How about phainon, jiaoqiu, aventurine, mydei, or anyone you want to add with a s/o that always has back aches? Like they are alright all right doing their routine but as soon as they lay on their bed, they would complain how their back hurts every night? How would they handle this situation and help their s/o? Would any of them massage their s/o? 👀Honestly this is relatable and want to see this (・∀・) that's all and have a wonderful day!
“If I Could Take the Ache Away, I Would”
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Comfort, Soft Domestic Moments, Affectionate Touch, Established Relationship, Back Pain Shenanigans, Hurt/Comfort, Slice Of Life, Slow Intimacy, Protective Partner, Massage Scene, Emotional Tenderness, Mutual Care, Reader Is So Done But Also In Love, Sexy But It’s Just A Back Rub, They Love You So Much It Hurts Themselves, Fluff So Tender It Could Heal A Titan (😔🙏).
Warnings: Mentions Of Chronic Pain, Touch Intimacy, Emotional Vulnerability, Mild Angst, Mentions Of War And Trauma, Soft Consent Implied, Mild Language, Emotional Caretaking, Mentions Of Self-Sacrifice, Depictions Of Survivor’s Guilt, References To Death, Religious Trauma (?).
A/N: I'm being stalked...
You had learned to live with it — the persistent ache, the quiet burn along your spine that never quite went away. You’d smile, stretch, keep moving. And then night would come, and so would the pain.
Phainon notices every time.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches — the way your hand always goes to your lower back, how you wince ever so slightly when laying down.
One night, as you sink into the mattress with a tired groan, your voice muffled against the pillow — “Ugh, my back again…” — Phainon sets his sword aside and moves silently to your side.
“You always say that,” he murmurs, kneeling beside the bed. His eyes reflect the soft moonlight like calm water. “You carry too much.”
You snort. “Isn’t that your job? Worldbearing and all that?”
He smiles — warm, teasing — but then gently places a hand on your back. “Even the sun needs rest.”
Without asking, he begins to massage your back, strong hands surprisingly gentle. His touch is reverent, like he’s afraid of doing harm, yet perfectly firm in the right places.
“You hide pain well,” he whispers, fingers tracing along your spine like he’s reading constellations. “But I see it. And I won’t let you bear it alone.”
He massages you until the tension eases. Until your breath steadies. Until the weight lifts, even if just for a night.
“Again?” Jiaoqiu’s voice floats through the room, calm but laced with gentle concern. “You said you’d drink the ginger decoction I left you…”
You flop onto the bed dramatically. “I did! I think. Probably. Maybe.”
He’s already walking over, fox ears twitching, feather fan tucked beneath one arm, long sleeves brushing the ground like a whisper. His eyes remain closed, but he kneels at your side with practiced ease.
With a hum, he conjures a small, softly glowing cauldron beside him, releasing the scent of herbs and camphor. “Then we’ll have to try a more… hands-on approach tonight.”
You blink. “You’re going to…?”
He smiles faintly. “Yes. I’ve studied battlefield muscular compression techniques. Let’s consider this the ‘tenth square’.”
His hands are deft, delicate yet precise. His fingers trace down your spine like a calligrapher painting characters in air, pressing and releasing in rhythmic flow. His touch is oddly intimate — not just medicinal, but personal.
“Your qi pools around your lower back,” he murmurs, tone suddenly softer, more vulnerable. “It's not just overexertion. You... carry too much emotion there, too.”
You try to respond, but his touch coaxes a low sigh out of you instead.
He chuckles quietly, then murmurs near your ear, “Let me carry it for once.”
You never complain during the day. Not when walking, not when training. But Mydei knows.
He sees the way your hands brace your hips when you think he isn’t looking. He knows the precise moment at night when you shift, wince, and whisper, “Ow.”
He turns over, his golden eyes already open. “How bad?”
You grunt. “Not bad. Just annoying.”
He says nothing — simply moves to sit up, sweeping aside his black-and-red cape.
“Turn over,” he commands gently.
You do. There’s no hesitation, no grand gesture — just Mydei’s hands, calloused from countless battles, pressing into your back with slow, purposeful movements.
He doesn't massage like a healer. He massages like a warrior. Efficient, strong, and unrelenting.
“You should’ve told me sooner,” he mutters. “You’ve been enduring it too long.”
“You’re fighting a war. I didn’t want to—”
He presses a thumb against a tight knot and you gasp.
“That wasn’t a request,” he says with a touch of grim amusement.
Then, softer: “You keep standing beside me even when it hurts. I won’t let you fall for something as foolish as a strained back.”
He keeps going until the pain fades, until you feel weightless, until the only thing you feel is warmth.
You’d never hear the end of it if you admitted you hurt.
But one night, as you let out your habitual groan — "My back is killing me…" — Aventurine spins around with the grin of a man who just found a jackpot.
“Aha!” he crows. “I knew it. You're not invincible, darling.”
You groan. “Can we not turn this into one of your victory speeches?”
