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AI artwork featuring #Blue Lock and #Bachira Meguru

Bachira Meguru, Blue Lock

Published on Nov 10, 2026

Izanagi

character: bachira_meguru, artist: blackwhiplash, copyright: blue_lock from behind, ass focus, 2girls?, no wait — 1girl 1boy, bachira meguru, multicolored hair, blonde hair, black hair, two-tone hair, short hair, yellow eyes, femboy, slim waist, wide hips, thick fat sexy butt, twerking, shaking hips, dancing, bent over, arched back, looking back, looking at another, open mouth, grin, tongue out, blush, long sleeves, jewelry, locker room, from behind, from below, dutch angle, cowboy shot, ass focus, large butt, thick thighs, blackwhiplash style, thick linework, heavy shading, exaggerated proportions The camera sits low behind and slightly to the left of Bachira, tilted a few degrees off level so the locker bank climbs diagonally out of frame at the top right — a from-behind, from-below cowboy shot in which his rear fills the lower half of the picture and his turned head reads small and bright over his own shoulder. Bachira is doubled forward at the hips, weight carried on the balls of both feet with heels lifted and knees bent and pressed together, spine arched so his short two-tone hair — blonde falling over black — hangs forward across his brow and swings with the motion; his chin is cranked around to the right, yellow eyes hooked back over his shoulder onto Isagi, one brow up, mouth open in a loose laughing grin with the tongue just showing at the corner, a hot blush across both cheeks. Both his hands are braced flat on his own knees, fingers spread and pressing dents into the fabric, elbows locked; the long-sleeved shirt is rucked up and pulled taut across his back and rides high at the waist, and the loose hem of his shorts is dragged upward by the movement so the thick weight of his hips and the fat curve of his rear read full and exaggerated in the low light. Isagi stands in the midground at the right, half-turned toward the frame, one hand still on the open locker door and the other stalled halfway to his own collar, caught mid-motion, staring straight at Bachira with wide eyes, mouth slightly parted, a visible swallow at his throat and a flush rising from his neck. The lockers run in a receding row behind them — scuffed pale metal, one door hanging ajar at an angle, damp towels slung over the top edge, a wooden bench crossing the foreground at knee height with a discarded jersey pooling on it. A single row of caged ceiling lamps down the room's centerline is the only light: it strikes Bachira's raised back and the tops of his shoulders and hips, drops a blunt dark shadow beneath him on the tile, and leaves the far end of the locker room in unlit brown-black; cool fluorescent white with a faint green cast, warm skin and yellow eyes the only warm notes against grey metal, dark teal shadow and the pale cream of the shirts. Moisture from the showers beads on the metal and one thin trickle of water runs the length of the tile grout toward the drain, the only thing in the room still moving. Effortlessly lewd, charged.

Bachira Meguru, Blue Lock

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