Silly things Phainon does when he's bored/wants your attention.
Places one pancake under your chin, another on top of your head and declares that he's going to “eat this stack of honeycakes in one bite”.
Plops down beside you belly up and keeps on dramatically sighing.
Calls out your name, when you acknowledge him, he goes quiet, when you return to whatever you were doing he calls out your name again with more urgency ; repeat until you stomp towards him.
Picks you up, shakes you like a salt shaker, sets you down somewhere with a cushion, goes away like nothing happened.
Makes you wear all the antique jewelry in his collection and eventually, makes a barricade around you with everything else he owns, too. Then says, “This is the culmination of my whole life's finances and yet, you remain the most invaluable.”
Pokes you.
Plays with your hair. He thinks he can pull off that one over-complicated hairstyle he saw online.
Tells you jokes and puns.
Pretends to be your shadow and follows you around everywhere wordlessly. Whoever laughs first loses.
Rage-baits you with atrocious outfit suggestions so that you'll start debating with him.
Tells you that he knows a magic trick and detaches his ahoge (it was a fake one).
Calls you (you're literally just a wall apart) but, he's stealthily taken your phone with him. When you're close enough in search of it, he pounces.
Starts mentioning random facts about things.
Starts gossiping about the Council of Elders and that one annoying classmate he had.
Asks you questions like, “How do you think the fishes at Styxia taste?”
Tickles you.
Doodles his neck tattoo, little stars, leaves and flowers on your palm.
Talks about all the adventures he wants to do with you in the future.
Gently headbutts your arm, thigh and cheek to suggest that he demands pets.
Aggressively rubs his face on you when you still don't get/ignore the hint.
Can and will bite you.
Pretends to get hurt so that you'll pay attention to him.
Wrestles titankin, stacks them on top of each other and proudly shows off his ‘hunt’ to you. Please praise him.
REMINDER: Phainon is NOT a Himbo. This man read his books rigorously, to the point where they were left in tatters. He's extremely skilled in Rhetoric, Math, Logic, Poetry and according to Tribbie, his planning skills are unmatched. He won 10 consecutive debate championships at the Grove of Epiphany. Anaxa refers to him as one of his most exceptional students. Even his handwriting is neat and elegant. It's been hinted by various characters that Phainon is very aware of his strengths as well and will not hesitate to utilize them. Do not undermine one of the sexiest aspects of him through misappropriation 💔
Leon with glasses is so sexy and all but imagine husband Leon trying to cook dinner because you had a hard day at work and he's trying to cheer you up. He goes to the stove, opens the lid of the pot and his dumb ass just stays there frozen because his glasses get all fogged up and he can't see shit. Happens every single time, yet he never learns his lesson.
Summary: After saving Grace and putting an end to Victor Gideon. All Leon wanted was for his husband to be the one to fix him up.
CW: Hurt/Comfort - Slight angst - Fluff - Mentions of injuries - Leon is canon age (48) - Reader is in his late 40s - Reader is former doctor - Leon and Reader are married - Old man yaoi
Words: 2.3k
A/N: I've gotten a couple requests for another part to my first Leon fic, and while I appreciate how much you all liked it I'm not sure how to go about a part two. So, hopefully this satisfies everyone's cravings for some more Leon. Mostly hurt/comfort whump type idea. Fancy that another fic written and edited while slightly intoxicated, go easy on me.
It wasn't about the white-hot flare of pain with every ragged, shallow breath. It wasn't about the lingering heat of the infection, or the ghosts of Grace and Gideon. In the silence of the car, those names felt like static. It wasn't about the mission or the world ending—again.
It was about you.
It was only ever about getting back up, one agonizing movement at a time, and finding the strength to go home. He just wanted to walk through that stupid blue door and see your face—to see the way your brow furrowed in that specific, doctor-like concentration when you were worried.
Leon didn't care about the inevitable lecture. He knew you’d treat him like a child for being so reckless; he could already hear your voice, seasoned with the weariness of a man who had seen too much of the same biology Leon fought in the field. You had scolded him like that when you first found out about the infection—your hands shaking despite your years of medical training.
God, he wanted you to yell at him now. He wanted to hear you say his name and call him stupid, all while your steady, gentle hands—calloused from years of work but always soft when they touched him—bandaged his cuts and soothed the blooming bruises. He could almost feel it: the way you’d tuck a loose, sweat-matted lock of hair behind his ear while he shivered against the cold tile of the bathroom, leaning into your warmth because you were the only person who could make him feel human again.
His vision blurred as he finally pulled into the gravel driveway. The headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the peeling paint of the blue door and the soft, amber glow spilling from your bedroom window. You were still up. Waiting.