He clicks his tongue, sets his glasses aside, and shrugs off his ornate overcoat with a theatrical flair. “No speeches tonight. Just... a little wager.”
You raise an eyebrow. “A wager?”
“If I can make you feel better in five minutes, you admit I was right to worry about you.”
You smirk. “And if you don’t?”
“I’ll personally carry you to bed for a week.”
He climbs onto the bed behind you and surprises you with a deep, rolling massage that betrays his usual flamboyance — firm, intuitive, and oddly comforting.
He doesn’t say much. Just hums a little tune, presses into the worst spots, and occasionally chuckles when you gasp at how accurate he is.
When he finally pulls back, he murmurs, voice lower than usual, “Pain’s no joke, love. You play it down... but I’d rather you bet on me than suffer in silence.”
Then he winks, as if afraid to linger too long in honesty.
“Now, was I right?”
You roll over, gaze soft. “You were right.”
“Say it again. Louder.”
You throw a pillow at him. He dodges with a grin and kisses your forehead before curling beside you, letting his warmth and laughter chase away the ache.
Hi!! Thank you so much for the Ask, I hope you are well! This got a little long, but the thoughts kept flowing and I got too excited about it, so I hope you enjoy my spin on the prompt! 💖
Sending you love ❤️💕❤️💕❤️
Ask Game: Write a Kiss…
13. discreetly
Arthur was never raised with the utmost affection. Anyone who had ever met his father could probably guess this. He grew up without affectionate touch, just the strong grip of his father forcing his every thought in the path of his future kingdom and the duties he would fulfill.
Arthur never really thought about it, how much affection a simple touch could hold, how much he desired to know what it felt like to have what most considered a natural way to communicate. Not to be earned through merit and trials, but to be gifted through trust and love.
It truly wasn’t until the worlds most unprofessional manservant was assigned to him that he even began to wonder. From the moment they met, they shared a touch that sent a tingle up Arthur’s arm. Albeit, brief and confrontational, Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about the feeling he had, thinking of the pretty looking man with funny looking ears sticking out the sides of his head.
Once Arthur happened to find himself unwillingly adopting the man into his service, the feeling only increased further. It was clear the man had never been a manservant before. Merlin’s hands were unpracticed and clumsy as he would help the prince into his armor, or tie his tunic, or brush his hair into place. Every slight touch that Merlin’s hands touched Arthur’s skin was a jolt, a shock and a strange curiosity. It wasn’t the practiced precision of the maids Arthur was used to, the slow distanced adjustments and objective necessity. Merlin’s way was always, different.
Though Arthur would never admit it, he didn’t dislike the way Merlin preferred to do things. Merlin’s touch was gentle, it was kind, it was caring- in a way that didn’t say “I’m helping the king-to-be” but almost saying “you are cared for”. Merlin always made him feel cared for, even when he could be the grumpiest, most annoying, Prince in all the lands. Merlin would take a gentle hand, smooth out the wrinkles in Arthur’s shirt, brush a few hairs out of place and put Arthur in place with his words about what a “right prat” he was being. But his comforting touch, never changed. As if Arthur was always worthy of it, no matter what.
As time changed, Merlin got better at his duties. No more was the clumsy grasping hands, or the crash of armor against the ground. Merlin’s hands had become decisive, practiced, and, dare Arthur say it, professional. It was like Arthur was a puzzle that Merlin had mastered again and again, until it was something he could do in his sleep.
Yet, even in the monotony of the task, Merlin found ways to ingrain those caring touches into the work. A swipe of the thumb along his wrist, a brush of his knuckle against his neck, a steadying hand on his back, fingers grazing his forehead as he pushed his hair into place.
Arthur watched Merlin closely with a curious eye, and tried to discern whether he was doing it on purpose. A few times, he would catch Merlin’s eyes, like when he was standing in front of him or when their eyes met in the mirror, and Merlin would blush and look away as if caught in the act. The act in question, Arthur wasn’t quite sure.
That is until all was revealed in an explosive fashion, which happened to be Merlin’s style. The magic reveal, the love confessions, the fear, the shame, the love. Then everything clicked into place and made sense. All the slight touches, they were affection. They were Merlin’s way of showing affection.
Merlin taught Arthur about affection, about how he deserved to be loved, about how a simple unknowing touch could say “I’m worried about you” or “I’m here for you” or “I love you”. Because while in the privacy of Arthur’s chambers they could say and do as they pleased, it was like they were in their own little world.
The world beyond, however, they couldn’t risk it. At least not until Arthur was king. For the sake of keeping Merlin safe, even though to Merlin it was to keep Arthur safe. No one could know that Merlin had magic, or that he had Arthur’s heart.
At first Arthur was anxious, worried if it showed on his face, or in the interactions he and Merlin had. It became clear, though, that they were able to continue their normal habits without anyone being the wiser, as they had always been a peculiarly close pair. A shove to the shoulder, a nudge of a leg, a tap on an arm, a ruffling of hair.
