Guess I should give you my file, huh? So here’s the thing,this blog is run by a Leon Fictive. This does not mean that he condones what happens in a roleplay. I am going to be updating tags and shit so bear with me while I get all this shit done.
Personal Contact Information:
Taken by @getleond and @red-winged-claire or @re-team-neo ( All of these blogs belong to my partner who I have been married to for 3 years.)
Ask questions and interact knowing that we are an 21+ account. I am restating this because people clearly don’t read bios.
DO NOT SELF SHIP WITH ME UNLESS YOU ARE @getleond
I would like to add I am fine with any ask but if you do not get a response, then clearly I was not comfortable with the ask or honestly, just didn’t give a fuck.
I’m not the best at socializing but I have seen a lot of you comment on my appearance and I can’t say that I’m not smiling behind the screen at all times. You cant stop an agent that will not stop himself, you cant make an agent put down something he has been doing his entire life.
Leon is 37 , Bi-sexual, he/him, and he is one hell of a handful.
Out of my own comfort, if you are a minor I am not going to interact with you.
Mun /= Muse
Multi para but I can match yours as long as it is not a one liner. That is just my personal preference.
The way I roleplay Leon are the darker aspects of the Agent himself so expect a series of darker themes throughout his interactions.
Everyone stay safe!
Leon S. Kennedy signing off.
[ Com clicks off. Please leave a message and the DSO will get back with you as soon as possible ]
Legal assistance from the D.S.O. trade union. Ensure compliance with basic vacation and weekend standards
A dog (and that's not Chris🤣, sorry)
Cookies and normal, tasty food
Shower
A good bike that won't go to bike heaven after giving up its two wheels to save the world
A bike helmet; your hair flutters beautifully in the wind, but riding without a helmet is unsafe
Chris or Ada
Leon groaned,
“DSO’s sending me another fucking letter about how I need to “socialize.” Or get out. Take a break—like they aren’t the ones shoving me right back into this shit.
Chris ruined my vacation, so why would I want him around right now?
Psychotherapy sounds like hell in a handbasket. I’ll take the cookies (especially if they’re weed cookies), a steaming shower, a Doberman, an indestructible motorbike—
—and then, at the same time, I’d love to watch it combust just for the adrenaline.
No need for a helmet. The feel of wind in my hair makes me actually feel alive.
Unfortunately.
Ada is—well. That’s complicated, and like I said.
Next time I see Chris, my boot’s going up his ass.”
❝ You feel that? That’s me vibrating from too much energy and too little sleep. ❞
@federal-asset
He dragged his hand from his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And this is why I told you: you work way too much, you drink too much coffee, and running on two to three hours of sleep at your age isn’t the smartest thing. I’m not going to tell you what to do—so if you drink three or four of those energy things, then by all means—but, god, if I have to, I’ll shove some sleeping pills at you. They worked for me.”
❝ I can’t stop pacing… maybe someone should stop me before I go insane. ❞
@beautifulxliex ~*
Leon tracked Ada as she paced. “Tell me what happened—from the beginning.” If he didn’t understand the situation, he wouldn’t know how to handle it properly, and simply placing his hands on her might not be the solution.
TW: Coercion, Dubious Consent, Manipulation, Abuse of Power, Dark Themes
Read at your own Risk.
“So, tell me, what are your plans for the day after work?”
Alecsander Sinclaire’s voice had that practiced softness—polite, almost sweet—like a blade turned sideways so it didn’t catch the light. He leaned against the edge of his desk as if he belonged there more than the furniture did, golden-brown eyes half-lidded with amused attention.
Luis Serra didn’t answer right away. He recognized the tone Albert Wesker had warned him about. Alec wanted something from Luis, and maybe Luis would get something he’d been asking for in return.
The lab had thinned out. The fluorescent lights above them buzzed with tired, end-of-day impatience, waiting for a loyal pet to take notice. Luis adjusted his tie—more out of habit than comfort—and tried not to think about how perfectly Alecsander chose his moments. Seductive, deadly flirting was Alecsander’s go-to method for getting people to do exactly what he wanted.
“You already know,” Luis said. “I’m staying late. Like always”.
Alecsander’s smile widened at the edges. “Mm. Loyal. Useful.” A pause. “Underpaid. It’s a shame. They should really pay you more for all the hard work you do for the team. Albert should pay you more, but perhaps I could offer you something better than he would for a raise.”
Luis’s jaw tightened. He hated how easily Alecsander could turn a fact into a leash. “You called me in here for that?”
“I called you in here,” Alecsander corrected gently, “because you want something.”
Luis met his gaze. Didn’t look away. Didn’t let himself flinch. “I want what you promised.”