His hands trembled as he cut the engine, the silence of the car suddenly heavy. Every joint ached, and his lungs felt like they were filled with glass, but the sight of that light—your light—was the only thing keeping the darkness at the edge of his mind from swallowing him whole. He was home. He was back with his husband. Now, he just had to find the strength to open the car door.
The door handle felt like ice against his palm, a stark reminder that he was still vibrating with a low-grade fever. It took three tries to get his cramped fingers to turn the key. When the door finally gave way, the familiar scent of the house—old books, cedarwood, and the faint, clean smell of the soap you always used—hit him like a physical blow.
He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't want to see the trail of road salt and dried blood he was likely leaving on the rug. With a grunt of effort, he shrugged out of his jacket, the fabric stiff with grime. His fingers fumbled with the buckles of his holster, the heavy leather hitting the recliner with a muffled thud that felt far too loud in the quiet living room. He was lighter now, but he felt more fragile, his body held together only by the desperate need to reach the hallway.
As he neared the bedroom, a sliver of warm light cut across the floorboards. Then, he heard it—your voice.
It was low, hushed in the way people speak late at night, but it carried that jagged edge of anxiety you usually kept hidden.
"I know, Sherry. I know he’s careful," you were saying, your voice cracking slightly. "But it’s been three days since the last check-in. Just... if you hear anything, call me. I don't care what time it is."
Leon froze. Hearing you talk to Sherry—the girl who was as much your daughter as she was his ward—made the guilt in his chest flare brighter than the pain in his side. He leaned against the doorframe, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the carpet. He looked like a ghost haunting his own home.
"Baby," he rasped. It wasn't even a whisper; it was a broken sound, caught in the back of a dry, scorched throat.
In the room, the shifting of bedsheets stopped instantly. You looked up, the phone still pressed to your ear, your jaw going slack as your eyes tracked the battered silhouette in the doorway. For a heartbeat, the doctor in you was paralyzed by the husband in you.
"Sherry," you whispered, your voice breathless and urgent, never taking your eyes off him. "I have to go. He’s here. He’s home."
You didn't wait for a reply before ending the call, the phone slipping from your hand onto the duvet as you started to move toward him.
The distance across the bedroom felt like miles until you finally reached him, your arms sliding upward to drape carefully around his neck. You didn't pull him in tight—not yet—your instincts warning you of the hidden agonies beneath his gear
You just stared at him, your breath hitching. Slowly, your hands moved from his shoulders to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones with a reverence that made his eyes flutter shut. You tilted his head gently from side to side, searching his skin with a look of genuine bewilderment. The terrifying, ink-black lines that had once threatened to claim him—the mark of the infection that had haunted your nightmares—were gone. His skin was pale, mapped with fresh, angry cuts and the deep purple of blooming bruises, but it was him. It was just Leon.
Leon’s breath hitched, a jagged sound that vibrated through his chest. He reached up, his gloved hand trembling as he caught your wrist. He didn't pull you away; instead, he guided your palm down, pressing it flat against the center of his chest.
Underneath the grime, his heart was thundering, a frantic, rhythmic proof of life. He looked down at you, his blue eyes glassy and bloodshot, searching your face as if he were still trying to convince himself he wasn't hallucinating this quiet, warm bedroom.
"I'm here," he rasped, his voice barely a thread of sound. "I'm really here."
You reached out, your index finger tentatively tracing a shallow, jagged cut along his cheekbone. The moment your skin made contact, Leon flinched, a sharp hiss of air escaping through his teeth as he instinctively pulled back.
He braced himself then, his shoulders tensing. He expected the lecture. He expected you to demand to know why he’d been so careless, or to see that flash of professional frustration you got when a patient—or a husband—ignored their own safety.
But the scolding never came.
Instead, you leaned in, your touch feather-light. You began to pepper soft, lingering kisses against his bruised cheeks, your lips trailing over the unbroken skin near his temple. When you finally pressed a kiss to his mouth, it wasn't a greeting; it was a promise. It tasted of salt and exhaustion, but it was the first time Leon felt his lungs truly expand since he’d left the city.
"Let’s get you cleaned up," you whispered against his lips, the words soft enough to be a prayer.
Leon didn't argue. He couldn't. He simply nodded, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for a fleeting second before he allowed himself to be led. He followed you into the bathroom, his steps heavy and slow, trusting you to handle the weight of his broken body now that he didn't have to carry it alone anymore.
Leon sat heavily on the closed toilet seat, his broad shoulders slumped forward. His hair was still dark and heavy with water, dripping rhythmically onto the towel wrapped around his waist. The bathroom was small, the air thick with the lingering steam of the quick, careful wash you’d just given him.