Arthur became more aware of how much more it represented now. Slowly, as they got more comfortable, they got bolder with it too, sneakier. Almost like a game with how affectionate they could be.
This sudden change, also included something they had never done before: kissing.
In the privacy of Arthur’s -their- chambers, they could explore each other with a freeing lack of worry. But outside of the chambers, they had to be more cautious. Arthur never wanted to risk it, for merely attempting to sneak a kiss was too much for Arthur. However, Merlin felt more daring at times, no matter how much Arthur scolded him for it.
It started when Arthur had a bad hunt, out with the knights in the woods. There was no sense of privacy amongst their bedrolls, or sitting near the fire. But when Merlin bent down to hand Arthur his stew, Arthur felt the familiar weight of a kiss pressed to his hair. Fleeting, gone quickly, but comforting nonetheless. Arthur froze, glancing around at the knights, but if anyone had seen it, they made no indication. Arthur raised his eyebrows at Merlin, trying to look stern but he was sure the grateful look in his eyes gave him away by the grin Merlin sported.
From then on it only increased. A kiss to the wrist as Merlin worked Arthur’s glove onto his hand, a peck to the neck as he adjusted Arthur’s armor, lips brushing his hair as he refilled his cup, a quick smooch to a bruise as Merlin tends to an injury on the training field, a touch of lips to his finger when Arthur scolded Merlin in front of the knights and stick it out in front of his face.
Arthur would never get enough of his idiotic warlock, no matter how many heart attacks Merlin would give him.
“One day, I promise you, we won’t have to hide or worry about how much affection we show each other,” Arthur vowed as he laid into their bed and pulled Merlin into his arms. Merlin yawning as he was gently guided, pliant in his tiredness from the day, melted into Arthur’s touch and molded into his side.
“I know, Arthur. I can’t wait for that day,” Merlin smiled brightly, cupping Arthur’s face in his hand. He raised his eyebrow comically, a teasing smirk on his face. “And until then, discreet is my middle name,” finishing off with a wink.
Arthur couldn’t help the cackle that escaped his chest, pulling Merlin’s arm until he was practically laying on top of Arthur.
“My sneaky little warlock, I love you so.” And without any further thought, he pressed his lips to his lover’s, feeling all the love in affection he could ever ask for.
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💖 thank you for reading! Please send me an ask for the ask game: Write a Kiss
Dean ( Jensen ) love club: @jillmariej@deanwanddamons@deanwinchesterswitch@brilovesdeanwinchester@septembersghost@waywardbaby@spnfangirl1314@shawnie74@kwistowee@queenofallerdalehall@charred-angelwings@girlshunttoo@adoptdontshoppets@ddriverpicksthemusic@milo-winchester-4ever@wickedinspirations@quicklymybasement@jensensgotyoudean@lequisha@deansraspberrypie@thoughts-and-funnies@raidens-realm@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone@eevvvaa@siospins2@doublebill@avanatural@winchesterwhorehouse@dean-winchester-is-a-warrior@jerksbitch@hopefuldreamers-world@waynes-multiverse
A playlist featuring JD McPherson, Kid Congo & the Pink Monkey Birds, The Reverend Horton Heat, and others
Hunting for Sugar - JD McPherson ~*~ Rare as The Yeti - Kid Congo & the Pink Monkey Birds ~*~ Let Me Teach You How to Eat - The Reverend Horton Heat ~*~ Rock Candy - Big Jay McNeely ~*~ Je Cherche Un Homme - Eartha Kitt ~*~ Little Drop of Poison - Tom Waits ~*~ Cold Ethyl - Alice Cooper ~*~ Homemade Mummy - Aesop Rock ~*~ Come On-A My House - Julie London ~*~ Buena - Morphine ~*~ Queen of Pain - The Cramps ~*~ Rose of My Heart - Johnny Cash ~*~ If You Love Someone Set Them On Fire - The Dead Milkmen ~*~ Fresh Blood - Eels ~*~ Spooky - Lydia Lunch ~*~ First Kiss - Tom Waits
Getting people to think of asking at all or caring whether it’s an outright transgression before just doing something to someone is progress, I guess. There’s a lot further to go.
A next step could be to switch in general from trying to craft experiences for other people to focusing on controlling your own experiences. This is less about which ways of acting and moving and more about which perspective you take on them. If you’re wanting to put your hand on someone’s back, rather than asking them if you can “give” them the experience of your hand causing a feeling on their back, like where you’re just making up how you’d like their back to feel and then with or without permission doing that to them, you could instead think more about asking them to facilitate your own experience by “giving” you a still back to put your hand on.
Your ideas about what might be nice touches for other people are mostly fanciful and wrong. Your experience of which touches feel good or bad to you and your intuitions of which touches would help you are more direct and mostly accurate. Good consent comes from somewhere deeper than just asking a few times here and there if things are OK. You get better consent the more you connect to real meaningful information about what people need and what feels right.
