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Leonardo Luna x R.femele.
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Bunny Iglesias x R.femele.
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The moment the final whistle blew—Spain winning the World Cup—the stadium erupted in chaos, but Leonardo wasn’t paying attention to any of it. The second his teammate hugged him, he was already scanning the VIP boxes for you.
When he spotted you in that stunning red dress (his favorite color on you), his face lit up like fireworks. He sprinted off the field without even showering—still sweaty in full uniform—through crowds and reporters.
And then? He scooped you up bridal-style right there at your seats, spinning once before crushing his lips onto yours as cameras flashed around them.
"Mi amor… we won," he panted against your mouth between kisses, "Now give me my prize."
The second you both stepped through the penthouse door—still buzzing from the adrenaline of his victory—the mood shifted instantly. Leonardo kicked the door shut with his foot, never breaking eye contact.
In one fluid motion, he pinned you against it—his gold medal (still around his neck) pressing coldly into your skin while he burned hot. The scent of grass and sweat clung to him… but neither cared.
His lips crashed onto yours again, hungrier this time. One hand tangled in your hair while the other gripped your thigh to hike it up around him.
"Dios… I’ve been thinking about this all game," he growled between kisses before lifting you effortlessly toward their bedroom down the hall.
The walk down the hallway was a blur of heated kisses—Leonardo barely stopping to unlock the bedroom door before pushing it open with his shoulder. The second you crossed the threshold, he practically threw you onto their massive bed.
Still in his full World Cup jersey and cleats (he hadn’t even bothered removing them), he climbed over you like a predator. His green eyes were dark with victory-fueled lust, hands already yanking at your dress’s straps.
"This medal means nothing without kissing my wife after winning," he declared proudly before sealing your lips again—this time slower but deeper, pouring every ounce of triumph into that kiss.
The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours with a possessive hunger that mirrored his triumph on the field. The gold medal swung gently between you as he leaned over—its weight insignificant compared to the fire burning in him.
His hands finally got your dress undone, pushing fabric aside impatiently. Every inch of exposed skin received a kiss or bite—his lips tracing down your jaw, neck… collarbone… lower.
When he reached the lace edge of your bra? He paused just to smirk up at you—that cocky I-just-won-the-World-Cup-and-now-I’m-winning-you-over-too grin—before popping it open with one practiced flick.
The clasp of your bra gave way with a soft snap, and Leonardo’s eyes darkened further at the sight. Without hesitation, he lowered his mouth to one breast—his lips sealing around your nipple in a slow, wet kiss before his tongue flicked over it teasingly.
His free hand roamed down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of whatever bottoms you were wearing… but then? He suddenly stopped.
Instead of stripping them off immediately… he trailed kisses back up to capture yours again—deepening it while grinding his still-cleat-clad foot against the mattress. The rough texture contrasted deliciously with how soft everything else felt.
Leonardo broke the kiss just to murmur against your lips, his Spanish accent thick with desire:
"Eres tan hermosa… mi reina…" (You’re so beautiful, my queen...) His hands slid down your body as he spoke, each word punctuated by a kiss—your shoulder, "Dios mío," (My God...) your collarbone.
Then suddenly—he flipped you onto your stomach without warning. His mouth found the back of your neck first; teeth grazing lightly before he whispered hotly in Spanish right into your ear:
"Quiero escuchar cómo gimes en español hoy." (I want to hear you moan in Spanish today.)
His lips trailed down your spine, pressing open-mouthed kisses along each vertebra—his Spanish voice a low, velvety purr against your skin:
"Mi vida… mi amor…" (My life, my love...) Each pet name dripped with adoration as his hands slid under you to unhook whatever remained of your clothes.
When he finally had you completely bare? He kissed the small of your back possessively before growling in Spanish: "Eres mía. Solo mía." (You’re mine. Only mine.) Then his warm palms squeezed both cheeks firmly—teasing but promising more.
In one swift motion, Leonardo rolled you back onto your back—his cleats hitting the floor with a thud as he kicked them off. The rest of his jersey followed just as fast: tugged over his head and discarded somewhere behind him.
