Content warning: dacrophilia, praise, degrading, slightly sub/switch Leon, Vendetta Leon mixed with Plagas Leon, Leon lowkey going through a crisis and crying during, comfort, hurt, soft aftercare, dominant Leon, boot humping, dry humping, Leon in mascara, breast play, nipple sucking, cum eating, Leon eating reader out like a starved animal, handcuffs, hair pulling, switch reader
_____________
Feel free to leave a comment if you want, this is my first fanfiction I've written again since 2024 but Vendetta and Las Plagas Leon have a very bad chokehold on me🫶
THROUGH THE DARKNESS
The room seems smaller than it should, stuffy, heavy with caramel and vanilla drifting from the glass in Leon’s hand. Condensation beads along the surface, cold against skin already running too warm. His grip trembles faintly, the fingerless glove darkening where it presses too firmly into the glass. A flush sits high on his cheeks, sharpening the blue of his gaze into something more worn than alert.
He loosens his hold like remembering he can take effort. His shoulders sag, his head tipping back against the chair, throat exposed as he exhales in a long drag. His legs fall open without intention, giving in to the weight of his own body. There’s no composure left in him, only fatigue settling into places he usually keeps locked down.
He talks anyway.
The words come uneven, dragged out by alcohol and exhaustion. Work. Reports. People who never stop needing something. His voice falters at the edges of unfinished thoughts.
She kneels between his thighs, listening without interruption. That silent attention makes it harder to keep his voice steady.
Her palms glide over his leg, slow, grounding through the denim. When her touch presses more firmly against the imprint of his bulge, he reacts before he can stop it, breath catching, a rough sound slipping free.
The bourbon in his hand barely registers.
“It never ends,” he mutters. “Everyone always needs something from me. It’s exhausting.”
He drinks anyway, not out of want, but to avoid sitting with the silence and the storm in his head.
The glass lowers against his thigh, a faint chill through the denim. His free hand drifts to her hair, slower now, less precise, fingers threading through it without focus. He angles his gaze downward, half-lidded.
Glassy. Distant. Not soft, just worn thin. Under the light, the fatigue shows in ways he’d usually correct. This time, he doesn’t.
She speaks softly, something about helping, about easing things for him, wanting to give him something good.
He almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth pulls into a faint, tired shape. His fingers slip from her hair to her jaw, lifting her face. The touch is steady but loose, more like confirming she’s still there than guiding her.
“Is that an offer, darling girl?” he asks, a drunken smirk tugging at his mouth as he watches her through bleary focus.
The pet name comes out automatically, as if second nature.
His touch drifts along her throat, his forefinger tracing downward, watching her swallow nervously, her throat moving against his finger. He’s slow, distracted, grounding himself through the contact.
He notices her reaction, the shiver, the flush, but his focus lags behind it, like he’s a step removed from what he’s seeing.
“Always this easy to read,” he murmurs, more born from habit than observation.
She doesn’t answer, her mouth traveling lower, her nose brushing the trail of hair leading down his stomach.
The moment shifts. He ends up registering it too late.
By then, her breath is warm through the denim as she moves closer. His body reacts on instinct, hips lifting slightly, too honest, too immediate. A quiet sound escapes him before he can stop it.
He lets his head fall back again, his grip clamping around the glass until it cracks faintly under pressure. Bourbon seeps through the fracture, cool against his fingers as it spills.
For a moment, he lets it happen. Lets sensation blur the noise in his head.
Her hands fumble at his belt, clumsy with drunken urgency. The buckle clicks too loudly in the quiet. He notices, and does nothing. Just focuses on the feel of her touch, the small frustrated sounds she makes trying to hold herself back.
When she falters, he reaches down, covering her hands with his, not to stop her, but to steady them as they shake.
Controlling the pace, the only thing he can still manage at the moment.
A tired breath leaves him, a near-laugh that never fully forms. He guides her briefly, then lets go, his arm dropping back to his lap.
When she moves again, he registers it, but not clearly. That’s when it lands. Something’s wrong.
Even with the stimulation, he can’t register much beyond a dull, throbbing ache in his dick. His body lags, unresponsive, heavy in her hands.
An embarrassment, he thinks to himself. The response is there, but it’s delayed, dulled, like everything is coming through fog.
He goes still. His jaw sets hard enough to ache. “…fuck,” he mutters, voice low, unfocused.