Under the unforgiving glare of the overhead lights, Leon simply watched you. He watched the way you moved, rummaging through the cabinet under the sink with a focused intensity. He noticed the silver-gray strands at your temples that hadn't been there a few years ago, and the way you squinted, tilting your head to read the small print on a bottle of saline. When you finally found what you were looking for and turned back to him, the soft crinkles at the corners of your eyes deepened—a map of every worry he’d ever caused you.
You pulled a small wooden stool between his knees, sitting close enough that your thighs brushed against his. Leon didn't move; he just let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving yours.
With a touch as light as a whisper, you reached up to brush a damp strand of dark dirty blonde hair behind his ear, tucking it away so you could see the damage. Your hands were steady, though your expression remained tight with a quiet, simmering concern. You didn't say much. You didn't need to. The silence was filled only by the click of the first-aid kit and the soft hiss of the antiseptic spray.
As you began to dab at the jagged cuts along his collarbone and chest, Leon’s body betrayed him. He tensed, his muscles roping under his skin, a sharp intake of air whistling through his teeth when the sting hit a particularly deep gouge.
"Sorry," you murmured, your voice low and gravelly with sleep and suppressed emotion. "I know, Leon. I'm sorry."
He shook his head slowly, his hand coming up to rest tentatively on your knee. "It's okay. I'm okay."
You worked in a rhythmic, practiced peace, cleaning the debris from his skin and smoothing antibiotic ointment over the bruises that were already turning an ugly, mottled green. Every time he flinched, you stopped, waiting for him to settle before continuing.
Leon watched your hands—those hands that had held him through nightmares and long nights of fever. He looked down at your face, feeling a sudden, overwhelming surge of affection that hurt worse than the wounds.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice cracking. He tilted his head down, catching your gaze as you reached for a fresh box of bandages. "Could you….kiss them? Like you used to?"
The request was so vulnerable, so stripped of his usual bravado, that it broke the tension in your chest. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
"Always," you breathed.
You peeled back a bandage and pressed it firmly but gently over the cut on his cheek. Then, lingering for a second, you leaned in and pressed a soft, warm kiss directly over the adhesive. Leon’s eyes closed, his entire body finally going limp under your touch.
You moved to his shoulder, Repeating the ritual. Peel, press, kiss. Then down to his abdomen, where the worst of the bruising lay. With every kiss you pressed against the bandages littering his torso, you felt his breathing even out, the jagged edges of his exhaustion finally beginning to smooth.
Leaving the bathroom felt like walking through a fog. Leon’s legs were heavy, his coordination frayed by the sheer weight of the day’s adrenaline finally leaving his system. You guided him back to the edge of the bed, where you had laid out a pair of soft, worn-in sweatpants—the kind he only wore when he was truly home.
"I’ve got it," he muttered, though his fingers were fumbling uselessly with the waistband. His brow furrowed in that stubborn, Leon-like scowl. "I’m not useless….I can do it."
"I know you're not," you replied softly, not letting the protest deter you. You gently brushed his hands aside, kneeling between his knees to help him step into the fabric. "But tonight, you don't have to be 'useful.' You just have to be here."
He let out a long, defeated sigh, his large hands coming to rest on your shoulders for balance. He watched as you dressed him with practiced, unhurried care, smoothing the fabric over the fresh bandages on his thighs. He looked so much smaller like this—stripped of the gear, the weapons, and the duty. When you reached up to pull a soft t-shirt over his head, he leaned his forehead against your chest for a second, his breath hitching.
"Thank you," he whispered into the cotton of your shirt, the fight finally draining out of his limbs.
pulling back the heavy duvet to invite him into the space you’d kept warm for him all night. Leon crawled in with a groan of relief, his body sinking into the mattress as if he were finally being allowed to merge with the earth.
Once he was settled, you climbed in beside him, propping yourself up on one arm. You opened your arms, an unspoken invitation, and he didn't hesitate. He shifted closer, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, his face pressed against the pulse point of your throat. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and grounding, his fingers curling into the fabric of your pajama top.
The room was silent, save for the rhythmic tick of the clock and the sound of his breathing, which was finally slowing down, losing its ragged, panicked edge.
"I love you, Leon," you whispered into the crown of his damp hair, your hand tracing slow, soothing circles across his back. "More than anything. Just stay here. Don't go anywhere for a long, long time."
Leon shifted, pressing his face deeper into your skin. "I love you," he rasped, the words sounding thick with the onset of a deep, bone-deep sleep. "Every time….I was just….coming back to you. Always you."
Within minutes, the tension left his frame entirely. His grip on your shirt loosened, and his breathing turned into the soft, steady rhythm of a man who finally felt safe. You held him tight, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling, knowing that for tonight, the world was far away, and Leon Kennedy was exactly where he belonged.