“Then ask properly.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was designed—a space Alecsander controlled, a room he could lock from the inside without ever touching the handle. It pressed in around Luis’s ears until he could hear his own pulse, thick and accusing. His shoulders tightened on instinct, as if bracing for impact, and he hated himself for that flinch before anything even happened.
“I’m not begging,” Luis said.
The words came out steadier than he felt. Underneath them, his stomach rolled with the old panic of being cornered: the sense that any move would be recorded, interpreted, used.
Alecsander’s expression softened in a way that would’ve looked kind on anyone else. On him, it was a promise with teeth. “No,” he agreed. “You’re negotiating with your boyfriend who is also your superior. “
Luis swallowed and the motion scraped like sandpaper. His mouth was suddenly too dry, like his body had decided it couldn’t spare even a drop. He tried to keep his voice level, tried to keep himself himself, but his ribs felt too small for his breath. “You can sign off on my raise.”
“I can,” Alecsander said. “And I can also decide you’re… difficult. Not a team player. Not aligned with company values.” His eyes flicked briefly to the door, then back, casual as a gesture in conversation, sharp as a warning. “You know how stories get written here. You have to earn it, discover new viruses, and you—you’re just a young intern with no title.”
Luis’s hands curled into fists at his sides hard enough that his nails bit into his palms. Anger sparked first—hot and clean—then immediately curdled into shame, slick and suffocating, because the threat worked. He could feel it working, feel his spine trying to bend just to avoid breaking. Alecsander watched the reaction like a researcher observing a culture in a dish, patient and satisfied. Luis could almost see the calculation behind Alecsander’s eyes: the inventory of Luis’s wants, his fears, his rent, his pride, his future—everything that could be leveraged.
“You don’t have to do this,” Luis said.
The words came out on a thin exhale, more air than sound, and he hated that, too. They were meant to be a boundary, a line in the sand. Instead they landed like something softer—like a plea that didn’t dare call itself one. Hope, dressed up as principle, trembling in its disguise.
Alecsander’s gaze didn’t shift. He let the sentence hang, like he was considering it with the patient indulgence of someone deciding whether to entertain a child’s request.
He stepped closer.
Not fast. Not sudden.
Just the quiet, inevitable movement of a decision already made.
“No,” he murmured, and there was a gentleness in it that made Luis’s stomach turn. “I don’t.”
Luis’s skin prickled. Heat crept up his neck, not from desire but from exposure, from being seen in the exact ways he didn’t want anyone to see him. Alecsander tilted his head, studying Luis as if he were art and evidence at once—cataloging the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat worked, the minute tremor he tried to hide in his hands. His smile was small, almost fond, like he’d found a weakness he particularly enjoyed. “But you came back, did you not?”
Luis’s jaw clenched until it ached. That was the part that always gutted him: the way Alecsander took desperation, measured it, then presented it back like proof. Like a consent form filled out by circumstance and signed with hunger.
Luis forced himself to hold Alecsander’s eyes, even as his heartbeat hammered loud enough to feel in his teeth. “You want me to feel like it was my choice,” he said, and the bitterness in his own voice surprised him. It felt like something sharp he’d pulled out of his chest with bare hands.
For a second, Alecsander’s expression brightened—not with kindness, but with approval. Like Luis had finally answered correctly.
“Smart,” Alecsander said, and the word sounded almost affectionate. Almost.
His hand lifted a fraction, not touching Luis yet, just close enough to make Luis aware of the space where touch could happen. It wasn’t an invasion so much as a promise. A staged pause that made Luis’s skin anticipate contact before it arrived. “You understand the story,” Alecsander added softly. “That’s why you’re still here.”
For a moment, Luis thought he might leave. He could turn around, walk out, swallow the loss, and survive the next year on spite alone.
Then his mind supplied the receipts like an automated system: the numbers on his paycheck, the rent, the utilities, the debt. The long, humiliating list of “almosts.” He pictured Alecsander telling everyone, in that gentle voice, that Luis simply wasn’t reliable. He pictured doors closing with polite smiles.
The world narrowed to the space between them. Alecsander’s hand rose—not to grab, not to force, just to offer. A patient invitation. A trap that didn’t need a spring.
Luis stared at it, then at Alecsander’s eyes, and felt something in him fold—not all at once, but in tiny, awful increments. “If I do this,” Luis said quietly, “you sign it.” Alecsander blinked slowly, like a cat. “I’ll take care of you.” It was the kind of sentence that could mean anything—and was designed to.
Luis didn’t take the hand so much as step into its shadow. Alecsander’s fingers slid around his wrist, warm and light, and Luis’s skin reacted anyway, the body answering a touch the mind didn’t want. The grip wasn’t tight. That was the point. It didn’t have to be. It said I own the story now.
The office door clicked shut.
The sound landed in Luis’s chest with a physical weight. His throat tightened, breath catching on instinct, and he had to fight the urge to look at the handle, as if staring hard enough could reopen it.
