Touch — A Dempsey

A Dempsey has a particular habit. A morning routine they’ve never really been able to shake off. They wake up rather early, make coffee, read the last entry of their journal and then go about their day. Now, now they’re in a relationship, that morning routine A promised themselves they’d never change has been altered slightly.

They’ve altered it happily though. If you were to ever ask A whether the life of a relationship would ever be for them. A’s brows would furrow, on certain days they’d ignore the question altogether; if they like you enough their answer would just be a point blank ‘no’. And, it makes them laugh sometimes when they think about that, when A’s eyes open and they lean over to kiss your cheek whilst you’re asleep.

The feeling of thrill that shoots through their fingertips whenever their touch-starved skin makes contact with your own. That’s what A unknowingly craved, something they never expected to receive, but now they’ve got it…

“You’re up early,” A murmurs, a small frown on their lips as they remember how cold the bed felt when they awoke, you vacating it.

You offer them a small smile. “Good morning to you too,” you say as you nod to the other side of the counter. “I made you coffee.”

A wanders over to you first, they throw a gentle arm around your shoulders before pressing a kiss to your temple. It’s long and soft, one that non-verbally says “I hate waking up to find that you’re not next to me”.

They pull their coffee cup towards them and take a sip. The flavour dances over their tongue, almost tasting better than any coffee they’ve made or ever tasted—but A probably thinks that because you’re the one who has made it.

“It’s good,” A says simply. They take the seat across from you.

You give them a small grin. “So complimentary, Dempsey.”

They roll their eyes playfully, and it’s funny how there’s such a contrast between how you and A were before to how you are now. They can do this with you, the lazy mornings where you can say close to nothing and the love radiates off of you both.

“We’re staying home today, right?” they question after a moment, their hot beverage warming their hands, almost tempted to go and hold yours.

“Feeling introverted?” you ask teasingly.

A snorts. “I’m always introverted.” They wait a moment. “But, if you mean today specifically, then sure.”

You watch as A rests a hand on the table, they drum their fingers against it, almost in an impatient and anxious way. As though they’re waiting on you to take it, and you do. You slide your hand across the table and lace your fingers with theirs.

And there’s the thrill. The electricity. The pleasure of a simple touch that keeps them centred and sane.

You don’t have to say anything and neither does A. It’s an unspoken language between you, the handhold across the table—the ‘I need to feel you’ and a response of ‘of course, I’m here’.

“I’ll play you at chess,” you murmur. “And I’ll win.”

There’s a tiny glint in A’s eyes, the competitive one that shines whenever a challenge is thrown their way. “Don’t kid yourself,” A utters back.

—

A does win. Twice, to be exact. They won easily, after all, of course they would. Chess is a game A was born to play, one they’ve mastered time and time again. A knew they’d beat you, they even longed out the game that tad bit so the two of you could play a little longer.

How the two of you are in the position you’re in now? Well, that’s a tale.

It started with A’s competitive streak the, “You shouldn’t have been so confident before, I told you not to kid yourself.”

To which your response was, “Don’t be annoying, Dempsey. You’re just a whole load of talk now.”

Which turned to your breaths in each other’s face, sweet smiles that have the opportunity to turn devilish, all before you’re tilting your head and capturing A’s lips with your own. They close their eyes, as though to savour the touch and taste, but it’s something A never gets used to. The feeling of kisses, the act in itself, the mere action being enough to make them feel like they’re flying.

And that’s what the two of you end up doing.

Them placing their hands on your hips and pulling you closer. You pushing them onto the sofa. Your limbs tangling with theirs, A’s lips crashing onto yours in a confident and feverish way, and they’d be lying if they said they didn’t enjoy the tiny sounds that erupt from the base of your throat when their lips scatter over you.

The two of you have somewhat calmed down now, though the dizzy feeling in your minds is evident. It’s there, almost intoxicatingly so—that you’re the only thing A could possibly need as a drug and they’d be happy for a lifetime. They’d be happy for eternity.

“I love you,” A murmurs, it’s said in a soft tone, their fingertips running up and down your arm.

The three words don’t startle you. The first time A said them, they did. Now, it just ignites excitement and adoration within you. They don’t say it often, that’s a given, so you know what this moment between the two of you is. It’s one where they’re feeling particularly affection, dare you even say ‘clingy’. When the demigod(dess) can feel their love for you bursting at the seams and can’t contain it.

“Is that so?”

A refrains from rolling their eyes, just once. “I promised you a love confession in the morning, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” you respond, a small smile on your lips.