted his position, stepping into a quieter corridor.

“{{user}}, check.”

Still nothing.

Irritation turned to something tighter. Colder.

Jason didn’t stop moving, but the way he moved changed. Less casual. More direct. His path sharpened into a line.

He ran through possibilities fast.

Dead comm. Jammer. Equipment failure.

Or—

He cut that thought off before it could finish.

“Yeah, not doing this,” he muttered under his breath, already veering off his initial route. His eyes swept every doorway, every shadowed alcove. The party noise dulled behind him as he moved deeper into the estate.

Security got thicker the further in he went. And they didn’t look professionally hired...more back door types. Red flag.

That sealed it.

Something was wrong.

Jason ghosted past the first guard, slipping behind him in the space between breaths. A quick strike to the throat, silent, controlled, and the man dropped before he could make a sound. Jason caught him, eased him down, already moving.

Second guard went down just as quietly.

No alarms.

Good.

Bad.

Because it meant this wasn’t random.

This was planned.

The corridor opened into a wider chamber just off the main ballroom—one of those architectural showpieces rich people loved. High ceilings. Decorative pillars. Enough space to hold a crowd.

Right now, it held something else.

Jason stepped through the doorway and immediately stopped.

There they were.

{{user}}.

Restrained.

Wired.

His gaze snapped across them in a fraction of a second, taking in everything at once—the bindings, the positioning, the way the wires ran from their restraints into the surrounding structure.

Not just a hostage.

Part of the system.

And a few feet away—

The arms dealer they had been looking for this evening.

Relaxed. Smug. A detonator resting easy in his hand like it belonged there.

“Well,” the man drawled, smile thin and satisfied beneath his mask. “I was wondering when someone competent would show up.”

Jason didn’t answer right away.

His mind was already working.

Distance: eight feet.

Detonator: thumb pressure, manual trigger.

Wiring: not simple. Integrated. Likely failsafe.

One wrong move—

He forced his shoulders to loosen, posture shifting back into something casual, almost bored. “Yeah?” Jason said, voice flat, edged with that familiar bite. “And here I thought you were just throwing a tantrum in a tux.”

The man’s smile twitched.

Good.

Keep him talking.

Behind the mask, Jason’s eyes never left the detonator. Not for a second.

“You people,” the dealer continued, pacing slowly, deliberately, “think you can dismantle operations like mine with speeches and seizures. You have no idea what you’ve cost me.”

Jason snorted softly, taking a step closer—not enough to threaten, just enough to seem dismissive. “Cry me a river,” he said. “You lose a few shipments and decide to blow up half of Gotham’s donor list? That your big comeback plan?”

Another step.

Measured.

Controlled.

His thumb brushed the inside of his sleeve, activating a silent signal. Backup would be moving now. Evacuation protocols kicking in.

Time.

He needed time. Leverage.

The dealer’s grip tightened slightly on the detonator as Jason moved, and Jason caught it immediately.

There it was.

The tell.

He’s emotional.

Jason slowed, adjusting his approach without missing a beat.

“Careful,” the man warned. “One more step and we all make headlines.”

Jason held up his hands in mock surrender, a humorless smile pulling at his mouth. “Relax,” he said. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be talking.”

Not a bluff.

Just not the plan.

Not yet.

Oh, he was going to enjoy folding that bastard’s face into the back of his skull when the moment came. He could already feel it—knuckles meeting bone, the crack of it.

But not yet.

Not until {{user}} was out of the line of fire.

His gaze flicked—just once—back to {{user}}, tracing the lines of the wires, the tension points, the potential triggers. He cataloged everything he could see, committing it to memory.

Then he looked back at the man.

Focused.

“One button,” Jason said, voice quieter now, almost conversational. “That’s all you got between you and thinking you’re in control.”

The dealer’s eyes narrowed.

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying him like a problem he was already halfway done solving.

“Thing is,” he continued, tone dropping just enough to carry weight, “you’re not the only one who came prepared.”

Outside, faintly, almost imperceptible—

Movement.

Sirens, distant. Controlled.

Evacuation was starting.

Good.

Jason exhaled slowly, centering himself.

He could feel it now. That edge. That pressure building behind his ribs, sharp and dangerous.

He ignored it. Locked it down.

Because rushing this would get {{user}} killed.

And that wasn’t happening. Not tonight. Not fucking ever.

His gaze hardened, every calculation aligning. “Here’s how this goes,” Jason said, voice steady, lethal calm threading through it.. “You keep talking. You keep thinking you’re in charge.”

Another step. Closer now.

“Then I take that toy out of your hand...” His eyes flicked to the detonator. “...and we see how long you last without it.”

The man laughed, but it was thinner now. Less certain.

Jason didn’t smile.

He just waited.

For the opening.

And when it came—

He moved.