#barou is NOT doing this

[izvmimi]

which one of your faves is most likely to attempt to deep fry a turkey and burn down your house?

[galaxynajma]

Barou I love you so much

[opalescentidiot]

[akiisks]

Biker Series pt. 1 for my first post!

[nessberry]

I love blue lock but you know how in that one episode/chapter of haikyuu when hinata goes to the training camp he wasn't invited to and it gives you such an overwhelming feeling of secondhand embarrassment you want to slam your head into the wall until you pass out and are finally free? That's how every single episode/chapter of blue lock makes me feel

[luvingshidou]

Ik I'm bored when I start making coquette bllk pfp 😭😭😭 seriously wtaf am I doing liek oml I'm acc just so bored at this point ughhhhghhh

I love them though🫶🫶🫶

[yrdnzz]

some barous for blacktober! this is literally the only thing i had time to draw this month ahhh im so sad :/ i'll try to do more in november tho!!

bonus that didn't make the cut:

[eevees-hobbies]

Your Killer Client - NSFW (Fem!Reader x Shoei Barou)

Synopsis: You need to ask for a raise because not only do you regularly have to deal with tom-foolery as a sports agent to egoist soccer players like Shoei Barou, but he also moonlights as a murderer. Girl, send the invoice now! Wait, you're into it...?

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Shoei Barou. DEAD DOVE WARNING. If you are uncomfortable with disturbing themes like murder, you should not read this. Murder w/no remorse & def. Not taken seriously by Reader (you and Shoei are NOT normal), Knifeplay, DubCon to be safe, Deification (treating someone as if they are a God), Unprotected Sex. Cursing. Minors Do Not Interact. || Word Count: 2.3K

Author’s Note: Heavily inspired by American Psycho, Scream, and Hip to Be Scared by Ice Nine Kills, so some quotes are nestled in there! This is for the "No, You Hang Up" Kinktober Ghostface Collab event. Reblogs & comments always appreciated.

Banner by me. Divider by @sister-lucifer

Why do all my clients have to live on the top floor of skyscrapers? I’ve been on this elevator for seven fucking minutes!

As one of the top sports agents in the industry, you’ve grown accustomed to the eccentricities of your clients: lavish penthouses, all-weekend sex parties that end up with a few broken hearts–never your clients, of course, and some not-so-flattering stories in the tabloids.

But right now, your focus is on the most unique client on your roster: world-renowned striker Shoei Barou. Sure, he often refers to himself as a “King,” which is odd and speaks to a deep-rooted ego problem, but the man is a force on the field. The endorsement deals never truly stop–being the villain is currently en vogue–and he pays really, really well. So to you, it’s all hail King Barou every fucking day.

As you step into his condo using your personal key after giving a few warning knocks but getting no response, you aren’t met with a simple hi, a gruff hello, or even a measly fucking grunt. No, you’re met with something far more exciting for a Wednesday!

“I fucked up bad.”

“I fucked up real fuckin’ bad.”

Shoei has his face buried in his palms; his bare shoulders are hunched tightly at his neck, and dried blood coats his hands and lower arms. 

That can’t be good for his posture, you think to yourself as you take inventory of the scene. Tipped-over cans of beer litter the pristine carpet, pizza boxes lay ajar, and the half-eaten pies are on the brink of becoming inedible as they sit out and harden from exposure to the cool air in the condo.

The mess is unlike him, but even more jarring is the body that’s splayed out, thick pools of dark-red blood coalescing around the nobody–god, you’re internal monologue sounds like Barou–and staining his pristine carpet. He doesn’t even let you wear shoes in his condo, but bleeding all over the place is fine apparently. 

“Y/N, you know I’m a bit fucking psychotic, but I’ve crossed the line, and I don’t think I’m going to get away with it this time.”

This time?

You find yourself oddly at peace with the scene. Sure, RIP to the poor sap laying in his own guts on the floor, but you’re actually more surprised Shoei hasn’t hurt someone sooner with his temper, and truth be told, you’ve seen much worse from some of your other clients. 

A sudden sniffle breaks you out of your thoughts, and you turn your head to the Barou, who looks so pitifully tiny hunched over as he sobs into his hands. “You aren’t crying, are you?” 

Your tone is rather harsh, and you mentally chastise yourself for your blunt delivery, but it’s too late–the question is already hanging laboriously in the air. Regardless, this is Barou! He curses you out practically every day and sends you a check with an obscene amount of dollar signs the next week! 

