#Big Ten Conference

[dhart4214]

A BASEBALL & SOFTBALL DIAMOND ODYSSEY

CHECKING OUT BASEBALL AND SOFTBALL GAMES AT VARIOUS LEVELS AROUND LOS ANGELES’ WESTSIDE I hadn’t done this since 2018 – before the COVID-19 pandemic – when I went to see various baseball and softball games in the L.A. area, including at USC’s Dedeaux Field in addition to UCLA’s Jackie Robinson Stadium. But since the pandemic more or less died down with things in the sports universe pretty much…

[justinssportscorner]

Iowa's Caitlin Clark broke the NCAA D-I basketball scoring record previously held by Pete Maravich, regardless of gender. Clark did so on the 2nd free throw via a technical foul from Ohio State.

[bongaboi]

Michigan: 2024-25 Big Ten Men's Basketball Champions

Both Michigan and Wisconsin clearly showed signs of fatigue from playing their third day in a row. Big Ten basketball is rugged, and the wear of playing three consecutive days clearly showed. The battle tested Wolverines still found a way to win by a score of 59-53, capturing the Big Ten Tournament Championship to cap off an amazing run.

Shooting was abysmal and point-blank layups were less than guaranteed for most of the game. With their legs fatigued, both teams shot poorly from deep and the halftime score of 23-21 told the whole story. And while those struggles continued in the second half, it was the Wolverines who ultimately made enough plays to secure the win.

Here are three takeaways from Michigan's Big Ten Tournament Championship victory over Wisconsin:

The win may not affect Michigan for the NCAA Tournament

Michigan was predicted as the last 4-seed in the tournament prior to the Big Ten Championship game. Most pundits agreed that, regardless of the result, Michigan would stay in that 4-seed spot. They could sneak into a 3-spot with the win, but that seems unlikely. One of the biggest positives of the tournament run is the Wolverines staying healthy. Duke saw two of their stars suffer injuries in their conference tournament. Going into the NCAA tournament healthy is critical for a team like Michigan with less bench depth.

Vlad Goldin and Danny Wolf have to be willing to take over

While fatigue was certainly a factor, Goldin and Wolf struggled mightily in the first half of this game. Michigan will have a tough time putting together a deep run in the NCAA tournament if that becomes a consistent issue. Goldin missed quite a few point-blank shots, and Wolf seemed lost and out of rhythm in the first half. For teams to make a deep run in the NCAA Tournament, the stars have to perform and be willing to take over. Hopefully, after some rest, Goldin and Wolf can get back to dominating.

Three-point shooting remains an issue

Wisconsin shot under 20 percent from three and Michigan was not much better shooting below 30 percent. Elite guard play and timely three-point shooting are a key aspect to NCAA Tournament success, and the Wolverines have struggled as of late from behind the arc. Again, fatigue was a factor in this game and some rest could mitigate much of that in the coming days. The maize and blue certainly have some capable three-point shooters in Donaldson, Burnett and even Wolf. If they can rest and reset before the NCAA Tournament, that three-point prowess could propel a deep run.

Michigan struggled in close games early in the season. But those struggles turned into a strength in the latter half of the season, as the Wolverines became comfortable in close games and consistently made the right plays at the right time to pull out victories. Going into the NCAA Tournament, all of those close games will bode well for the the maize and blue. Big Ten Tournament Champions once again, an amazing first year for new head coach Dusty May continues.

[news4usonline]

No. 1 UCLA has its groove back

(News4usOnline) – There’s nothing like the fury of a head coach after an embarrassing defeat. The UCLA Bruins felt the wrath of head coach Cori Close after they found themselves on the losing end of a 80-67 score to crosstown USC in the final game of the regular season on March 1.  “I’m just really pissed off. We didn’t show up and do our jobs,” Close said during the postgame press conference.…

[baddawgsports]

Big Ten Conference and Chicago Cubs Partner for The Frozen Confines: Big Ten Hockey Series

College hockey continues to push boundaries and create exciting matchups in large outdoor venues. The latest announcement comes from the Big Ten Conference who will host 3 men and 1 women’s hockey matches at Wrigley Field. The Big Ten Conference and the Chicago Cubs announced today plans to host a pair of college hockey doubleheaders at Wrigley Field in January 2025. The event will be known…

[jcamilov06]

Emeka Egbuka's touchdown vs. ❌ichigan Wolverines | November 25th, 2023

[anygivengameday]

#14 Minnesota Duluth Bulldogs at #6 Minnesota Golden Gophers

Friday, November 3, 2023

3M Arena at Mariucci, Minneapolis, MN

[offsidenewsco]

Have you ever wondered about NCAA Hockey? What's the Frozen Four? How do the rankings work? What players have played through the system?

