i think there is a statue of grace. on the campus of the university where he got his phd. it's a big base, like the statue atop it is going to be a larger than life hero standing brave. but instead it is him, life size, sitting with his feet dangling off the edge and turned slightly to the side like he is in conversation.
there is room to sit next to him. students like to hop up and sit next to dr. grace to get advice, vent, just take a minute. he's a friend to all on campus
Sorry but where's bald version of Bart and Cassie? All team must to be together 🙄
Just thinking about Tim Drake spectrum and these tags
I can laugh at bald Tim all I want, but I actually like his game versions. In Gotham Knights, he looks like a regular nerd kid, and I adore it (though his suit design is ugly…). In Arkham, he's…surprisingly wide. But good good for him…let Tim be a rock somewhere. Anyway, I like bald/short-haired ppl
Summary: Even after nearly dying, all Leon can think about is his husband.
CW: Soft angst - Hurt/Comfort - Fluff - Established relationship - Married - Leon is canon age (48) - Reader is early 50s - Old man yaoi - Slight spoilers
Words: 4.4k
A/N: Ah yes my favorite old man yaoi is finally making a return. I've been a huge Resident Evil fan since I was a kid, so I'm actually excited to start writing for it. Anyway, this will be a little different than what I mentioned but hopefully it turns out well and y'all like it. A few things as I edit this, if I remember correctly in RE8 it's said Chris works for the BSAA, so reader does too and also this is more or less just based on Leon walking away and putting his ring back on, cause I'm tryna not actively spoil anything. I don't even know what to say about this one......not my best
What had he done to deserve this?
Before the academy, before the nightmare of Raccoon City—hell, even after the world fell apart a dozen times over—what had he done to earn a grace like you? In a world choked by the rot of Umbrella and the shadows of corrupt men, Leon Kennedy had somehow stumbled into your life. He didn't think he deserved you. In his own mind, he was still just a rookie cop who’d had to grow up in a single, blood-soaked night. And you? You were a legend, a pillar of S.T.A.R.S. who had survived the Arklay Mountains only to spend your fifties tethered to Chris Redfield’s relentless, exhausting crusade to fix a broken world.
Leon never expected a forever. It was never supposed to be more than a lingering, sideways glance in a dimly lit bar while Chris talked shop. It wasn't supposed to end in a quiet ceremony, or the secret thrill he felt every time someone called you Mr. Kennedy just to see the smirk play on your aging, handsome face.
And yet, as the infection tore through his nervous system, his mind didn't go to the mission. It went to you. Your voice was the only thing cutting through the white noise of the virus; your smile was the only image that wouldn't dissolve into the blur. You were his anchor. Even as his muscles seized and his mind screamed for the mercy of unconsciousness, the thought of coming home to you kept his heart beating.
But the reality was a cold, hard floor. His body was a cage of fire and ice, twitching violently as the antidote warred with the parasite.
“Can't believe you're heading out again,” you murmured in the golden light of the memory. The bedsheets were tangled around your legs, and the scent of cedar and old coffee hung in the air. “I finally get a week off, and they decide they can't breathe without you.”
Leon huffed a dry laugh, his lips pressing firmly against your weathered knuckles as he lay draped across you. “Gonna miss me, old man?” he whispered against your skin. He knew the answer, but he needed the vibration of your voice to steady him.
You leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his messy brown hair. Leon let out a long, shaky breath, melting into the heat of your chest. “Of course,” you said softly, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “I always do. Just….come back in one piece this time. I'm too old to be a widower, Leon.”
Leon closed his eyes, tilting his head up until his lips met yours in a promise he intended to keep.
Then, the world shattered.
His back arched off the freezing ground, a choked gasp tearing from his throat as he shouted your name into the empty air. His eyes snapped open, stinging and bloodshot. There was no warm bed. No hand in his hair. The taste of you was replaced by the copper tang of blood and a sterile chemical stench.
His left hand flew to his chest, searching for the silver band he’d worn for years. His finger felt unnervingly light. The ring was gone—likely stripped away during the chaos or lost in the dirt. The silence of the room was deafening, a requiem for a man who had everything to lose and was currently losing it all.
Leon’s lungs burned, each breath a jagged shard of glass as the last of the infection was purged from his veins. The silence that followed the chaos was deafening—the monster was dead, Victor Gideon was a memory, and Grace was finally safe.
None of that mattered.
His vision was a blurred mess of gray and red, but his hand was already moving, clawing at the dirt and the debris. His fingers felt wrong. They felt lighter, colder, stripped of the one thing that grounded him to his humanity.
