#héctor bellerin

[ermuellert]

marc bartra taking a photo of héctor bellerin giving marc roca a smooch... i've dreamed of days like this

[footballandshit]

HÉCTOR BELLERÍN

Barcelona vs Real Betis

[iconsfinder]

[reijndeers]

drew heccy b for the culture (also because he’s incredibly handsome and i miss him)

close-ups under the cut!

[stargazermind]

Is Héctor Bellerín even real?

[thicons]

request

like or reblog

[no-passaran]

Some people will say anything to avoid pointing that something happened because of sexism. No, Rubiales did not do what he did because he's a "narcissist", he did it because he's a misogynist and doesn't think women's bodies should be free from men's "impulses", as he himself has said very clearly in his press conference. Please start recognising women's oppression as an axis of oppression.

[multifandomfanfic]

can you write something for hector bellerin ? plss !!

like a angst with reader being insecure about her body ? thanks already.

Stretch Marks

Héctor Bellerín x reader

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: Thanks for the request! It was nice to get one that wasn’t for Messi or Ronaldo! :))))

Your torso twisted and turned, trying to make itself as attractive as possible. You contorted every which way, but the mirror never reflected what you wanted. You slid the jacket on your shoulders again. It made no difference; it still fell just short of the slits in your dress. You ripped it off and flung it to who-knows-where. 

You had tried on the same dress three times in the span of ten minutes; each time you threw it onto the floor to wrinkle, only to begrudgingly try it on again. No matter what you did to the dress, no matter what bit of fabric you readjusted or pins you used, your stretchmarks refused to be hidden.

At this point, it was like they had always been there. You had gone through a massive growth spurt as a teen. It was no big deal at the time; in fact, you had been ecstatic that you were becoming like the women who graced the covers of magazines and ads you saw at the store.  Now you weren’t as thrilled.

The growth spurt left permanent pink and white marks on your stomach and thighs. Permanent proof that it had happened.

When Hector had bought you the dress, you thought nothing of it, not seeing the low slits on each side. It was an issue now. He would be heartbroken if you did not wear it, but he would understand. He would have to understand.

The alarm clock on your bedside table suddenly caught your attention. 7:23pm. 

“Shit,” you mumbled. Hector and you had to leave at 7:30 on the dot. The restaurant had been hesitant to reserve you a table with hardly a week’s notice; it was only Hector’s fame that made them change their mind.

You tugged the fabric of your dress down one more time. The cut-outs were both just low enough to reveal the discoloration on your skin. It was so obvious, so... embarrassing. The marks were glaringly different from everything else. It was as if there was a sign next to them saying “Look at me!” You groaned. You couldn’t let anyone see them. This dress would not do.

Within seconds you had pulled the dress over your head for the fourth time and thrown it on the bed. It was gorgeous even crumpled on your unmade bed. But, paparazzi would be hounding you from the moment you stepped out of the car. They would be pointing their cameras in your face. Each flash and click would mean one more picture of the imperfections on your sides. 

If there was any way you could prevent them from seeing your stretch marks, you would do it.

You checked the clock. 7:26pm. You cast the doors to your closet wide open, ignoring them as they hit the wall with a thud. Rows and rows of beautiful clothes greeted you, but none of them were what you wanted. 

A knock came from the door of your shared bedroom. You had kicked Hector out, wanting to surprise him when you donned the dress for the first time. His disappointment was a small price to pay.

“Mi amor,” his voice sounded through the room, “May I come in?”

“One moment, please!”

You could sense him checking his watch and sighing. There was not a moment to spare, but you had to find another perfect dress. Even if it was impossible. Other futball players’ girlfriends’ didn’t show their stretchmarks (if they even had any)--why should you?

“We don’t have much time! I already know you look gorgeous in that dress.”

You groaned in frustration, a silk blouse scrunched in your hand. None of the clothes in your closet would do. None of them were good enough, none of them were nice enough, none of them were what Hector picked out. If only the other dress didn’t have those stupid slits.

“One more m-,” you began as you walked back into the bedroom, but were quickly interrupted from beyond the door. “Honey, considering what we put him through to get these reservations, the manager might have a heart attack if we’re not there on time! Besides, I want to show off my beautiful girlfriend.”

It rolled off of Hector’s tongue like a compliment, but it carried the pain of an insult. You weren’t beautiful. The most perfect dress in the world didn’t even look good on you.

“Well, what if I don’t want to go anymore?”

You huffed and fell back onto your shared bed. That was it. You rubbed your eyes, the tears already starting to form. Hector would understand. He had never said anything about your stretch marks before, but he had to find them as hideous as you did. The door squeaked as it opened. Hector’s steps creaked on the floor of your bedroom until he was right next to you, standing on the rug. You turned and buried your face into a pillow. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

The soft fabric absorbed your tears, “I don’t want to go out anymore.”