We've got you covered in our primer here

[ilovolderman]

Hiding in Plain Sight

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You and Bucky sneak away for a secret rooftop date

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: secret relationship, fluff, nosy teammate (guess who), taylor swift 🤭

A/N: this is part 3 of a little series, but you can totally read it on its own. i poured a bit too much of myself into this one, and it’s my favorite so far. you can check here: part 1 & part 2. hope you like it and please let me know if maybe you would like a part 4.

It starts with a note—folded twice, slipped under your door, and written in Bucky’s ridiculously neat handwriting:

“Mission briefing: Meet me on the roof at 8. Wear that hoodie I like. Bring your appetite. Everyone’s out tonight. – B.”

You grin like an idiot and stash the note in your pocket, heart fluttering.

At exactly 8, you sneak through the halls of the compound like a very suspicious ninja, hoodie up, steps quiet. You take the service stairs two at a time, and when you push open the rooftop door, the city lights bloom around you like fireflies.

Bucky’s already there. You sit down next to him on the blanket, legs folded beneath you as Bucky hands you a burger wrapped in foil. He’s already grinning before you even open it.

“You didn’t,” you say, suspicious.

“I did,” he says proudly. “Double Cheesezilla. Extra onion rings. No tomatoes. Just how you like it.”

You squint at him. “Okay, first of all, you remembered that? Second of all, are you trying to seduce me with a burger right now?”

He leans in, eyes twinkling. “Is it working?”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Unfortunately, yes.”

For a while, you eat in a comfortable silence. The breeze is warm, and the city lights glitter below like scattered stars. He passes you fries and steals a sip of your milkshake, acting like he didn’t just order the same thing.

Then his voice breaks the quiet.

“Y’ever think about what it’d be like if we didn’t have to sneak around?”

You glance over at him, chewing slowly. “You mean like… just be open about this?”

“Yeah. No more crawling out windows or hiding in broom closets or pretending I didn’t order you three milkshakes last week.”

You smile. “To be fair, I think Tony already found out, when you asked FRIDAY to play Taylor Swift over the speakers in the kitchen.”

“I panicked, okay?” he laughs, covering his face with his hand. “You left and I missed you.”

You blink. “I was gone for ten minutes.”

“Felt like hours.”

You feel your heart stutter in the best way. He’s not always this open—usually it takes a bit of teasing to get him to admit how he feels. But here, now, under the stars and above the city, he’s soft.

“I like this,” you say quietly. “Even if we have to sneak. It’s kind of… ours. Like this little world no one else gets to see.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second, then nods. “I like it too. Not just because it’s secret. But because it’s you.”

Your cheeks heat up. You look away, but he’s already watching you with that look again—that look like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“You know,” you say, trying to lighten the mood before your heart explodes, “if someone catches us again, I am not hiding in a broom closet. You’re too big and you stepped on my foot like four times.”

“I told you, I was trying to make space for you!”

“There was no space, Bucky.”

“Well then next time,” he says, shifting closer, his voice dropping, “we’ll hide somewhere better.”

“Like?”

He smirks. “Like under the table in the conference room."

You gape. “You’re insane.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning too hard to make it convincing. “You realize that under the conference table is, like, the opposite of discreet, right?”

Bucky shrugs, totally unbothered. “Not if we’re quiet.”

You scoff. “You? Quiet? You’re literally 200 pounds of muscle and metal.”

He grins and leans back on his hands, all confidence. “I’m surprisingly stealthy when I’m motivated.”

You toss a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth, smug as hell.

“I can’t believe I’m dating you,” you say, half-laughing, half-swooning, when suddenly you hear the rooftop door creak.

You jolt upright.

“Go,” Bucky whispers urgently, already helping you gather the soda cups and tuck the food wrappers under the blanket.

You scramble behind one of the big industrial vents, crouching low just as the door swings open.

“Barnes?” Sam’s voice echoes through the rooftop. “Why does it smell like fries and secret feelings up here?”

“Barnes?” Sam’s voice cuts through the night. “Why does it smell like french fries and teenage romance up here?”

Bucky clears his throat and leans back like he’s been chilling here all along. Totally not on a secret date. Totally not with his heart still racing from kissing you.

“Hey,” he says coolly. “Didn’t know you were coming up.”

Sam steps out, eyeing the scene. The fairy lights. The two cups. The suspiciously rumpled blanket. The very not-Bucky playlist still going in the background.