"No….no, no, no," he rasped, his voice a broken shell of its former self. He dragged his body across the floor, his knees scraping against the jagged concrete. "Not this. Not now."
His mind was a whirlwind of panic. He had survived Raccoon City, the Plagas, and the fall of governments, but the thought of losing that simple silver band felt like the final, killing blow. It was the only piece of you he had brought into this hellhole. It was the promise of a quiet house, the scent of cedar, and your hand in his hair when the nightmares got too loud.
"I’m coming back," he hissed through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into a pile of ash and spent shell casings. "I promised. I told you….I told you I'd come back."
He was rambling now, a feverish mumble that only he could hear. To any observer, he looked like a broken man searching for a scrap of refuse, but to Leon, he was searching for his soul. He didn't care that his gear was shredded or that his ribs felt like they were held together by the thinnest of threads.
"Can't lose it. Please, just….not this."
He pushed aside a heavy piece of fallen rebar, his breath hitching. There, half-buried in the soot and the dark, damp earth of the crater, was a glint of silver. It was dull, coated in a layer of grime, but it caught the flickering emergency light of the facility.
Leon’s hand shook so violently he almost knocked it further into the debris. He lunged for it, his fingers closing around the cold metal with a desperation that bordered on holy. He didn't just pick it up; he cradled it against his palm, bringing it to his lips as a sob he’d been holding back since the mission started finally threatened to break through.
He wiped the dirt off with a trembling thumb, the familiar weight of it centers him. He didn't think about the global implications of all of this. He didn't think about the debriefing or the scars this night would leave. He only thought about the way you looked in the morning light, and how he wasn't going to let that be a memory.
With a grunt of agony, he forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like lead, but he slid the ring back onto his finger. It was a perfect fit—a constant, solid reminder of the man waiting for him. He adjusted it, twisting it once, twice, until it sat exactly where it belonged.
"See you soon," he whispered, his eyes hardening as he looked toward the exit. "I'm coming home.”
The silence of the house was its own kind of weight. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a cold night; it was the hollow, ringing silence of an empty nest that was never meant to be this still.
You sat at your mahogany desk, the green shaded lamp casting a warm, localized glow over a sea of chaos. Your home office had become a secondary branch of the BSAA in all but name. Scattered across the blotter were thick manila folders and grainy satellite captures—reports Chris had unofficially slid your way. He valued your eyes, the eyes of a S.T.A.R.S. veteran who had seen the world break before the rest of the public even knew it was cracked. But tonight, the analysis of bio-organic weapon dispersal patterns in Eastern Europe felt like trying to read a dead language.
Your mind was miles away, buried in the dark soil of whatever godforsaken corner of the globe Leon was currently haunting.
You knew better than most what he was capable of. You’d seen him survive things that would have leveled a small army, but that didn't stop the creeping dread. You knew how Raccoon City had carved him out, leaving a hollow space that he’d spent years trying to fill with duty. Your greatest fear wasn't that Leon wouldn't be able to handle the job—it was that one day, the job would simply decide it was finished with him, and you’d be the last to know. You’d be sitting right here, analyzing a report for Chris, while your world ended in a silent, classified file on someone else's desk.
Letting out a heavy, jagged sigh, you scrubbed a hand down your face. Your palms felt rough, the skin dry from years of handling firearms and paperwork. Your fingers brushed against the grit of stubble on your jaw—a silvered, unruly growth you hadn't bothered to trim since Leon left.
"Get it together," you muttered to the empty room. Your voice sounded gravelly, older than you felt like admitting.
With a grunt of effort, you pushed back from the desk, the wheels of the chair groaning against the hardwood. You began the ritual of tidying up, stacking the BSAA reports into a neat, categorized pile. It was a habit from the old days—leave your station ready for the next shift. You clicked the desk lamp off, plunging the room into a shadowy twilight, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds.
As you moved through the hallway, the muscle memory of your life together took over. For a fleeting, heart-stuttering second, you expected to see a shadow move in the kitchen, or to feel a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. You could almost smell him—gunpowder, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of rain. But when you turned the corner, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
He wasn't there.
You shook your head, a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. You were too old for ghost stories, especially the ones you told yourself.
Stripping off your flannel shirt and undershirt as you walked, you let them fall onto the armchair in the bedroom, followed by your belt and trousers. You stepped into the en suite bathroom, the tile cold beneath your feet. The fluorescent light hummed to life, bright and unforgiving.
You leaned against the marble counter, staring at the man in the mirror.