Barou peels his face out of his hands, his expression shifting between disturbance and disgust at your question.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who committed murder, not me.”

Shit. Maybe that was a beat too far because Barou rises quickly, his muscles rippling under his skin, tension coiled dangerously as he moves toward you with his hands clenched into tight fists. 

You don’t move because well, if this is your time to go, this is your time to go–you always knew it would be one of your clients, but you had clocked Ryusei as the one who was going to end you, not Barou. 

Huh, the universe is funny like that.

But Barou doesn’t swing or wrap his large hands around your throat; no, instead, he stops in front of you and sinks to his knees, those same hands that were used to take a man’s life grip at your dress in desperation.

“Please. I don’t want to go to jail. I still have championships to win and people to destroy.”

Of fucking course.

But fuck, seeing him on his knees like this stirs something in you–maybe it’s that you want to protect him or maybe you want to demand he lick a long stripe from your inner thighs to the seat of your panties since he’s already down there.

Focus.

You reach a pretty pedicured hand down, your nails digging into that well-defined jaw that’s justifiably earned him a full page spread in GQ magazine, and tilt his head upwards.

For a moment, you bask in the feeling that he’s looking up at you as though you’re someone to pray to–someone who can grant mercy and absolution for his sins. It’s fucking intoxicating being in this position and feeling like you hold his life in your hand because you undeniably do.

“Do you see what I am for you?” you whisper.

Crimson eyes stare up at you–big, pleading, desperate.

“I’m salvation,” you breathe in finality with only yourself, Shoei, and the dead nobody to bear witness.

He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he looks up at you. “You can help…?”

You give him a sideways glance, knowing that you’ve got him right where you want him. “Oh, I can do more than help, sweetie. I can fix it.” You let the word ‘fix’ sit weighty in the air, a silent understanding passing between you as he sighs, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll give you a massive bonus if you can, well, you know.” He motions to the body, his eyes darting away quickly.

You, being a person who takes initiative, are already reaching into your pocket to make a call to a ‘cleaner’ that you keep on retainer. But as your finger hovers over the call button, you spot something peculiar not too far from the body. When you came in, you thought it was a tarp, Shoei’s poor attempt at cleaning up the evidence of his crime, but as you croon your neck to get a better look, you realize that it’s too small to be a tarp. 

On the floor, discarded but an obvious eyesore in the perfectly curated space is a cloak, a knife, and a….what the fuck? Is that a mask?

You walk over to the discarded costume, being careful to step over the body because you’ll be damned if you’re implicated in this mess, and nudge the mask with the toe of your heel. It’s a fucking Ghostface mask. How….macabre.

Shoei must feel the judgment flowing from your pores because he’s instantly sneering and hovering near you, his arm brushing against yours in what feels oddly intimate, considering the circumstances.  

“I didn’t want to kill him and get his blood all over my clothes, so I put on my Halloween costume to finish him off.”

“Do I want to know what you fought over?”

“Would it matter?”

You open your mouth to reply, but you pause because you realize that it doesn’t matter–even though you’re standing over a dead body and unreasonably close to his killer, you’re also painfully aware of the heat emitting from Shoei, the scent of his sweat–because killing someone is undoubtedly hard work–and the soft node of his cologne as it fills your nostrils.

And strangely, you’ve never been more turned on.

“What was it like? Killing him, I mean?”

Shoei turns to you, a flicker of surprise and something else–lust, perhaps–shining in his eyes. He pauses for a beat, studying your face to gauge your intentions before he answers. 

“I’ve never felt more powerful in my life.”

As he continues to speak, you notice the way his jaw clenches slightly, his adams apple bobbing as he recounts how he felt during the murder, and the distinct tent growing in his sweats.

“I thought being the king on the field, crushing people’s dreams and making them realize that I’m actually the main character in their own pathetic lives was fucking amazing, but slicing him up and seeing him choke on his own blood as I fucking finished a slice of pizza was the best I’ve felt in ages.”

And to the best of your knowledge, Shoei isn’t a liar. That answer was so honest that it was almost endearing.

Your eyes wander to the knife at your feet. The blood is thicker than what you’d imagine it to be–not that you spend time sitting around imagining blood-stained weapons. You bend down, pick up the knife, and examine it, holding it only inches from your face.

“It’s heavier than I expected,” you muse aloud. You bring the knife up to your neck, holding the blade to your throat, tilting your head back to avoid any knicks but still enough to feel the sticky, cold liquid smudge against the thundering pulse located in the column of your throat.