Alecsander approached close enough that the air between them felt crowded. His gloved hand settled on Luis’s shoulder first—careful, proprietary—and Luis’s muscles jumped beneath it, a reflex he couldn’t control. Then the hand drifted down the line of his spine in a slow, measuring pass, like Alecsander was taking inventory of every place Luis held himself rigid. “Seems like you and I have a lot of work to do,” he murmured, voice low and almost courteous, as if this were an ordinary review meeting. “You’re quite tense this time around.”
Luis didn’t move. He stared at the shadowed edge of the desk, at the neat stack of forms Alecsander still hadn’t touched, and tried not to react to the faint drag of leather over fabric. His body wanted to go numb. His mind wouldn’t let it.
“Just listen,” Alecsander continued, tilting his head as though he could hear a song only he controlled. “The music. The melody. How it all fits when every note decides to behave.” His hand slid lower, not hurried, not clumsy—deliberate. He paused at Luis’s waist, thumb pressing a warning into the muscle there, and Luis felt the message more clearly than the words: Don’t make this difficult.
Luis cursed himself for falling for the worst person possible—the man Albert had warned him about. It made everything messier, more humiliating: the domestic moments that had been real enough to trap him. Coffee. Lunch breaks. Late-night study sessions, shoulder to shoulder over data, laughing like the world wasn’t rotting underneath them. The memory of those softer nights came like a bruise being pressed: proof that Luis had handed over something honest to someone who collected honesty like ammunition.
Alecsander was his boyfriend, so Luis loved him. Or had. Or wanted to. They had kissed, hugged, and even cuddled many times before this. They had soft and gentle sex, and aftercare that felt like a dream—until the dream started to show its teeth. And then one day Luis came into the office with a hickey that Alecsander did not place.
Albert Wesker did.
---
Only later—when Luis stood at the sink in the dim break room, water running too cold over his hands—did the full shape of it hit him. Not the act itself, but the math of it. The way Alecsander had arranged the pieces so Luis could blame himself for moving them. Luis scrubbed at his palms until they stung, as if he could wash off the feeling of being handled.
Luis looked at his reflection in the dark window. His tie was crooked. His eyes were sharp with something that wasn’t tears. It was anger, maybe. Or the beginning of it. Or the moment just before anger turns into resolve. But fuck he loved Alecsander, he was the first of the team to accept him and teach him. Then when Alecsander was away, Albert stepped into teach and guide Luis—that was a mistake.
Behind him, Alecsander appeared in the doorway, composed as ever, as if nothing had occurred except a successful meeting.
“Tomorrow,” Alecsander said, voice smooth as silk, “you’ll come in with that pretty mouth of yours and say thank you. Thank you for taking care of me, my lovely boyfriend. And you will apologize for letting anyone mark you that was not me. “
Luis turned off the faucet. The click was too loud in the small room.
“And my raise?” Luis asked.
He kept his voice even, but his heart thudded with the sick certainty that the answer would be another hook.
Alecsander’s gaze slid over him—assessing, satisfied. “Pending approval,” he said sweetly. “Of course, my dear. You know I always take care of the ones I care about.”
Luis held his stare, heart pounding with a new, dangerous clarity. The kind that hurt because it made everything unmistakable.
Toxic wasn’t just what Alecsander did.
Toxic was what he made people become.
He enjoyed watching a star pupil fall into a withering plant that was tossed aside. Yet, Luis did play a special place in his heart but business and power came first. Alecsander enjoyed using people to get what he needed and no one would suspect a thing. All evidence would be wiped due to their loyalty and respect for him even if they did not agree at first. Over time, Alec would learn how to manipulate people to do his bidding and Luis had been his first victim.
Leon froze, pulse skittering, doing everything to stay ahead of the pain. There was no getting past Sherry, though. Of course they—of everyone still close—would notice. “Not if I can help it,” Leon muttered. “You swore you’d keep it quiet. They can’t know if there’s no one left to tell.”
Vendetta bit down on their lip, tore a strip from the sleeve of his t‑shirt, and cinched it tight into a tourniquet. It stung at first—God, it fucking stung. If you looked closely, you could see the tiniest crystals blooming at the rim of his eye, a weakness Leon would never willingly expose. He and Sherry had just crawled out of hell, the building collapsing minutes earlier—right before Leon took shrapnel in the side.
“Just toss me a bottle of alcohol—anything—to sterilize it,” Leon snapped. “Make it quick. Then we go back out there and finish the damn mission.” Once the tourniquet held, he shoved his harness and gear back into place anyway, pain lancing through his chest and down his torso with every movement.
muahahaha you shouldn't have given me this power. You need love, affection, a very long vacation, lots of therapy, and Chris, lots of Chris. That is what you need
Hm. I’ll take a raincheck on that one. Thanks for the offer though.
