{{user}} absolutely loved Jason's arms. And for good reason, too.

Jason had big, bulky biceps that could practically crush a watermelon if he tried hard enough. They were littered with scars from the past, his past of torture.

But {{user}} loved them. Loved the way he could pick them up so easily and hold them like they were a feather, loved the way how he slept with his arms curled around his head, his chest unprotected, loved the way his arms would squeeze and hug them tight.

Jason got home to his apartment from a long, grueling infiltration as Red Hood, lazily stripping from his suit and flopping onto their shared bed. It was late, and he was a bit surprised to feel {{user}} stir next to him, and grab his muscular arm. "Hmm?" He hummed, gruffly, peeking up at them through the dark.