His hand drags over his face, slower than usual, not hiding himself, just trying to reset something that won’t reset. His skin burns, thoughts trailing behind his actions.
Alcohol. Exhaustion. The mission still lodged under his ribs.
His hand lowers again, no longer guiding her hand towards his groin, just resting there, over her, over himself, like he needs the contact to stay grounded.
“…yeah,” he mutters, barely audible.
Not agreement. Not quite frustration but more so recognition in the situation.
His thumb moves faintly over her knuckles, uneven, distracted. The urgency is gone. What replaces it isn’t calm, just weight. He blinks his eyes open slowly and finally looks at her properly. There’s a fracture in his expression now, and he doesn’t try to fix it.
“…I think my body clocked out before I did,” he says it almost passes as humor. His shoulders sank deeper into the chair, like whatever was holding him upright finally gave out.
He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t lean in either. He stays in that in-between space he always occupies, only now it’s visible. His grip firms briefly around her hand, then loosens again.
“…you stayed,” he says, quieter, almost disbelieving as he blinks heavily. Like he needs to hear it out loud. “Yeah,” she answers softly. “I said I would.”
He watches her, something unsteady flickering behind his gaze. He shifts under her touch again, tension building in the wrong places, frustration creeping in with it. His fingers catch in her hair without meaning to, grip tightening just enough to betray it. “Shit—” his voice breaks, slurred at the edges. “Sweetheart, I can’t…” The words stall.
“It doesn’t work like it used to.” he tells her through gritted teeth as her hand stays over his clothed bulge. That lands heavier than anything else. Heat pools low in his stomach born from shame, not desire.
When she keeps going anyway, steady, insistent, it pulls a strained sound from him. His head tips back, eyes squeezing shut as something sharp cuts through the fog. Too much he thinks as the ache makes him nearly choke.
A choked breath leaves him unevenly. Tears slip free before he can stop them, tracking through smeared mascara, darkening the edges of his already worn gaze. He doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t try to stop her. Just sits there, coming apart in silence, unable to get a handle on it.
“Do you ever miss who you could’ve been,” he asks, voice rough, “if this hadn’t happened?” his voice lower now, roughened at the edges as he cleared his throat, his free hand lifting to rub at his eye. The mascara smeared further with the tears, staining his gloved fingers the harder he tried to wipe them away. His chest ached with grief as he struggled to keep himself together.
She stilled immediately when she heard the first choked sob, her mouth pausing as her head lifted from between his legs with a wet pop, her gaze snapping up to him.
“Leon… are you crying?” Her voice softened as she pulled back from him, rising to meet him face to face. “Shit, Leon, hey, it’s okay-” she stumbled over her words, the alcohol dulling her thoughts. Her hand came up toward his face, gently pulling him away from his eye. She gasped at the rawness there, irritated from how harshly he’d been scrubbing at it.
His arms wrapped around her awkwardly as the sobs worsened.
“I didn’t ask to be like this… how do I make it stop?” The words came out muffled against her chest as he pressed into her, mascara streaking onto her bare skin. Her fingers moved carefully through his hair, brushing it back from his face, her heartbeat steady against his ear, grounding him just slightly.
She hummed under her breath. “You poor thing… working yourself to the bone just for them to keep taking from you,” she murmured, hearing him sniffle again. Then his blurred attention drifted.
His face turned toward her exposed chest, warmth and her steady heartbeat radiating against his skin. His gaze remained glassy, unfocused, his thoughts moving thick and slow, like wading through syrup. Before he fully registered it, his tongue traced over one of her breasts, unsteady but driven by instinct more than intent.
His pupils stayed blown wide as he took her into his mouth, his other hand sliding over the goosebumps rising along her other breast, fingers piching at her nipple. The warmth of his glove drew a soft gasp from her, her fingers tightening in his hair, tugging.
A raw, unguarded whine slipped from him in response, pulling a reaction from her as her body shifted against his. Beneath her, she could feel him stirring again, brushing faintly against the fabric between them as she remained straddled over his lap as they sat in the home office chair, pulled close together from when he’d grabbed her.
“Leon… you’re so pathetic, getting worked up over this,” she teased lightly. He answered with another uneven thrust of his hips, a soft sound leaving him as his mouth pressed more insistently against her. She pulled him back by his hair, clicking her tongue in displeasure. “No more,” she said, tone light but firm, watching the fresh sheen of tears gather in his eyes. His words came out broken, barely coherent, the pleading tangled with quiet sobs.