Hector’s laid his palm on your upper back, “I know that’s not true… but, you don’t have to tell me the truth if you don’t want to.”

A sob erupted from deep within your chest. Months of doubt came flooding out in the form of tears. You weren’t good enough for Hector Bellerin. You never would be. He was a world-class athlete, someone millions of men want to be and millions of women want to be with. You were a girl with an ugly body without your own claim to fame.

But none of those feelings properly came out into words.

Instead, Hector made his way to the bathroom and returned with a new tissue box. He placed one into your hand.

“Thank you,” you sniffled. You sat up straight and wiped your eyes.

“Of course.”

The room was quiet. The clock on your bedside table flashed 7:39, but neither of you made any move to leave. Hector wrapped his arm around your shoulders; your head instinctively rested on his.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

You opened your mouth to speak. How were you to word this?

“Do you… do you like being seen with me?” you finally spat out. You kept your head down and fiddled with the tissue in your hand.

Hector turned to face you, “Is that why you don’t want to go to dinner? Y/N, I love you from the bottom of my heart. Why wouldn’t I like being seen with you?” “But my stretch marks, Hector! This dress shows them!” you exclaimed, lifting your head off of his shoulder and meeting his gaze, “And don’t forget the extra weight I can’t get rid of and–!”

Hector grabbed your hand, “Y/N, stop it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Stop it, please,” Hector repeated, “That all means nothing to me.”

You rolled your eyes and sighed, “Yeah, right.”

“They don’t, Y/N. If I was embarrassed to go out with you, I wouldn’t have begged that poor manager to get us a reservation!” he said, “I love you for many reasons, Y/N, and the fact that you are absolutely gorgeous is only a part of it.”

You looked down at the slits. The marks were still there, but they did not look as bad as they had before. They were just marks on your skin–everyone has them.

“You really don’t mind them?” you said.

“I don’t,” he replied, an all-to-familiar smirk growing on his face, “In fact, they mark exactly where I hold on to you when w–”

“Stop!” you exclaimed, giggling as he pulled you closer and peppered kisses down your jaw and neck, “We have to go!”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to.” “I’ve changed my mind,” you replied, sliding off the bed onto your feet and running your fingers through your hair, “but I would be happy to continue this afterward.”

[varanest]

i'm getting red in the face, you can call me obsessed (héctor bellerín)

a/n: i´ve never been a fan of jealous/possessive behaviour but this idea popped into my head so here´s this. warning: nsfw.

Héctor isn't possessive.

To be possessive, one must have some sort of attachment to another person.

There is no such 'attachment' to Florence. Sure, he knows the precise way to move his tongue inside of her to make her moan, the shape of her hip under his palm when he fucks her so hard they both see stars, and the exact pitch of her voice when she comes, but he's not attached to her. At all.

This is the lie he tells himself.

But Héctor Bellerin, an only child, used to undivided attention, hasn't shared anything in his life.

And he sure as fuck isn't going to start today.

Florence is the only reason he's here, training far later than he has ever willingly stayed at the Ciutat Esportiva.

Tonight, it´s Friday—their night.

The same night he's occupied on her schedule for the last few months, and he'll be damned if it's cancelled on behalf of some random dickhead. He doesn't bother to learn his name, but she just had to stop back by her office for 'a few minutes' that's now lasted nearly an hour because McFuckface decided to show up.

Florence was dressed for him, not the grimy wanker currently leaning over her shoulder, hovering close enough to make Héctor's hand ball into a fist. He asked her to wear something he hadn't seen before, and she didn´t disappoint. The dress makes her ass look fantastic, and the thin straps give him visions of sliding them down the slope of her shoulders with his teeth.

His attention isn't the only one she's managed to grab. And that won't do.

Before he gets ahead of himself and does something rash—like hex the leering bastard so hard he forgets what year it is—Héctor schools his features into the very definition of calm and approaches them.

“Pardon the interruption.”

They both look up. Florence's wearing that squint that's only for him.

She's annoyed.

Good.

So is he.

“Will this take much longer?” He's trying to be polite but even Héctor hears the edge in his voice. “We have a prior engagement.”

“And we have business to tend to before the boss´ audit next week.”

“Is that what you call looking down Florence's blouse and asking stupid questions even an intern could answer for an hour?”

“Héctor!” Florence may glare at him but she tugs at the neckline of her shirt regardless. Good.

“I wasn't—”

“Save it.” Pulling at the cuff of his shirt to keep himself from walking over and knocking his teeth off, he looks right at Florence. “Ready?”

If McFucker's face were any redder, he might mistake the idiot for a tomato. “We're not—”

Héctor clenches his jaw when Florence puts a hand on the twat´s arm.

“It's fine. We'll finish up the report before Monday. I'll email you my findings over the weekend."