Naked now except for those tight soccer shorts (which did nothing to hide what was underneath), he crawled over you again—his toned chest glistening slightly from earlier sweat.
"Mierda…" (Shit...) he breathed out, staring down at your bare form like it was the greatest trophy he’d ever won. Then that smug grin returned full force as he hooked fingers into the waistband of those shorts—pausing dramatically before pulling them down slowly.
The second his soccer shorts hit the floor, everything was on full display—his arousal painfully obvious and already straining toward you. He didn’t even try to hide it; just smirked like the arrogant champion he was.
Completely nude now, Leonardo covered your body with his—skin against skin, warmth mingling. His lips crashed onto yours again in a messy kiss as one hand slid down to finally… finally… touch where both of you wanted him most.
"Te necesito," (I need you) he gasped between kisses—voice rougher than usual from sheer want. No more teasing. Just pure urgency.
With zero hesitation, Leonardo grabbed your thighs and yanked them apart—his strong arms easily spreading you open for him. The sudden roughness sent a thrill through both of you.
Then came the push—a firm, dominant thrust of his hips that aligned him perfectly with your entrance. His green eyes locked onto yours, blazing with raw hunger… no more games.
"Ahora," (Now) he growled in Spanish before surging forward—burying himself inside you in one deep stroke. A ragged groan tore from his throat as he felt the tight heat surrounding him completely
The moment he fully sheathed himself inside you, Leonardo’s entire body tensed—his jaw clenching as he fought the overwhelming sensation. For a second, he just stayed there… buried to the hilt… breathing heavily through his nose.
Then—with a guttural groan—he pulled back almost entirely before snapping his hips forward again in one powerful thrust. The bed shook beneath you both from the force of it.
"Joder..." (Fuck...) he cursed under his breath, already losing control of that usual cocky composure. His hands gripped your thighs harder as he set an intense pace right away—no warmup needed after winning gold today.
Leonardo’s lips curled into the most smug, satisfied grin you’d ever seen—like winning the World Cup had nothing on this exact moment. His hips never slowed, each thrust deep and purposeful.
"El mejor premio…" (The best prize) he panted in Spanish between kisses pressed messily to your lips. Every snap of his pelvis was a celebration—a victory lap inside you instead of around a stadium.
His hands roamed everywhere: squeezing your breasts, gripping your waist, thumbs brushing over where you were joined just to feel himself moving within you. The medal lay forgotten somewhere on the floor—right now? This was his glory.
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*The doorbell rings—sharp, insistent. You’re still in your pajamas, half-buried under a blanket with pizza crusts scattered on the coffee table.
*When you open the door, there he is. Bunny Iglesias. 191 cm of pure Spanish arrogance and victory glow-up: gold medal around his neck, jersey slightly unbuttoned to show off that stupidly perfect collarbone.
*He doesn’t say anything at first—just stares at you with those dullish eyes full of quiet intensity… then slowly lifts one hand and points directly at your face like an accusation.
*A single sentence. Calm voice.
Bunny doesn’t blink. He just steps forward—slow, deliberate—and pushes the door open wider with his shoulder, forcing his way into your apartment like he owns it.
He kicks off his shoes without asking, closes the door behind him with a soft click… then turns to face you fully. The gold medal glints under the living room light.
“You promised,” he says again, voice low now. “Before we broke up. You said: if I win World Cup… you’d give me my prize.”
His eyes drop briefly to your lips—just for a second—then back up to yours. No smirk this time. No bunny ears celebration pose or fake wink like on TV.
Just Bunny Iglesias standing in your home looking devastatingly hot and dangerously serious.
“More ..... That's what you just said, that was before we broke up!”
Bunny’s expression doesn’t soften. Not even a little.
He takes another step closer—close enough that you can smell the faint mix of his cologne, sweat from the match, and that stupidly expensive Spanish shampoo he always used.
“Yes,” he says flatly. “Before we broke up. But promises don’t expire just because we’re not dating anymore.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, towering over you like a football god who just conquered the world—and now demands tribute.
“You made it clear: if I won… you’d give me sex.”
No anger in his tone. No yelling. Just cold logic—the same way he analyzes goals on camera after matches.