“Uh-huh,” Sam says. “You always hang out up here listening to Taylor Swift?”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “It’s… connected to Y/N’s phone.”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“She was showing me a playlist earlier,” Bucky lies smoothly. “Must’ve accidentally left it on Bluetooth. You know how it is. One second you’re listening to Metallica, next thing you know, boom—Swiftie central.”

“Right,” Sam says, slowly circling the blanket like he’s collecting evidence for a crime scene. “And the two soda cups?”

“She drinks a lot of water,” Bucky deadpans.

“The fries?”

“I was hungry."

“The pink lighter?”

Bucky hesitates. “It’s… mine?”

Sam gives him a look. “Man, you are the worst liar I’ve ever met. Even Steve was better and his idea of subtlety was a trench coat and sunglasses.”

Bucky shrugs, trying to hold back the grin tugging at his mouth. “What do you want me to say, Sam?”

“I wanna know why Taylor’s singing about soulmates and there’s a literal picnic blanket up here.”

Before Bucky can answer, the speaker clicks into the next song: Enchanted.

Sam’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t,” Bucky warns.

Sam’s smile spreads. “This night is sparkling, don’t you let it go…”

“I will throw you off this roof.”

“I’m wonderstruck, blushin’ all the way home—”

Bucky stands up. Sam bolts for the door, laughing all the way down the stairs.

You and Bucky exchange a look, as soon as you leave your hiding place, trying not to laugh.

“Should’ve locked the damn door,” Bucky mutters.

You smile, brushing your hand against his. “Still worth it.”

He squeezes your fingers gently. “Definitely.”

You close the space between you with a soft kiss, slow and warm, the kind that makes you feel like maybe the world really does stop spinning for a second. When you pull back, his eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

Then—

“FRIDAY, please tell me you’re not watching this,” you mutter.

“Not at all,” the AI replies blandly, “but Mr. Stark is wondering why the rooftop cameras are mysteriously malfunctioning.”

You and Bucky exchange a look.

“…Run?” you suggest.

“Run,” he agrees.

You grab the blanket and the fries, and he grabs your hand, and you both sprint for the stairs laughing like idiots.

next part

[dhart4214]

OMAHA BOUND! UCLA Baseball Earns Its Sixth College World Series Berth

Bruins celebrating the moment their College World Series ticket was punched. Photo courtesy of x.com IN CASE YOU MISSED IT (sorry it’s a tiny bit late): FROM WORST TO FIRST! From 19 wins and a last place finish in their last season in the Pac-12 Conference to 47 wins and a co-championship in their first season in the Big Ten Conference! After what everyone considered a very sub-par season in…

[justinssportscorner]

Alex Kirshner at Slate:

The Pac-12 Conference, which started in 1915 as the Pacific Coast Conference and donned a bunch of names over a successful century of Western teams playing games with each other, is dead. After USC and UCLA exited for the Big Ten last summer, and after Colorado headed for the Big 12 last month, the conference took on additional water on Friday: Oregon and Washington, the Pac-12’s biggest remaining fish, joined their Los Angeles counterparts in the Big Ten. The Big 12 Conference is now also adding Arizona, Arizona State, and Utah, news that broke just minutes after the Pacific Northwest schools decided to join the Midwest. The future is deeply murky for the biggest schools left in the Pac-12 now, Stanford and Cal in the Bay Area. And it looks only grim for two of the quirkiest and most fun programs in college football: Oregon State and Washington State, who are losing their blood rivals (Oregon and Washington) to another league but aren’t getting the call to decamp themselves. The specifics will fall into place in the days ahead. The big picture is already a bleak one. The degradation of the Pac-12, and now its imminent outright death as anything like what it has always been, is a college sports tragedy. In some part, this moment is a natural destination for a train that left its station decades ago and will run over more of college sports’ nice old things in the years to come. But what has happened to the Pac-12 wasn’t inevitable and certainly didn’t need to unfold as quickly as it did. What college sports fans know as the Conference of Champions is at death’s door because of cold, hard capitalism, yes, but also because the people in charge of stewarding the Pac-12 were the wrong mix of arrogant and incompetent.