“That’s not how you hold it. If you aim the blade too high, you risk hurting them, but they won’t bleed out. You gotta hold it down; it gives you the best chance for a clean kill. Let me show you.” 

He wraps his hand around yours, guiding the knife in a way that does make sense–the new angle gives you a far better grip, and you realize that if you move even an inch, you risk cutting yourself.

“You know an awful lot about cutting throats, Barou.” 

He stiffens behind you. In that moment, something in the room shifts–as though the mask of sanity he was wearing, and has always worn, has slipped off to reveal something far more dangerous.

Shoei’s lips press against the shell of your ear, and his husky purr reverberates through your very bones. 

“Maybe a little.” 

You feel his other hand travel to your hip as he removes the knife from your palm and holds it in front of your face. It doesn’t exactly feel like a threat, but just as much as Shoei’s pulse beats slow in high-stress situations, so does yours because you’ve always been a bit different, too.

Your phone still in your hand feels like lead, heavy but useless, as he pulls it from your grip and tosses it to the couch. 

“I don’t think you understand how much I like my freedom, Y/N. I don’t think you understand how important it is to me that you appreciate the sanctity of our relationship and not make any assumptions about what I have–or haven’t done–before.” He brings the knife closer to your lips, smearing the blood across them as if you’re wearing candy-apple red lipstick.

“Discretion is my specialty,” you whisper, tongue darting out to taste the blood.

Shoei groans, his large frame pressing into you as he guides you to the arm of his couch, bending you over and splaying a large hand across the small of your back. 

“You’ve always been so good to me. Why have we never…?” As he speaks, he’s hiking up your skirt. His touch feels strangely reverent, and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the nature of your relationship or because you now know way too much about each other. 

Shoei’s eyes narrow as he spots your underwear–a pesky barrier he plans to eliminate in the most efficient way he knows how. He brings the knife up to the cool cheeks of your ass, dragging the tip of the blade against your skin and leaving red whelps that threaten to bleed if he uses a bit more pressure.

“We’ve never fucked because you’re kind of a dick.”

“True,” he mumbles as he pulls the fabric of your panties and cuts through them until the garment sits against your skin but no longer covering any inch of you that matters. 

You let out a breathy moan as you can feel the tip of his cock nudging against the ring of your cunt, stretching you out deliciously until he snaps his hips, fully sheathing himself into your heat. His hand reaches under you as he presses at your pelvis, feeling where he can feel himself pushing inside of you.

He’s not gentle as he takes you, but you don’t need him to be. You want him as he is: perfect, godly, everything. 

“You’re not going to scream? Most people would call me inhuman for what I’ve done.”

“No, I actually think you’re more in touch with your humanity than you think, Barou. You’re just capable of doing what others can’t because you’re a God.”

And you’re not just saying that because there’s an alleged–because innocent until proven guilty and all that jazz–serial killer deep in your guts right now. You’ve known it for some time–that Shoei is everything that he says he is–a king, a God, the main character in everyone’s world, including yours.

You can’t take your eyes off the body on the floor as Shoei guides your hips in the way he likes–angling his own to drag his cock against your walls, verbally praising your cunt for how she’s gripping him. “You’re a fucking freak. You’re so fucking wet; I’m not going to last long with her sucking me off like this.”

His fingers thread through your hair, forcing your head back so he can look at your face as he molds your cunt into the shape of his cock. “Fuck, look at you taking care of me like a good little sports agent.” He throws his head back with a low, guttural moan, lost in the feeling of you and how you make him feel–powerful.

His thighs tense, his abs flexing as he gets closer to the edge, but at the last minute, he pulls out warm thick ropes of his cum, shooting onto your ass. After a few low groans, he smacks your ass and tucks himself back in his pants.

“So, you going to call those people to come and fix this?”

“Yeah,” you say as you stand up, straightening yourself out. “But I’m going to need another bonus for that.”

@interstellar-inn @pixelcafe-network @hayatoseyepatch

[mrsoharaa]

You're at one of Barou's games, watching intently and cheering on for your hard-working and intensely focused man strutting fiercely throughout the vast field in between of his opponents. So lost in your supporting chants and cheers, you almost forget there were a group of girls standing right next to you doing the same...for him as well.

"Woo! you got this Barou!!"

"He's so hot! even the way he runs is so attractive!"

"Have you seen that back when he took off his shirt?!"

"He's sooo yummy! god I want to eat him up!"

