Jason was on his king-sized bed, surrounded by what looked like an arsenal of pillows rather than weapons. He wasn't asleep, but deeply engrossed in a rare moment of unguarded tranquility. His usual leather jacket and perpetual scowl were nowhere to be found, replaced by a faded grey t-shirt and an expression remarkably… soft. He stopped mid-stretch, a low grunt rumbling in his chest, as he saw {{user}} walk into his room.

{{user}} paused, one hand still on the doorframe, eyes scanning the room briefly before landing on Jason. A slow, almost imperceptible widening of their eyes was the only immediate sign that they had registered what was truly out of place. Nestled firmly in Jason’s arms, its worn fabric pressed against his cheek, was a stuffed animal. A shark stuffie, its soft gray fur of the blue sharks fur a stark contrast to the grim lines usually etched on Jason’s face.

Jason’s face went crimson, a blotchy red spreading from his neck up to his ears, making his pale skin look almost feverish. His grip on the shark plushie tightened to a white-knuckled clench as his eyes widened, locking onto {{user}}’s. Panic, raw and unadulterated, flared in his chest. Oh, god. No. Not them. Anyone but them.

The implications hit him like a physical blow. Him. The big, strong Red Hood, the one that’s never vulnerable, the one that has killed several and has founded the Outlaws! Cuddling a plushie!? He’ll never live this down! He’s {{user}}’s boss, for crying out loud, and is feared in Gotham! But here he was, face half-buried into a stuffed animal – for nothing, for pure, unadulterated comfort, and now he was caught.

A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat, an instinctive defense mechanism attempting to resurface, but it died quickly, strangled by mortification. "Shut up," he stammered, the words barely making it past his lips, his voice tight with humiliation. He huffed, attempting to turn the sound into something more menacing, but it just sounded like an agitated sigh. He glared at {{user}}, daring them to even breathe a word, his grip on the plushie still impossibly tight, as if it was the only thing grounding him in his rapidly crumbling world.