College sports has been transmogrifying into a made-for-TV product since the mid-1980s, when the Supreme Court stripped the NCAA of its top-down control of football television rights and left teams and conferences to make their own agreements. As one cycle of gigantic TV deals has given way to the next, the Pac-12 has slid into a more pronounced disadvantage against its peers in the South and Midwest. College football is a religion in the Southeastern Conference’s footprint and in much of the Big Ten’s, though the latter now covers both the parts of the country obsessed with football and the parts that are not. The Big Ten and SEC have lucrative TV networks of their own that they run in partnership with ESPN and Fox, and the leagues sell the rights to broadcast their games—their inventory, in industry parlance—for hundreds of millions of dollars. The financial edge of the big two leagues cost the Pac-12 both UCLA and USC in a realignment move to the Big Ten last summer, and the same edge has now cost them Oregon and Washington to render the Pac-12 unrecognizable. When those schools left, three others fled in response to the Big 12, and suddenly, it was all over. The Northwestern Big Ten entrants might only get half the money of a normal Big Ten member, but that will be more than they were likely to get if they had stayed in the outgunned Pac-12. Someone might look at the TV cash disparity and conclude the Pac-12 never had a chance to survive. But the Pac-12’s predicament is worse than simply not being able to compete financially with the Big Ten and SEC. The world was big enough for the league to survive in a reasonably strong form anyway, as a secondary but still powerful conference with a distinct Western identity. The reason the Pac-12 is instead finished is that its leaders messed up repeatedly and gruesomely until they couldn’t blow it anymore.

[...] All of this adds up to something a little less severe than the death of Western college football, because the teams involved will keep playing games. Fans will keep tailgating, their lives mostly unaffected by how much TV money their alma maters are raking in. But the reduction or demise of the Pac-12 will have serious costs. It could end either the Washington–Washington State rivalry known as the Apple Cup or the Oregon–Oregon State game that they used to call the Civil War. (The departing schools say they’ll prioritize maintaining those games, and we can only hope that stays true forever.) It will weaken the geographic distinction in a sport that used to see provincialism as a feature, not a bug. And it will pit schools against teams they share no history or animus with, in an 18-team Big Ten (at least) where some teams will go years without playing each other. They’ll all be richer. There is no guarantee that they, or anyone, will be happier.

The demise of the Pac-12 was entirely avoidable. USC and UCLA's defections to the Big Ten (B1G) were the warning shot of P12's demise; however, the conference still could have been in a manageable shape.

But when Colorado hightailed it back to the Big 12, the dominoes began to really unravel for the Pac-12's survival. Arizona, Arizona State, and Utah joined Colorado to the Big 12, and Washington and Oregon went to the B1G, leaving behind Washington State, Oregon State, Cal, and Stanford in a rudderless P12.

In truth, the Pac-12's disaster began with the Pac 12 Networks, and will end with messes.

[bongaboi]

Illinois: 2023-24 Big Ten Men's Basketball Champions

The Illinois Fighting Illini apparently have their recipe for success in the playoffs.

It's quite simple: Fall behind by double-digits in the second half, turn up the defensive pressure and ride the hot hand of guard Terrence Shannon.

That was the case for a third straight game in the Big Ten tournament at Target Center in Minneapolis. This time, they rallied from 10 to defeat the Wisconsin Badgers 93-87 to capture their second conference title since 2021. Guard Terrence Shannon led the way with 34 points, completing one of the best performances in tournament history.

He averaged 34 points in three games, including a career-high 40 in the semifinals against Nebraska.

The Illini trailed 61-51 with 14:38 left before they began another big charge. A 7-0 run highlighted a Dain Dainja dunk, Shannon layup and 3-pointer by Marcus Domask put them ahead 70-65. Shannon then capped it with a deep 3-pointer with 1 minute, 26 seconds remaining. They shot 60 percent in the second half.

It wasn't just Shannon. Domask finished with 26 points on 8 of 11 shooting. He was also 9 of 10 from the free throw line.

It was the eighth win in nine games for the Illini. The only loss was to No. 2 Purdue, a game they had every chance to win. Now, the Illini roll into the NCAA Tournament oozing with momentum.

They should enter no lower than a No. 3 seed.

[news4usonline]

UCLA, USC hoops rivalry is good

(News4usOnline) – Two of the best women’s college basketball teams in the country play in Southern California. Yes, that’s right. UCLA and USC are two of the best squads in the country.  What a way to kick off Women’s History Month than with two of the premier women college basketball teams giving us a preview of the greatness that belies both squads. Before diving into the Big Ten Conference…

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (2/2) | meeting the family

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, yuki tsunoda, isack hadjar, and liam lawson + special feature franco colapinto and lance stroll (click here for part one) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : your formula one boyfriend meeting your seemingly "normal" family

୨ৎ : genre : comedy ୨ৎ : word count : 2661

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : surprisingly this 10k event isn't overwhelming.. it's such a good downtime from having to study for finals >.<

ʚ・kimi antonelli

kimi stood at your door holding a pie.

a literal pie.

“i didn’t know what to bring,” he mumbled. “my mom said pie is safe.”

you blinked. “you baked?”