Though, you consistently kept reminding yourself their little thirst spurts meant absolutely nothing to you, you couldn't help feel that bubbling fuel of infuriation and jealousy seep through your skin. Furrowed brows skimming over to the group of shameless, thirst quenching women gawking at your man.

So when the game finally came to it's end and you scour through the ocean of people through the parking lot in search for your winning, hunk of a boyfriend — you had spotted the same group of women that had drooled all over Barou from the midst of the crowd.

You run up to him, making sure you knew that they were watching and hungrily captured his salty plush lips with your own. Both hands cupping his heated face with a vice and your greedy tongue lunging down the back of his throat in a swift of a motion. Normally he would get too crudish and off-putted with your excessive PDA, but with how needy and insistent you were with your encouraged tongue, who was he to deny his bold queen of her assertive direct affections.

You turn slightly to grin victoriously, as you watch the group of girls faces drop into a mount of despair and defeat. Obvious linger of searing jealousy and disgust shrouding over their petty faces.

And after moments of a torrid, messy make out session in the sea of crowding bodies, you both part lips and inhale for a waft of needed air. Your fingers somehow finding themselves deep in the spiky dark tresses that laid upon his crown, tugging and weaving ever so intricately yet gently.

He glances down at you with perched brows, sweat still sticking along his golden skin. Both hands propped onto your hips, his personal bag lunged over his right broad shoulder.

"What was this all about woman? a congratulatory kiss or somethin'?" he retorts playfully, a matching smirk curling to his daunting tone.

You simply hum, utterly satisfied with the way the group of women had carried themselves defeatedly through the swarm of loitering and chattering people. His fingers sloping along your curves, noting your piercing, winning gaze leering ever so intently at the moping group of women. He rolls his eyes and elicits a deadpan chuckle, bringing your face back to meet his.

"So that kiss wasn't for me huh?" he confronts with a hint of lilt in his almost jealous tone, you gradually, smugly smile up at him. Draping your arms around his neck as you lean up onto your tip toes, fingers still lacing in between each damped raven strand.

"Of course it was 'Rou! I just needed to...prove a point" you toy witfully, he snorts to your remark, gazing back over to the muttering group of women still sharply peering over to you (at your back). Their demeanor changing immediately when they notice his gaze turn onto them, momentarily.

"Tch"

"How many times do I need to prove to you that you're literally the only person that I want?" he flattens his wide palm amongst the small of your back, pushing you up against his burly stature, lips fiercely pressing against yours in a heated frenzy. Lidded irises of sheer possessiveness and warning looming over to the same gasping group of women.

That should get the point across.

[chodzacaparodia]

♡ Happy Valentines with Blue Lock Boys ♡

Link Click's Valentine's cards

[m1ckeyb3rry]

my favs looking glorious and magnificent in the new chapter per usual 🙏🏻 gobbling up the nagi crumbs as we get them because it’s been too long since we saw him last in full 😩 and ngl i’m surprised karasu was used as an example because he hasn’t been as much of a main character as the others used to illustrate the point but i am NOT complaining

[nagiseal]

more twitter requests

[giggly-squiggily]

Making It A Big Deal (Blue Lock)

Okay listen- I know I said I wasn't planning on writing anything this week, and normally I don't write character birthday fics (on their actual birthdays) cause your girl can't remember them half the time- but it's CHIGIRI! My literal son- my darling boy; my precious baby! I had to! Anyway happy Birthday Chigiri Hyoma! (December 23)

Summary: Chigiri fails to mention it's his birthday. His friends find out anyway.

Chigiri knew what was coming when he came in after his evening bath.

“Get his ass.” Barou growled.

He just didn’t think it would actually happen.

“Whoa- what? AH!” The redhead tried to run, but his exit was quickly blocked by Reo. Seconds later, he was ambushed, hurdled in by bodies as he was picked up and tossed gently onto the nearest bed. “Wait, wait, hold on- what’s happening?”

“You son of a biscuit eating bulldog!” Isagi growled, yet his eyes and smile betrayed any real anger. “Just how long were you planning on keeping today a secret?”

Huh? What- oh. Chigiri averted his gaze, cheeks warming up at being caught. “Uh..”

“Aha! You weren’t planning on telling us at all, were you?” Bachira cried, poking an accusatory finger into his cheek. “How cruel of you, Missy.”

“I’d say! Why wouldn’t you tell us today was your birthday?” Reo demanded from his spot overhead, pulling Chigiri’s arms up. “If I knew, I would have planned something! You know I’m really good at planning things. Even your introverted ass would have liked it!”