You looked at the silver ring on your left hand first. It was scratched, the metal dulled by decades of life, but it was the most solid thing in the room. Then, you looked up. The light caught the deep salt-and-pepper of your hair, more salt than pepper these days. The wrinkles at the corners of your eyes were deep—laugh lines earned from rare, genuine smiles, and worry lines earned from every time Leon walked out the front door. Your face was a map of a long, hard-fought life. You weren't the young S.T.A.R.S. operative anymore; you were a man in his fifties who just wanted his husband home.
You shook your head again, dismissing the melancholy before it could take root. Turning away from your reflection, you reached into the walk-in shower and twisted the handle. The pipes groaned, a familiar shudder running through the wall, before the spray began to hiss against the stone floor. Steam started to rise, blurring the edges of the room, and for a moment, you just stood there, watching the water swirl down the drain.
The quiet click of the front door’s latch was a sound Leon had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times over the last forty-eight hours. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The house breathed with a familiar, lived-in warmth that made the sterile, metallic tang of the lab feel like a bad dream he’d finally woken up from.
He moved like a ghost through the foyer, his movements heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could touch. His tactical boots, caked in the dried mud and grime of a nightmare, were set by the door with a dull thud. He didn't bother unlacing them properly; he just kicked them off, his socks padding softly against the hardwood. His jacket followed, hitting the floor with the muffled thud.
He knew exactly where you were. The low, rhythmic hum of the pipes vibrating through the floorboards told him everything. It was your ritual—the late-night shower to wash away the phantom weight of BSAA casualty reports and the stress of waiting for a phone call that might never come.
Leon moved into the bedroom, his silhouette a jagged shadow against the moonlight. He stripped with a mechanical efficiency, his hands trembling slightly as he unbuckled his holster. His pants and boxers pooled on the faded rug in front of the bed—the one you’d bought together because it reminded you of a proper home—and he left them there.
He stepped into the bathroom, the air thick and heavy with steam that smelled of your sandalwood soap. The humidity clung to his skin, pulling the chill of the outside world from his pores.
Before he reached for the shower door, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
The fog had started to claim the glass, but he saw enough. He looked at the man staring back—a man who had survived, but looked like he’d been dragged through the gears of it. There was a jagged cut along his cheekbone, held together by dried, copper-colored blood. Bruises the color of spoiled plums were blooming across his ribs and shoulders. But it was his face that held his gaze. He saw the gray stubble dusting his jaw, thicker now, and the stark, silver strands peeking through the weary brown of his hair. He was aging. They were both aging, the years stolen by a world that never stopped needing them to bleed for it.
Then, his eyes dropped to his hand. The silver ring sat firmly on his finger, gleaming even through the grime. He twisted it once, a grounding habit, before his gaze drifted past his own reflection.
Through the frosted, foggy glass of the sliding shower door, he saw you.
You were a blurred, familiar silhouette in the spray, your head bowed under the rush of the water. Even through the steam, he could see the strength in your shoulders—the build of a man who had carried a familiar weight and survived. You were standing there, unaware that the ghost you’d been mourning had finally come home.
Leon didn't say a word. He didn't want to break the silence yet. He just stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving with a sudden, sharp intake of air, fixated on the sight of you. To him, you weren't just a man in a shower; you were the end of the road. You were the reason he’d clawed his way out of the dirt.
Slowly, his hand reached out, his fingers pressing against the warm, wet glass, leaving a clear streak in the fog as he prepared to let you know he was back.
The sliding door creaked on its track, a low, metallic groan that cut through the steady drumming of the water. You didn't even have time to turn your head before the sudden draft of cool bathroom air hit your wet skin, quickly replaced by the heat of a body stepping into the stall behind you.
The steam swirled, momentarily clearing as Leon stepped into the spray.
The first thing you felt wasn't his touch, but his weight—the sheer, solid presence of him suddenly occupying the small space. Then came his hands. They were cold at first, a stark contrast to the scalding water, as he pressed his palms flat against your shoulder blades. You felt a shudder ripple through him the moment his skin made contact with yours. It was the touch of a man who had spent days wondering if he’d ever feel another human being again.
He didn't say a word. He just leaned forward, his forehead dropping heavily against the space between your shoulder blades. His breath hitched, a jagged, wet sound that was swallowed by the splash of the shower.
"Leon?" you breathed, your voice cracking. You started to turn, but his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your shoulders, not out of aggression, but out of a desperate need to keep you right there.
"Just….a second," he rasped. His voice was a wreck—gritty, raw, and exhausted. "Just let me stay like this for a second."