“supervised.”

he was already flushed before your family even answered the door. when your dad opened it, kimi stood straighter than you’d ever seen him, like he was back on the karting grid at age twelve.

“hello, sir. thank you for having me. i brought… pastry.”

your dad raised an eyebrow. “pie?”

“yes. that.”

you tried not to laugh.

inside, it was mild chaos. your younger cousins immediately started whispering about “the mercedes kid” like he couldn’t hear them. your aunt hugged him too long. your mom made him a plate before he could even sit down.

kimi’s hands were in his lap the whole time. his posture was so straight it hurt to look at. he said yes sir, no ma’am, thank you very much. and the only time he dared look away from his food was to check if you were still there.

your cousin leaned over halfway through dinner and whispered, “is he always this… robotic?”

you smiled. “he’s just nervous.”

he looked like he was surviving a full-blown press conference. until your uncle asked, “so how serious are you two, huh?”

kimi blinked like the question short-circuited him.

you jumped in quickly. “we’re not getting married, uncle joe.”

“i didn’t say that,” he grinned. “just wondering if mercedes' the only thing he’s committed to.”

kimi nearly choked on his water. “i mean—yes. no. i mean—yes, i’m committed. not just to mercedes. to her too. but not—like—married committed. just—” he turned bright red. “you know what? i should stop talking.”

the room went silent for half a beat.

then your dad laughed. “relax, kid. you’re alright.”

that night, as you walked him to his car, kimi rubbed the back of his neck.

“they were looking at me like i was about to propose.”

“you did say you’re committed.”

“i panicked.”

you smiled, tugging his sleeve. “you did great.”

he finally smiled back, soft and a little crooked. “your dad said i can come back.”

“you want to?”

he looked at you, more certain than he had been all night. “yeah. i do.”

ʚ・ollie bearman

ollie bounced nervously on his heels at your doorstep, holding a suspiciously lopsided cake he insisted on baking “from scratch.”

“it’s… edible,” he said, side-eyeing it like it might betray him. “i think.”

you grinned. “it’s sweet. they’re gonna love you.”

“they better,” he muttered. “i watched a ten-minute youtube video on ‘how to impress your girlfriend’s father’ for this.”

you stared. “please tell me that’s a joke.”

“it had animations.”

you couldn’t stop laughing.

from the second your family opened the door, ollie was full golden retriever mode. hugged your mom without hesitation. complimented the wallpaper like it was his job. called your grandma “queen” and meant it.

but your dad?

that was his mission.

“sir,” he said, offering his hand with olympic-level intensity. “big fan. of… your house. and your daughter. and your grilling skills. smells amazing out here.”

your dad blinked. “you alright, kid?”

“yep!” ollie said way too fast. “just eager to bond.”

at dinner, he tried to subtly mirror your dad’s posture, which ended with him sitting like a stiff action figure. he laughed at all his jokes. nodded like he understood the economy. agreed to try the spiciest dish on the table and instantly regretted it.

you passed him a glass of water under the table.

“i’m fine,” he whispered hoarsely. “this is fine. i’m proving my worth.”

you nearly choked trying not to laugh.

later, you found him in the backyard with your dad, holding barbecue tongs like a sword, listening to a long story about fishing while nodding very seriously.

“he likes me,” ollie whispered when you came outside.

“he told you that?”

“no, but he handed me the tongs. that means something.”

on the way home, he beamed the whole time. “i think your dad’s my best friend now.”

“bold.”

“he invited me golfing.”

“you don’t play golf.”

“i’ll learn.”

you looked at him, this chaotic, giggling, totally love-struck idiot, and shook your head fondly. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculously winning over your family,” he said proudly.

and honestly? he wasn’t wrong.

ʚ・yuki tsunoda

yuki arrived five minutes early, hands folded neatly in front of him, shirt pressed and hair just slightly too styled. he looked… nervous, but in that perfectly composed way that made you want to pull him into a hug.

“you don’t have to bow,” you whispered, watching him do just that when your mom opened the door.

“i know,” he whispered back, “but i want to be respectful.”

respectful might’ve been an understatement. within ten minutes of entering the house, yuki had complimented the decorations, asked your dad thoughtful questions about his hobbies, and called your grandma’s cooking “the best meal i’ve had all year.”

“you brought flowers?” your mom asked, touched.

“and tea,” he said shyly, holding out the perfectly wrapped box. “from japan. my favorite kind.”

you could physically see your mother melt.

the dinner table conversation started light, a few questions about where he grew up, how he liked traveling, if he missed japan. yuki answered every single one kindly, never cutting anyone off, listening fully before responding.

you were so proud you nearly cried.

but the second your little cousin leaned in and whispered, “do you drive really fast?” something shifted.

yuki grinned.