The smile on McWanker´s face spreads like slime, slow and slick, as his eyes skim down to her chest, dipping well past the threshold for indecency.

“I look forward to hearing from you, Flo.”

His voice drops lower when he says her name. It sounds far more intimate than it should.

Héctor sees red.

The door to her office hasn't even shut when he grabs her wrist and hauls her into the storage closet. Héctor sure as fuck isn't going to go near any place that cocksucker touched.

“Bellerin!"

Pushing her against the nearest wall, he hauls her skirt up over her hips and presses himself against the length of her back. Florence turns her head, laying her cheek against the wall, and her hair falls over one shoulder.

He can't help but nip at her ear and tug at the lobe until she gasps.

“Do you want anyone else to touch you, Florence?”

Each breath she takes sounds like want, like lust, like need. It's music to his ears but not the song he wants her to sing.

Right now, he wants to hear her scream.

“Answer me.”

“N-no.” She squirms against the wall, rubbing her ass against the placket of his trousers.

He presses harder. Another nip. This time it's her neck his teeth latch onto, and it earns Héctor a louder groan. Better but not quite what he needs to hear from her. Still, he's grinding against her, wanting more but not yet, soothing the sting of his bite with his tongue.

Only to do it again.

Harder.

“Do you want to touch anyone else?”

The next noise he forces from Florence is just what he likes to hear, accompanied by her knees knocking together before he nudges them apart.

More of a nuisance than a decoration, he decides her dress must go. Now.

Héctor can hear her future complaint so he doesn't tear it off, no matter how badly he wants to. He wants to make her squirm, so he relishes each of her little huffs of breath as his fingers slide under the fabric.

“I asked you a question, Florence.”

He pulls the dress off completely before tossing it to the side. She's bare beneath, save for the lacy matching set and thigh-high stockings, and he feels his fists ball at the knowledge that McAsshole had a view of something that is for his eyes only.

“Do you want to touch anyone else?”

“No.”

“Louder.”

“No!”

“Say. It.”

“I don't want to—"

She gasps when he brings the flat of his palm down on her ass—hard.

Hard enough for her to jolt.

Héctor does it again.

Florence presses her forehead against the wall; her low moan sounds like some confluence of pain and pleasure. It blurs his vision, shreds his self-control, and when she arches back against him, he can't be fucked to wait a second longer.

Héctor has never been able to muster more than an ounce of patience in his entire life; he vanishes both his clothes and her matching set, then widens his stance and rocks his hips forward. His cock slides against her ass, and his teeth return to her earlobe.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Her breathy little whimper makes his cock twitch. “I – I don't want anyone else to touch me."

Fisting a hand in her curls, he pulls her head back against his shoulder. “And?”

“I don't want to touch anyone else.” It comes out in a single breath. “Please, please, I just—”

“I know.” He licks a line up the length of her neck. “You've been so good. Let me give you exactly what you need.”

And he does.

No matter how many times they've done this, Héctor can never get enough. Florence's cunt is hot and tight. It squeezes him like it's carved to fit the exact shape of his cock.

Her palms are flat against the wall and his hands wind around her front to squeeze the supple curves of her breasts.  

“Tell me how it feels when I fuck you like this.” He uses his grip as leverage, thrusting deep into her from behind. “Tell me how it feels to have your cunt stuffed so full of my cock you're gagging for air.”

Her answer sounds less like a word than some primal noise. It's obscene and all he can do is fuck her harder, faster—until her moan dies out and all he hears is her ragged breathing. Everything blurs into the sinful rhythm of their frantic fucking as it echoes in the small closet.

Héctor's not ready to come, but fuck if his body agrees.

“Who's going to make you scream, Florence?”

She whines.

He tries to slow down, tries to hold her hips and still her, but Florence is relentless, rocking back against his cock, demanding his release with every movement.

“Tell me who is going to make you come?”

Whatever control he has left is obliterated when she moans his fucking name.

Florence presses back and angles her hips, drawing him deeper, sinking to the hilt before moving in sharp circles. She's killing him and she fucking knows it, given the way she glances over her shoulder before pressing her cheek against the wall.

“Tell me you're mine.”

Curling his hands around her hips hard enough to bruise, he thrusts once, twice, and sinks his teeth into her neck the third time as he feels her cunt flutter around his cock.

“I - I´m yours.”

He can't stop himself from coming.

꒰ 🍒 ꒱  

Héctor doesn't like waking up alone when he knows damn well he didn't go to sleep like that.

His irritation spikes again when he spots Florence on his couch with a stack of papers and a pencil between her lips. She's dressed, and the only reason he doesn't complain further is because she's in one of his old Arsenal jerseys.  

No matter how enticing the sight of her in his clothes is, it isn't enough for Héctor to change his mind as he (not) accidentally spills the contents of her tea all over the papers she had on the coffee table.