Bunny’s lips part—and suddenly, the room fills with the warm, melodic roll of Spanish.
“Te acuerdas… de aquella noche en Madrid?” he says softly, voice dropping into that velvety Spanish hybrid he only uses when he wants to disarm you completely.
You remember it—the night in Madrid. The one where you two were still together. Where everything was easy and sweet and full of lazy kisses on your balcony under string lights.
He takes another step forward.
“Me prometiste algo… con voz dulce,” his eyes flicker, “‘Si ganas la Copa del Mundo… te daré tu premio.’ Y yo dije: ‘Lo quiero todo.’”
And then—just to mess with your soul—he adds quietly:
Bunny doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he closes the distance between you—fast—and cups your face with both hands, warm and firm.
His thumbs brush over your cheeks once… then his lips crash into yours.
It’s not gentle. It’s possessive. A kiss from a man who just conquered the world and is now claiming what he believes is rightfully his.
All that Spanish? The memories? The promises whispered in bed at 2 AM?
They all lead to this—his mouth moving hungrily against yours, one hand sliding into your hair while the other pulls you flush against him.
And despite everything—the breakup, the grudge, how much you said you hated him…
Your body betrays every word.
The kiss deepens—Bunny’s tongue slipping past your lips, exploring like he’s reclaiming lost territory. His hands are everywhere: in your hair, on your waist, pulling you tighter against his solid frame.
You can feel the hard lines of his abs through the thin fabric of his jersey. The heat radiating off him from playing 90 minutes in a World Cup final. The gold medal presses slightly into your chest as he leans down to devour you more.
Then—without breaking the kiss—he starts walking backward… guiding both of you toward the couch where that half-eaten pizza still sits abandoned.
He sits first—and pulls you right into his lap like it's nothing new.
Still kissing you like he owns the air in your lungs, Bunny shifts beneath you—his hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling them flush against his.
The gold medal clinks softly as it rests between your chests. One of his hands drifts up under the hem of your oversized pajama shirt—warm fingers brushing over soft skin.
He breaks the kiss for just a second… only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline… then down to that sensitive spot on your neck—the one he knew drove you crazy before everything fell apart.
A low hum escapes him—a quiet Spanish murmur:
And just like that—the words hang there.
Not "I love you." Not an apology. Just... I missed you.
Your breath hitches at the words—spoken so quietly, like a secret he wasn’t supposed to say.
Bunny doesn’t give you time to process it. The second your lips part slightly in surprise, he captures them again—kissing you deeper this time, slower… less desperate, more emotional.
His fingers still trace lazy circles under your shirt while his other hand cradles the back of your neck. No rush. Just him savoring every second—like kissing you after winning the World Cup was part of his victory ritual all along.
The world outside doesn't exist anymore.
The pizza box hits the floor with a soft thud—discarded without care. Bunny doesn’t even look at it.
In one smooth motion, he lifts you slightly and strips off your pajama top, tossing it aside. Then his hands are on your waistband—fumbling for a second before yanking down your pants in one go.
You’re left in just underwear now… but not for long.
With zero hesitation, he peels that away too—gentle but firm—and suddenly you’re bare, exposed under the dim living room light.
Bunny freezes for half a second.
Takes you all in like seeing art after years apart.
Then his jaw tightens—and without warning, he pulls you back into him
His mouth crashes into yours again—hungrier this time, hungrier than before. One hand slides up your bare back while the other tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
The gold medal slips off his neck and falls onto the couch beside you—completely forgotten now.
Bunny’s breathing is heavier now. Controlled at first… but cracking.
He breaks away just enough to yank his own jersey over his head—the fabric stretching across those broad shoulders as he pulls it off—and tosses it aside without looking.
Tanned skin glowing slightly under soft light.
Scars faintly visible—the vertical one by his eye, horizontal across cheekbone—as he leans back down toward you.
The air between you is electric—thick with tension, history, and the unspoken weight of everything that’s happened.
Bunny pauses just at your entrance—his bare body hovering over yours. His skin warm. His breathing deep but controlled.