You stood still, the water cascading over both of you. You could feel the grime of the world washing off him and onto you. The water at your feet turned a murky, tea-colored brown as the dust, soot, and dried blood from the facility began to melt away. He smelled like ozone, wet earth, and the metallic tang of an oncoming storm, but beneath all of that was the scent you knew by heart—the faint, lingering musk of his skin.
Slowly, he began to move. His hands slid down your arms, his fingers interlaced with yours, and that was when you felt it—the cold, hard press of his silver ring against the back of your hand. You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the day he left.
Leon finally pulled back just enough to let you turn around. When you faced him, the sight nearly broke your heart. The water was slicking his hair back, revealing every new line of exhaustion on his face. The cut on his cheek was weeping a faint pink under the spray, and his eyes were bloodshot, framed by dark circles that looked like bruises.
He looked at you with an intensity that was almost painful. His gaze traced the graying hair at your temples and the laugh lines around your mouth, his eyes softening with a reverence that bordered on worship. To him, you weren't an aging veteran; you were the only beautiful thing left in a world of monsters.
"You're late," you whispered, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your thumbs brushed over the gray stubble on his jaw, feeling the prickle of life beneath your touch.
Leon let out a broken, huffed laugh, his eyes closing as he leaned into your palms. "It.was….complicated."
"I thought...." You stopped, the words catching in your throat. You didn't need to finish.
"I know," he murmured. He stepped closer, closing the final inch of space between you until your chests were pressed together, the water trapped between you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in so tight it was hard to breathe, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I promised I'd see you soon. I wasn't going to break that. Not for anyone."
He was shaking now—the post-adrenaline crash finally hitting him in the safety of your arms. You held him, your fingers threading through his wet hair, shielding him from the rest of the world.
Leon didn't move. He stayed anchored against you, his weight heavy and honest, his damp forehead resting against your collarbone. You could feel the tremors running through his muscles—the slow, rhythmic aftershocks of a body that had been pushed past its breaking point and was only now realizing it was safe to collapse.
Gently, you reached for the bottle of soap, the familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood rising with the steam. You didn't ask him where it hurt; you already knew. You could see the map of his pain written in the dark blooms of purple along his ribs and the jagged, angry red of the laceration on his cheek.
You poured the soap into your palms, lashing it into a thick, white foam before you began.
The silence between you wasn't empty; it was thick with everything that didn't need to be said. You started with his shoulders, your large, calloused hands moving in slow, grounding circles. You felt the knots of tension under his skin—hard as stone—and as you worked, you felt them slowly begin to give way. The water at your feet was still tinted a murky gray, the filth of the facility swirling down the drain, leaving Leon’s pale, scarred skin behind.
As you moved your hands down his back, Leon let out a long, shuddering breath. It wasn't a sigh; it was a surrender. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closed tight, his hands coming up to grip your forearms as if to make sure you were still solid, still there.
You were meticulous. You cleaned the soot from the nape of his neck and the dried blood from the shell of his ear. When you reached the deep bruise over his ribs, your touch lightened, becoming a ghost of a caress. You saw him flinch, his breath catching in a hiss of pain, and you paused, leaning down to press a lingering, salt-tinged kiss to the top of his wet head.
I’ve got you, the gesture said. You’re home.
Leon finally pulled back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes were glassy, reflecting the overhead light, rimmed with a weariness that went bone-deep. He looked small in that moment—not the government’s top agent, not the survivor of a dozen bio-hazards, but simply a man who was tired of fighting.
He reached out, his trembling fingers taking the soap from you. He didn't wash himself; instead, he began to wash you. His movements were slow, almost reverent, as he ran his hands over your chest and arms. It was his way of checking you, of confirming that while he was gone, the world hadn't touched you. His thumb traced the silver band on your finger, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, his ring clinking softly against yours—a small, metallic heartbeat in the spray.
The water was starting to run clear now. The grime was gone, but the exhaustion remained, etched into every line of his face.
You took the showerhead from the wall, turning the spray down and rinsing the last of the suds from his skin. The water smoothed his hair back, revealing the silver at his temples that seemed more pronounced tonight than it had a month ago.
Leon leaned his head back, letting the water hit his face, his throat working as he swallowed back the emotions he wasn't ready to voice. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at you—truly looked at you—with a raw, unfiltered devotion. He reached out, his wet palm cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your graying stubble.
Still, neither of you spoke. The hurt was there, hovering in the bruises and the haunted look in his eyes, but the comfort was stronger. It was in the heat of the water, the familiar weight of his wedding band, and the fact that, for the first time in days, his heart rate was finally beginning to match yours.