“Baby… please, I’ll be good…” His chest rose and fell quickly, panic flickering across his expression. “I’ll—I’ll be a good boy, just… please… anything you want, it’s yours, just let me—” He leaned forward, his hand and mouth moving again, chasing contact, his mouth feeling empty without it.
With a soft hum, she let go of his hair and shifted away from him.
“Anything?” she asked, rising to her feet off of his lap with a small grin. “You’re sure?” she asked petting his hair.
Her tone stayed gentle as she pulled him up from the chair as well, a flicker of heat returning to her expression.
“Go be a good boy and get your cuffs?” Her fingers brushed along his cheek, wiping away the damp streaks of mascara, the touch soothing. “Can you be good and do that for me?” He nodded quickly, unsteady as he moved toward the bedroom. His hands shook at his sides as he adjusted his boxers up again covering his dick, his head spinning with a dull, aching need. He pushed the door open, crossing the room in uneven steps before rifling through the bedside table, tossing things aside until he caught the faint glint of metal under the lamplight.
He grabbed them clumsily and made his way back, his entire body tense with nerves as he placed them in her hand.
“What now, baby?” he asked, lips dry as his gaze flickered downward towards her bare chest again before he forced himself to look away, shame creeping in. She squeezed his arm gently before guiding his wrists behind his back, fastening the cuffs with a quiet click. Then she led him back toward the chair.
“I’m going to sit here,” she said, easing down against the leather chair, “and you can have your fun.” Her hand tugged him closer until he stood between her thighs.
“Down.” she commanded her tone low, slightly firm.
He obeyed immediately, dropping to his knees, unsteady. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch, arms tightening behind him as the cuffs pressed into his wrists. He let out a frustrated, breathy whine, gaze flicking up to hers as tears clung to his long lashes. His body gave a faint twitch at the absence of contact as he lowered his head between her thighs. Her slipper pressed firmly against the bulge beneath the fabric as he sat with his thighs spread out, the pressure building steadily as his mouth traced the inside of her thigh. His lips skimmed the sensitive skin in slow, deliberate kisses, his nose dragging upward toward the covered space between her legs. His teeth caught at the material, tugging lightly as he tried to press closer, as though even that slight distance was still too much. Until his nose grazed the material, causing her to release a sharp, stuttered breath. Her hips grounding down against his face at the friction, as her eyes closed, head falling back against the chair as her foot dug deeper against Leon's aching length unintentionally. “Fucking hell, so good” she moaned out, gripping his hair harshly to push his face closer between the clothed folds of her pussy, her body writhing as her hips twitched against him helplessly, already off in her own world, her chest rising and falling quickly as she ground her hips faster against his face, breathless moans leaving her throat as her free hand pulled her underwear down, the chair creaking under the weight of her body moving so erratically, her body trembling violently as Leon's tongue lapped at the sopping wetness between her folds, his nose brushing her pubic bone as he ate her out like a starved animal, eyes squeezed shut as more tears fell in pleasure.
His voice muffled around her “work for 20 plus years and they, can't…” his words faltered off as he let out a groan, the vibration shooting up her spine as her hand shivered trying to comfort him, even though she could barely think. “can't handle me anymore, said I- fucking hell” his hips ground up against her heel as he tried to continue, his tongue greedily drinking down any cum that leaked from her folds, his nose coated in the substance as he continued to drive her to the edge.
“Said I'm getting too reckless with my life” he finished, his tongue swirling around the bundles of nerves as her stomach tightened and pulsed. A coiled heat breaking as heat consumed her body, her body trembling as she came all over his nose and lips with a final moan. When Leon pulled his head back his lips were drenched in her seed, dripping down his stubbled chin, his nose wet as he licked his lips, his eyes glossed over as he watched her. “Did I do good?” He asked, his tone higher as he gave her the equivalent look of puppy eyes, his muscular chest heaving, the cuffs straining against the bulk of his arms and wrists. His boxers now impossibly tighter now as he let out a whine of impatience.