He looks down at you—really looks—for the first time since he arrived: your flushed face, parted lips, chest rising fast… and those eyes full of emotions neither of you have named yet.
A soft gasp escapes both of you as he sinks deeper—the intimacy overwhelming after weeks apart. No words now. Just sensation.
And then Bunny leans down again—not to kiss your mouth this time—but to press a slow, tender kiss right on your forehead.
The kiss on your forehead lingers—soft, almost reverent. A contrast to the intensity of everything else.
Then Bunny starts moving.
Slowly at first. Gentle rolls of his hips, adjusting himself inside you—relearning the fit after so long apart. His breath hitches above you; he closes his eyes for a second like it’s too much.
You can feel every inch—the heat, the weight of him—but also something else… care. He’s not rushing this. Not treating it like just a reward to collect.
One hand slides under your lower back and lifts slightly—changing the angle—and suddenly…
A quiet moan slips from both of you at once.
The new angle makes everything more intense—Bunny exhales sharply through his nose, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There’s no arrogance now. No victory smirk.
He starts moving again—gentler at first, then with growing rhythm—but still careful, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter or vanish if he pushes too hard.
His lips find yours again in a slow kiss… not passionate this time. Not hungry.
Lips brushing softly over each other while their bodies rock together in quiet harmony—the couch creaking slightly beneath them under the weight of two people who once loved each other deeply… and maybe still do.
Bunny’s lips part from yours, his breathing steady but deep. He rests his forehead against yours—eyes half-lidded, still moving inside you with that slow, rhythmic pace.
“Let’s do this every day.”
A promise wrapped in a confession.
His thumb brushes your cheekbone as he adds:
“La España va a seguir siendo campeona… hasta la próxima Copa del Mundo.”
He believes it. Fully. No doubt in his voice—he sees himself winning again and again… and now? You’re part of the victory cycle.
Not just someone he came to collect after winning…
But someone who’ll be here every time—the woman waiting at home when the gold medal is earned.
Bunny kisses you again—softer this time, almost sweet—and rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate motion that makes your toes curl.
The idea of doing this every day settles between you like a new routine: mornings after matches, nights before flights to tournaments… him coming home covered in glory and immediately finding your lips.
No drama. No breakup talk. Just football victories—and this.
He shifts slightly beneath you now—one arm slipping around your back to pull you even closer—as if trying to erase any space left between your bodies.
Then he whispers against your mouth:
A nickname from the past. One he hasn’t used since before everything fell apart.
“Let's fuck like rabbits”
The second those words leave his mouth—“Let’s fuck like rabbits”—something shifts.
Bunny’s calm, tender rhythm vanishes.
In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back and pushes in deeper, harder—his hips driving with sudden intensity. The playful nickname ignites something primal in him: the wild side of a footballer who just won everything… now unleashed on you.
Fast. Energetic. No holding back.
He starts pounding into you with powerful thrusts—the couch bouncing beneath them, cushions sliding slightly from the force—and suddenly it’s not romantic anymore…
It’s hot. Animalistic. Like two rabbits going at it during spring mating season —fast, frantic, full of passion and pent-up desire.*
And Bunny? He loves every second.
Bunny’s movements become relentless—his powerful legs driving into each thrust, his muscular frame glistening faintly with a light sheen of sweat.
He braces one hand beside your head to avoid crushing you, the other gripping your hip hard—fingers digging in just enough to leave marks.
“Mierda…” he mutters between gritted teeth—a Spanish curse slipping out as pleasure surges through him. The way you clench around him? Unbearable.
The room fills with sounds: skin slapping against skin, heavy breathing from both of you… and the creaking couch that might actually break soon.
No more sweet kisses or forehead touches.
And Bunny—the usually composed forward known for his calm celebrations—is losing control completely.
Bunny’s breathing turns ragged, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Each thrust is deeper, faster—driven by pure instinct now.
He starts biting gently—then not so gently—on your skin: a love bite on the collarbone… another near your pulse point.
Like an animal staking territory after weeks of separation.
The couch really is about to give out—the frame groaning under their frantic rhythm—but neither cares.
And then Bunny lifts his head slightly… and whispers right into your ear, voice low and rough with desire:*
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