“only when they let me.”

from there, it spiraled. he told stories about karting crashes and near-misses in the most matter-of-fact tone while your uncles leaned in like it was a campfire tale. when your aunt asked how he handles fear, he just shrugged and said, “i scream on the inside. then i go faster.”

by dessert, your mom was feeding him extra servings and calling him “sweetheart,” your grandma was offering to knit him socks, and your cousin was asking if he’d teach them how to drive.

you found him leaning against the hallway wall later, looking overwhelmed but happy.

“are you okay?” you asked, sliding next to him.

“your family is amazing,” he whispered. “but your mom keeps feeding me. i might explode.”

you laughed and rubbed his arm.

he looked at you, soft and a little wide-eyed. “your grandma just kissed my cheek.”

“she does that.”

“she also told me i have husband eyes.”

you blinked. “what?”

“i panicked and bowed again.”

you nearly doubled over with laughter.

“you’re a hit,” you said.

he smiled quietly, cheeks pink. “good. i wanted them to like me.”

you kissed his cheek. “they love you.”

ʚ・isack hadjar

isack strolled up to your parents’ door like he wasn’t dying inside. hands in his pockets, shirt wrinkled just slightly, like he got ready too fast after overthinking what to wear for thirty minutes.

“i’m calm,” he said.

“you’re not.”

“i’m french. i’m composed.”

you snorted. “you’re sweating through your shirt.”

he knocked anyway.

your mom greeted him with a warm smile and your dad stood behind her with his arms crossed, silently evaluating him like a pit crew chief sizing up a suspicious front wing.

“hi, uh… bonjour? i mean, hello. thank you for having me.” isack blinked. “sorry. language overload.”

he was polite — genuinely trying. sat upright. complimented the dinner. called your dad sir at least three times. but then someone — your cousin, of course — brought up the one thing guaranteed to send him straight into a tailspin.

“wait. you’re the no no no i destroyed ze carrr guy, right?”

isack’s soul left his body.

“no,” he said too quickly. “that wasn’t me.”

you cackled. “yes it was.”

“do you say it like that in real life?” your uncle asked, grinning.

“no!” isack groaned. “only once. under stress. high emotion.”

your cousin pulled up the clip on their phone. isack covered his face in both hands.

you leaned over, whispering in his ear. “you okay?”

“i’m being haunted by my own voice.”

he recovered eventually. teased your cousins back. made your dad laugh with a sarcastic “i promise i drive better than i talk.” won over your mom when he offered to help clean up and ended up drying dishes while telling her about how he got into racing.

later, in the car, he leaned his head back against the seat and sighed.

“that was brutal.”

“you were great.”

“they all mocked me. quoted me. in multiple accents.”

you grinned. “they do that to everyone.”

he turned to look at you, eyes still wide. “your grandma said i look skinnier in person.”

“she says that to celebrities. you’re famous now.”

he groaned. “i hate this family.”

you kissed his cheek. “no you don’t, you love us.”

he smiled, soft and red-faced. “okay… maybe i do love you guys.”

ʚ・liam lawson

liam showed up with a six-pack of your dad’s favorite beer and a bag of dog treats.

you blinked at him on the doorstep. “you brought what?”

“strategic bribes,” he said. “i’m trying to secure my position.”

he got both feet in the door and immediately crouched down to greet your golden retriever like it was his dog.

“look at this face,” he said, ruffling the fur behind her ears. “you’re a unit, aren’t you?”

your mom smiled warmly. “she usually doesn’t like new people.”

liam grinned. “i speak fluent dog.”

the dog rolled onto her back like she’d known him her whole life. you watched from the hallway, slack-jawed.

dinner started off simple. liam was friendly, relaxed, throwing in “ma’am” and “sir” when needed but still being his usual cheeky self.

“you’re from new zealand, right?” your uncle asked.

liam nodded. “we have sheep, rugby, and now… somehow, me.”

your dad actually laughed, and you nearly choked on your drink.

he slid into conversation so naturally it was almost unfair. talking rugby with your dad. asking your grandma how long she’s been crocheting and then actually caring. helping carry dishes to the sink without being asked.

you caught your mom whispering to your aunt, “he’s got good manners. the funny kind.”

and then, mid-dessert, it happened.

your dog jumped into liam’s lap.

“she doesn’t even do that for me,” you said.

“she’s in love with me. sorry, babe.”