Her eyes met the strained bulge before she let out a soft breath. It looked painful as she watched Leon shift restlessly bucking his hips back up against her slipper, trying to get friction again, he was desperate now as he helplessly humped the thick slipper. His dick red hot, angry, and heavy in his underwear. He growled in frustration, gritting his teeth. His precum leaking through, leaving a large slick spot against the material, he rubbed himself against her again, his cum stimulating his dick as it lubricated itself. Wet squelches echoed in the room as the pressure grew unbearable in his dick and balls. The chains from the cuffs around his wrists clanking with their own frustration. “Please let me touch you” he spoke, his voice thick with carnal need, a low growl in his tone as he yanked his arms around the cuffs. His veins became darker against his skin, spiderwebbing over his body as he fought the cuffs more, an animalistic growl coming from the back of his throat.
“Need” his voice was barely intelligible now, as he moved underneath her getting free from her foot against his groin. In seconds he was up again, towering over her, nearly out of breath, the black veins spreading toward his face now. With one final yank of anger the cuffs broke, leaving his hands free. He looked down at his arms with a smirk before his hands found her body again. One hand on her cheek as his face grew closer, his breath erratic as he watched her, a silent ask to continue despite his current state. She swallowed thickly with a nod, feeling his lips crash against hers now with unbridled fervor, his skin scorching to the touch as his tongue searched her mouth, a deep moan leaving his throat as he talked again, his words swallowed by her tongue. “Need to breed” he growled, his hand rougher against her cheek as his hips thrust against hers, his actions no longer his own, but now an innate need. Her hands fumbled quickly to try and grab him as he leaned over her, his tongue searing hot in her mouth, making her eyes roll back, her hand gripping his hip to try and steady him as he let out a series of whines and primal growls, the heat nearly burning her hand as she moved her head against the elastic of his boxers. The heat nearly dizzying as she pulled him free again. Sat heavy and angry in color between his legs was now his dick, painted in incredibly dark veins, mixed in with its coarse pubic hair.
“Leon holy shit, you're burning up” she spoke once she pulled his face a few inches away from hers. He looked beyond wrecked, his nose dragging over her cheek, and down her jaw as his warm breath made her face flushed, he nuzzled against her skin, his heartbeat pounding in his chest as he got a whiff of her scent, his tongue licking over her cheek where tears started to fall from pleasure more than fear. She'd seen him like this many times before, yet it still was slightly unnerving when it happened at random.
She guided him gently by the wrist, her grip careful against the heat radiating off his skin, steering him toward the bedroom. His steps were uneven—resisting more out of reflex than intention, as though his body was still fighting something that had never fully left him.
Once inside, she eased him down onto the bed. He sat with visible strain, shoulders tight, breath coming in uneven pulls. She stayed close beside him, quieter now, her focus soft but steady as her fingers hovered over the dark veins tracing beneath his skin, faintly visible under the smudges left by dried mascara.
His gaze flickered toward her when she came too close again. For a brief moment, there was recognition, then a sharp pulse of pain cut through him. His body tensed, a low, strained sound slipping out before he could stop it.
“Don’t apologize,” she said immediately, voice calm. “I’m here because I choose to be.” He exhaled through it, jaw tightening as the pain passed in waves.
“Let’s get you out of these,” she added, shifting her attention to his hands. “You’re overheating.”
Carefully, she worked the gloves free, easing them off with measured pressure before setting them aside. Her movements were deliberate, grounded, unhurried, trying not to add to the strain he was already under.
Next came his shirt. The fabric clung to him, damp and heavy, soaked through with sweat. She peeled it away gently, mindful of the way his body reacted to even the smallest movements, of the way tension rippled through him when discomfort spiked.
The shirt dropped to the floor beside the bed. When she looked back at him, the extent of it was clearer now, his skin slick with heat, breath shallow, veins visibly darkened beneath the surface, pulsing in irregular rhythms that didn’t match his breathing.
Each wave of pain made his body contract slightly, his abdomen tightening involuntarily as he tried to ride it out. She laid back against the bed, fingers grazing over his wrist to catch his attention and pull him closer the best she could as he laid beside her trying to control his body the best he could.