“It’s not really a big deal-”

“Not a big deal?” A chorus of voices cried out. Even Nagi sounded shocked at such a statement. “Dude, it’s your freaking birthday! You’re turning- hey how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen! Dancing queen!” Isagi exclaimed, the rest of the boys around him nodding in solemn agreement. “You gotta feel the beat on the tambourine!”

“What…?” Chigiri blinked, suddenly lost. Nagi tsked, clicking his tongue.

“This is a hassle. Let’s tickle him.”

“Yeah!” A chorus of cheers drowned out Chigiri’s “Wait!” Before long the redhead was a mess, squirming the best he could with several hands on him. Isagi and Bachira poked and prodded at his ribs as Barou squeezed his thighs. Nagi snuck a few lazy fingers into his neck while Reo pinned his wrists with his knees, tracing his biceps with featherlike touches.

“Cohohoohohme ohohohohohon! Aheahhahahaha, thhiihihis is buhuhuhuhllshihihihihihit!” Chigiri pleaded through his squeaky giggles and laughs, trying to hide his face in his arm with little coverage. “Lehehehhet me uhuhuhuhp, my hahahahair’s stihihihill wehehehehehhet! Aheahhahahahaha!”

“It’ll dry by the time we’re done. Think of it as a new hairstyle- the tickle-tousled!” Isagi told him sweetly, playing his ribs like a piano. “Wouldn’t that look nice, Bachira?”

“Oo, I like it! Of course, Missy looks pretty in just about anything.” The dribbler agreed, digging a thumb into Chigiri’s hip and earning a squeal. “Oo, bad spot?”

“Nah, this is!” Barou called from behind, worming a few fingers behind both of Chigiri’s knees, mindful of his injury. “This’ll teach you for being such a brat!”

“It’s his birthday- let him be bratty.” Reo chided with a snicker, clawing at the redhead’s armpits and making him scream. “We can use it as a reason to keep tickling him.”

“Say Happy Birthday, princess.” Nagi gave up on tickling his neck in favor of taking a group selfie, making sure to get everyone’s smiling face in frame. “This one’s for the books.”

“Nohohohoho, dohohohohn’t tahhahake pihihihctuuuhuhuhres! Aheahhahaha, pleaheehahhahase!” Chigiri begged, lungs starting to ache from how hard he was laughing. His face felt so hot he swore steam must have been rising from it, yet he couldn’t say he wasn’t having fun. His birthday being so close to Christmas oftentimes meant a small yet quick celebration between preparing for friends and family visits. To have such attention on it was a rare yet incredibly pleasant experience.

“Hehe, okay okay- let’s give the birthday boy a breather, yeah? Can’t have him die before he’s old enough to drink.” Isagi signaled for everyone to stop, gifting the redhead much needed air. Chigiri hugged himself as he curled into a loose ball, giggling against the pillow as his friends laughed and cooed at him. “King- did you get it?”

“Of course I did, donkey. Who the hell do you think I am?” Chigiri didn’t know what “It” was- he was far too focused on the feeling of Bachira gently combing fingers through his hair, undoing any tangles. Reo and Nagi eased him into a sitting position to find..

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” They chorused, singing off-key while a convenience store cake sat before him. On top of it was a slightly melted ‘17’, the flame dancing gently at the tip. “Happy birthday, dear Hyoma! Happy birthday to you!” They cheered, and Chigiri suddenly felt like crying for all the right reasons.

“Quick, blow the candle out before Ego-sensei finds out!” Bachira encouraged, earning a wet laugh from the redhead as he did just that. A series of spoons came next as they dug in, taking bites and bantering about with one another.

“Did you make a wish?” Nagi asked from his left, voice soft against the rest of their friend’s chatter. “Don’t tell me- it won’t come true if you say it outloud.”

“I did.” Chigiri nodded around his spoon, smiling when Reo threw an arm around him from his right. “I don’t need to worry about that- it already came true.”

“Awwww!” They chorused obnoxiously, making him blush and laugh in his hands.

He was so, so grateful to have friends like this.

Thanks for reading! :D

[bamboo-bees]

Please. Please be nice to him

[animentality]

metavision is super boring as an ability because all it means is that the character must now yap about everything they see for an entire chapter.

I wish someone with a visually interesting skill was the protagonist. I might as well read a novel, listening to Isagi chatter.

[suedesides]

✨hey blue lock fandom do you like chigiri✨