Florence is on her feet within a second; her hair is wild and her eyes are murderous. “What the fuck was that, Bellerin?"

He smiles.

“The only thing on your agenda today is me. Let McDumbass figure out his own part of the group project. Something tells me you've done more than your fair share already."

“You're a menace. I needed—”

“Don't worry your pretty little head, Florence. I made duplicates last night while you were searching for the panties I had saved in my pocket.”

“That's what happened to them?" Florence's fists curl at her side. "Really, Bellerin?”

“As far as I'm concerned, you won't need them for the rest of the weekend. ”

“Oh?”

“I know you only penciled me in for Friday, but I've taken the liberty of blocking off your time until Monday morning.”

“Is that so? Florence bites her lip and looks up at him. “And how do you know I don't have a date or something?”

Héctor reminds himself that he isn't possessive, but the lie twists tight in his chest. “Because you're mine.”

When she smiles into his kiss, he doesn't need confirmation to know it's true.

a/n: as always, feedback and comments are greatly appreciated. you can read the rest of my works here. i´ve also been struggling a lot lately, so a friend of mine gave me the idea to set up a ko-fi. if you want to, you can send me a ko-fi here. 🫶🏻💘

[footballandshit]

[lxndonorris]

football masterlist //

Aaron Ramsey:

movie date (S)

fun at the pool (S)

sneak peek (S)

Alvaro Medran:

make the best of it (F)

André Silva:

rooftop snuggles (F)

thirsty (S)

habits of my heart (S)

cinderella (F)

Ben Chilwell:

special present (S)

hungry for you (S)

his jersey (S)

by your side (F)

Benjamin Pavard:

in your eyes (S)

Ben White:

morning shower (S)

Brahim Diaz:

first day training (F)

Declan Rice

Yoga (S)

naughty one (S)

Dominic Calvert-Lewin:

national pride (S)

Dries Mertens:

just a nightmare (F)

Eden Hazard:

my girl (S)

lazy boy (F)

Emre Can:

magic touch (S)

Eric Dier:

scaredy cat (F)

Harry Winks:

roses and foam (S)

Gianluca Frabotta:

selfie (F)

Héctor Bellerin:

pillow fight (F)

my favorite shape (S)

sleepy boy (S)

Jack Grealish:

 something in your pants (S)

thighs (S)

a mouthful of lust (S)

so tight (S)

Jadon Sancho:

first time’s song (S)

James Maddison:

new Joggers (S)

comforting warmth (F)

that’s mine (S)

Jannes Horn:

cuddly morning (S)

Jude Bellingham

new heights (S)

Kai Havertz

fiery red (S)

Kepa Arrizabalaga:

papito (S)

Konstantinos Mavropanos:

kiss the pain away (F)

Kylian Hazard:

soft, cuddly bear (F)

Leon Goretzka:

coffee date (F)

suit up (S)

teddy bear (AF)

warm heart (F)

inside the locker room (S)

Lorenzo Insigne:

Domenica (F)

Luca Zidane:

hoodie thief (F)

Lucas Hernandez:

Two for one (S)

bruises and scars (S)

Luka Jovic:

late night bath (S)

Manuel Neuer:

who’s in charge? (S)

Marc Bartra:

big guns (S)

confessions (S)

Marco Asensio:

a little teasing never killed nobody (S)

beach boy (S)

Marcos Llorente:

hips don’t lie (S)

Marcus Rashford:

lullaby (F)

striptease (S)

Mason Mount:

drunks tell the truth (S)

Memphis Depay:

inked (S)

mile-high club (S)

shower time (S)

Miroslav Klose:

who’s in charge? (S)

Munir El Haddadi:

those three words (F)

Olivier Giroud:

becoming reality (S)

Patrick Cutrone:

teach me a lesson (S)

Paulo Dybala:

nailing it (F)

Phil Foden:

revealing sight (S)

Robin Koch:

jealousy (S)

another type of dessert (S)

Roman Bürki:

valentine lovers kit (S)

aftermath (F)

Ruben Loftus-Cheek:

one night stand (S)

Theo Hernandez:

 Two for one (S)

dance for me (S)

Thorgan Hazard:

Lovefool (S)

booty boy (S)

Tyrone Mings:

nighttime struggles (AF)

[lukitalover]

happy b-day to héctor bellerin <333

[ladymarycrawley]

about who is this? i took a break from social media🙃

Are you referring to the post about Spainwt? It's posted by Héctor Bellerin

[unluckyhoneybee]

Héctor Bellerin in the "Saldremos mejores" podcast is an absolute gem

[xiiirouge]

Le pregunté a un amigo h*tero y al parecer se llama Héctor Bellerin, juega para el Betis de la liga española

@gomorrite esque ritualesque

[footballersinpsd]

Hector Bellerin in a black suit