He blinked a few times slowly as if caught in a fog before he pressed against her body, his senses flooding violently the closer he got as his hand trembled, his body above hers. “Is this okay?” He asked roughly around the edges as one hand remained near her cheek in an attempt to try to be delicate, his other hand bracing against the mattress to hold himself up against it. With another nod she watched him carefully as he lowered his body down against hers, his hips grinding down against hers, a low breath leaving him at first as his fingers clutched against the sheets, jaw tight with a need to hold himself back so it was about her comfort over his. Each roll of his hips made him bite down deeper against his bottom lip, feeling the heat of her beneath him, as his thumb grazed over her skin with restrained care. Her hips moving with his as the material of their underwear rubbed together each time, leaving behind a wet heat, her hand that still remained against his cheek brushed under his eye, tears collecting against the skin.
“You're doing so good Leon” she praised him, keeping her voice low to help calm his nerves “you're not hurting me” she mumbled softly. Feeling him grinding down again as her free hand slipped his boxers down with ease, pulling her own underwear down the best she could. The chilled air around them both made her shiver, her hips moving up to meet Leon's. The skin on skin contact made them both groan as her back arched.
After a few more minutes of consoling Leon, he slowly slipped himself between her coated folds, his thrusts starting off as timid, feeling her shake below him as the pleasure rolled through her, pressure against her cervix as Leon tried to speak. His words slurred with heat, alcohol, and the plague running through his body still.
“Accept my gift, please, make you my queen” she opened her eyes to look up at him as he rambled weakly, she giggled softly, her pussy squeezing around his dick in response, making him groan, his hand moving from her face, down towards the bulge under his skin. Something primal in his stirred as he watched himself thrust deeper into her, hand pressing over the bulge making her stomach tighten, squeezing him tighter as his hips continued to slam into her.
“Look so beautiful” he murmured to her “imagine a family, caring for babies, settling down?” His breathing was erratic again, as the veins pulsed violently under his skin again, making him clench in her. His head felt so loud with thoughts. As the plagas gnawed under his skin.
‘Breed, need to breed. Carry the bloodline, spread the gift. Give her your gift’ the thoughts suffocating in his head, breaking his focus when he looked down to see her moaning again. Cum between her thighs, plugged in from Leon’s length. With a horrified gasp he apologized.
“Baby, I’m so sorry, I didn’t… shit, I thought I had it under control. Fuck, I just, let me make it up to you somehow. I didn’t mean for that. I’m sorry…”
His voice cracked as he pulled back abruptly, like distance was the only way to regain control of himself. His breath came uneven, sharp at the edges, hands hovering uselessly before curling into himself.
“God… was I too rough? Did I mess something up-”
The words came faster now, spiraling. Not just guilt, assessment. Like he was running a post-mission debrief in real time, trying to locate where he failed.
His eyes shone with frustration and shame, the kind that spread.
She reached for his face gently, firm but grounding. “Leon,” she said softly. “Look at me.”
It took a second, but his focus dragged back to her slowly.
She didn’t rush him to speak or do much of anything.
“I enjoyed it,” she said, steady and deliberate. “You didn’t mess anything up. Please don’t do that to yourself.”
Those words landed somewhere deeper in the moment.
She saw it in the way his jaw tightened, like his mind was trying to classify what just happened into something manageable and failing to find a category for “safe.”
He exhaled shakily, but didn’t fully settle.
She shifted closer, careful with him now, as if approaching something still overstimulated. Her hand stayed on his cheek, anchoring him there.
“This isn’t a mission report,” she added quietly, reading him more than he was speaking. “You don’t need to figure out what went wrong, because nothing went wrong.”
His throat worked like he wanted to respond, but nothing came cleanly.
Old conditioning showed through in fragments, responsibility first, blame second, self last. The habit of assuming if something felt off, it meant failure. That if someone else was affected, it was on him to correct it.
She softened further, recognizing it.
“You’re safe,” she said. “And you don’t have to account for anything right now. No briefing, no damage control, no fixing, no fighting for your life.”
A pause.
“You’re not on duty.”
That finally got a slight shift in him, small, but grounding. The rigid edge in his shoulders loosened by a fraction, like his body was starting to remember it didn’t need to stay braced.
Her arm slipped around his waist, steadying him, guiding him back down into closeness without pressure. His head came to rest near her heartbeat again, slower this time, less frantic.
Her fingers moved through his hair, grounding and repetitive.
“You’re here,” she murmured. “Not in the field. Not in a crisis. Just here with me.”
A beat passed before she spoke again.
“And I’ve got you, you're safe in my arms.”
His breathing evened out gradually, not fully calm, but no longer spiraling. Just present in the moment now.