“she’s my dog.”

liam scratched behind her ears. “she’s chosen.”

later, while everyone was chatting, you found him near the coat rack, dog curled up at his feet, both looking suspicious.

you raised an eyebrow. “you better not be planning a dog heist.”

“me?” he blinked, mock offended. “never.”

“liam.”

“okay, listen,” he whispered. “if i took her, it’s because we share a soul. not because i’m a thief.”

you laughed and reached down to ruffle her fur. “you’re ridiculous.”

“she likes me more than your dad does.”

“he invited you to the barbecue next week.”

liam grinned. “then i win.”

as you both walked to the car later that night, the dog followed you to the door. liam looked back at her with genuine heartbreak.

“i’ll miss you,” he said dramatically. “stay strong, my fluffy queen.”

you rolled your eyes. “don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

ʚ・franco colapinto

you warned him.

you said, “they’re loud. there’s like twenty of them. someone’s always grilling something. someone else will be dancing. my grandma will try to kiss your face.”

franco just grinned. “sounds fun.”

you were thirty seconds into the front yard when he got his first “how handsome” from one of your aunts. he hadn't even taken off his jacket yet.

your uncle hugged him like they were long-lost friends. your younger cousin offered him a soda and then immediately asked how fast his car went. your mom kissed his cheek, told him he was “very handsome,” and franco smiled like he'd just been handed a trophy.

you were watching it unfold in real time: the colapinto effect.

inside, it was pure chaos. laughter in one room, music in another, someone shouting over a blender.

franco thrived.

he complimented the rice, hugged the grandma, took his shoes off without being asked, and said “gracias señora” every chance he got. your aunt actually clutched her chest when he called her food “incredible” in spanish.

at some point, he ended up dancing with two of your little cousins in the living room, one on each foot, spinning them around like a movie montage. your dad watched from the couch, sipped his drink, and nodded slowly.

“alright. i like him.”

meanwhile, franco reappeared beside you in the kitchen, slightly out of breath, hair a little messy, a soft grin on his face.

“i think your grandma just winked at me,” he whispered.

“she probably did.”

“she also offered me food to go and told me i looked too skinny.”

“she’s adopted you now. sorry.”

he laughed quietly, then leaned in. “your family is… everything.”

you tilted your head. “too much?”

he shook his head. “perfect.”

later, after hours of being pulled into photos and interrogated about his star sign and whether or not he could cook eggs, franco finally exhaled next to you on the porch.

“i met, like, thirty people.”

“thirty-five.”

“i flirted with at least ten of them.”

“they flirted first.”

“i know. it was incredible.”

you laughed and rested your head on his shoulder. “they really liked you.”

he smiled. “i really liked them.”

pause.

“…but i’m never leaving without food again. that’s non-negotiable.”

ʚ・lance stroll

lance wasn’t nervous. not exactly. but as he stepped into your parents’ house and was immediately hit with overlapping conversations, two toddlers racing down the hallway, and music playing from a speaker that no one seemed to be in charge of.

you slipped your hand into his.

“too much?”

he blinked once, then shook his head. “no. just… new.”

you’d expected that. lance came from quiet homes and structured dinners and rooms with expensive things that didn’t get touched. your house had mismatched chairs, finger smudges on the windows, and someone yelling “who took the good plate?” from the kitchen.

he took a deep breath and followed you in.

your dad greeted him first. solid handshake. “lance, right?”

“yes, sir. thank you for having me.” he said it so politely your mom actually looked impressed.

he made it through the first hour like a champ — sat on the couch between your cousins and didn’t flinch when your aunt hugged him like they were old friends. he accepted food every time it was offered. he complimented the casserole. he nodded when your uncle asked about his car, even though he clearly had no idea which one he meant.

you found him standing near the kitchen later, hands in his pockets, watching your family like he was trying to piece together a hundred different storylines at once.

“you okay?” you asked, bumping your shoulder into his.

“i don’t think i’ve ever heard this many people talk at once.”

you laughed. “we don’t really do quiet.”

“i noticed.” he looked at you then, eyes soft. “but it’s kind of… nice.”

you tilted your head. “really?”

“it’s real,” he said simply. “everyone’s just themselves. no performance. no pretending.”

he stayed close the rest of the evening, quietly letting the chaos swirl around him. at one point, your grandma made him a plate and told him he looked tired and “too rich to be eating this little.” he smiled and thanked her and finished every bite.

when it was time to go, he lingered at the door. your little cousin hugged his leg.

“you coming back?”

lance knelt down, smiling. “only if there’s more casserole.”

the kid beamed. “there’s always more.”

on the drive home, he reached for your hand.

“i really liked them,” he said.

