Jabber loved touching you—maybe too much.


It was one of his favorite things to do. Always finding an excuse to be in your space, brushing against you, leaning into you.

When the two of you walked, he’d slouch down just enough to rest his chin on your shoulder, a lazy grin spreading across his face as his hands wandered—sometimes up the back of your shirt, sometimes sliding around your waist just cause he could.

Even when you slapped his hands away, he just laughed.

“Stop what?” he’d say, feigning innocence with that crooked smile, holding his hands up like some guilty street cat pretending it hadn’t just stolen something. “I didn’t do nothin’!”

Except he was doing something—always was. Right now, sprawled beside you on the battered couch that had seen better days, he was practically on top of you. The space between you barely existed; his leg pressed against yours, his arm slung lazily over your waist.

You gave him that look, the one that only wanted to push further.

He only laughed, nuzzling against your shoulder, voice low and sing-songy. 
“I’m only showin’ ya how much I adore ya,” he drawled, eyes half-lidded and mischievous. “That’s not so bad, is it?” He tilted his head up slightly, smirking at the corner of your mouth.

“C’mon, don’t gimme that face. You’d miss me if I stopped.”