You reached over and turned the handle, the sudden silence of the bathroom feeling heavy and holy. The only sound left was the drip-drip-drip of water hitting the tile and the ragged, synchronized breathing of two men who had cheated death one more time.
You stepped out first, grabbing the largest, plushiest towel from the rack and holding it open. Leon stepped into it without a word, his body shivering as the cool air hit his wet skin. You wrapped him up, pulling the fabric tight around his shoulders and rubbing his arms to bring the heat back. He leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes half-closed, letting you guide him like he was a man walking in his sleep.
The walk to the bedroom was slow. The only light came from the moon spilling across the hardwood, illuminating the trail of discarded gear Leon had left in his wake—a reminder of the man he had to be out there, contrasted against the man he was allowed to be here.
You sat him down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He looked small, wrapped in that white towel, his damp hair sticking up in golden-gray tufts. You stood between his knees, taking a smaller towel to his head, gently drying the strands with a tenderness that made his breath hitch.
"Stay," he whispered, his voice finally finding its vibration. His hands, still clean and smelling of your soap, reached out to circle your waist, pulling you closer until his face was pressed against your stomach.
"I'm not going anywhere, Leon," you murmured, your fingers raking through his hair. "I’m right here."
After a few minutes of quiet, you helped him into a pair of soft cotton lounge pants—the ones he always complained were too loose but wore every time he came home. You climbed into the other side of the bed, the linens cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the grime he’d been caked in.
The moment Leon slid under the covers, he didn't just lie down; he sought you out like a compass needle finding north. He draped himself over you, his heavy head landing on your chest, his arm hooking firmly over your waist as if to anchor you to the mattress. You felt the cold metal of his wedding band press against your skin, a solid promise.
You pulled the heavy duvet up over both of you, tucking it around his shoulders. The house was silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic, slowing thrum of Leon’s heart against your ribs.
"It's quiet," Leon mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with the onset of sleep. "I forgot it could be this quiet."
"That’s because you’re home," you replied softly. You reached down, taking his hand in yours and interlacing your fingers. The two silver rings clicked together, a tiny, domestic sound that felt more significant than any explosion he’d survived.
Leon let out a long, contented sigh, his entire body finally going slack. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since he’d left Raccoon City decades ago seemed to melt into the mattress. He nuzzled closer, his nose brushing against the gray hair on your chest, his breathing deepening into the slow, steady pull of a man who finally felt safe enough to dream.
You lay there in the dark, watching the shadows of the trees dance on the ceiling. You felt the weight of your years—the laugh lines, the gray hair, the old injuries that ached in the rain—but as you looked down at your husband, finally at peace in your arms, you realized you wouldn't trade a single wrinkle. They were the marks of a life lived together, a map of how far you’d both come to reach this bedroom, this bed, this moment.
"I love you, Leon," you whispered, so low you weren't sure he heard it.
But in the dark, you felt his grip on your hand tighten just a fraction. A faint, sleepy smile touched his lips before he drifted off completely.
I’ll never get over Ilya being like no no, I must set record straight. I want to fuck your son since the literal moment I first saw him at seventeen. It was freckles. And then I fuck him. Repeatedly. For entire decade. He gave up that ass like absolute freak. He is my good little boy. Yes, that is right. Since the markets crash and millennial dream is dead. I hear on radio, then I fuck your son. We grow old together. Lovers.
eventually yuna's gonna b like "it's really upsetting u cant get pregnant because your children would've been the best hockey players of all time" and shane will look at her like she shot a dog in front of him
There's Mermaids which is always a great option, and then Scotland-specific there's LGBT Youth Scotland, to give you just a couple. There will absolutely be more that other people can suggest though!
trans aid cymru is a mutual aid group rather than a charity but ill always shout them out for wales specific trans community support! they have a donation page here
Scottish Trans Alliance do good work, and more locally to me and also locally to the evil billionaire funding so much of this (we are deeply uneasy neighbours I live in constant fear of seeing her) and also Parliament, Resisting Transphobia in Edinburgh do a lot of community work. Resistance is everywhere, both national and local, official and grassroots, and if you have no money spare to donate then you can donate time, if you have neither you can - you Must - reach out to even just one trans person near you, because community starts with smiling at your neighbours, knowing names, noticing if they're struggling. I survived thanks to one queer person I never knew the name of and spoke barely one sentence to taking 10 minutes out of their day to drop off an LGBTQ youth centre flier for me back in 2016. It starts small. It moves mountains. We are not budging an inch. I love you.