“i know. they really liked you too.”

he paused. “do you think next time, i could bring something? like dessert?”

you looked over at him and smiled.

“yeah. i think that’d be perfect.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[mrjaypayton]

State of NCAA

College Football will never be the same. Amateur sports became professional sports.

Everything is corporate now.

[smutmind]

When It Doesn't Fit ft. Ryujin

Itzy Ryujin X BBC

Seoul gleamed like a circuit board under glass.

You watched from the 38th floor, forehead resting against the cold window. The city didn’t sleep—neon bled into haze, horns echoed off glass. It was almost midnight, and the sky hadn’t gone black yet.

This wasn’t just another road trip. It was a political stunt.

An NBA-KBL goodwill game, they said. Bridge two basketball cultures, they said. You were the poster boy. Six-foot-nine, MVP finalist, America’s most marketable savage in sneakers.

You'd barely stepped off the jet before cameras were in your face. And something had felt… off.

Too many smiles. Too many eyes that lingered.

Coach had warned you. “You’re the prize they wanna claim. You drop 40, they look weak. Don’t expect a warm welcome.”

But it wasn’t the opposing team you noticed watching you. It was their PR staff. Their assistants. One of the security girls at the press conference.

They looked… expectant. Like something was planned.

—

The hotel was too nice.

Private elevator. Champagne in a silver bucket. Suite big enough to shoot a commercial in.

You ate half a protein bar and stared at the untouched king bed. Sleep wouldn't come easy. Not here. Not with your instincts humming.

You checked your phone. No texts. Just a single message from your agent: “Play nice. This is bigger than basketball.”

You tossed it aside.

The air conditioning purred. You sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, rubbing tension out of your thighs. Ten-hour flight. Two-hour media wall. And something else—this low, crawling heat you couldn’t shake.

You poured water. Opened the balcony door.

And just as you turned to kill the lights—

Three quiet knocks at the door.

You pulled the door open, expecting room service.

Instead: five women. Silent. Poised. Beautiful.

ITZY.

Your brain hesitated. You recognized them from the press conference—now dressed in sleek neutrals, like they belonged more in a designer showroom than the hallway of your hotel. No entourage. No cameras.

They walked in without asking.

You stepped back. Blinking.

Yeji moved first, a cool nod like she was used to being first through doors. Ryujin followed, hands in her pockets, casual as hell. Lia glanced at the room, then at you, like she was measuring how much of it you owned. Chaeryeong’s gaze skipped your chest, then dropped fast. Yuna closed the door behind them with a soft click.

No one spoke for a full beat.

You reached for your shirt on instinct. “Uh... can I help you?”

Ryujin smiled, faint. “No need to act surprised. You knew something was coming.”

“I didn’t think it’d be this,” you muttered.

Lia walked to the window. “You’re the game tomorrow.”

Chaeryeong added, “They want you... tired.”

There it was. Clear, shameless. You stared. Not angry. Not scared. Just... stunned.

Yuna leaned on the back of the couch, arms crossed under her chest. “They figured if one of us could... keep you busy tonight, maybe you won’t drop forty.”

You exhaled. “This is a joke, right?”

Yeji stepped forward. “You get to choose,” she said, voice even. “One of us stays. The rest leave.”

Your jaw clenched. “And if I say no?”

Ryujin cocked her head. “You won’t.”

She said it too calm. Like she wasn’t guessing.

Your heart thudded once. Hard.

You looked at each of them. Five stares. Five bodies. Five different types of confidence.

None of them moved.

And you still hadn’t answered.

You crossed your arms. Let the silence stretch.

“I’m not choosing.”

Five pairs of eyes blinked. Subtle shifts. Yeji raised a brow. Lia’s lips parted, surprised. Chaeryeong looked down. Yuna smirked like she expected it.

Ryujin just stared at you. Blank. Focused.

“I don’t need help losing a game,” you said. “And I don’t need someone sent to my room to prove I’m human.”

Nobody moved.

You nodded toward the door. “We’re done here.”

Yeji exhaled and turned first. “Fair enough.”

No drama. No pushback. Just quiet footsteps and the soft snick of the door swinging open. One by one, they walked out.

Except Ryujin.

She didn’t flinch.

You glanced her way. “You forget how doors work?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to threaten. Just enough to be inside your air.

“You’re not scared,” she said. “You’re annoyed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I didn’t want to be part of it,” she added, gaze steady. “Not really. I volunteered because I wanted to see you up close. To see if the hype was real.”

You laughed, dry. “And?”

She looked you over—head to toe, slow and shameless. Then back to your eyes.

“It’s worse than I thought.”

You stared. She didn’t blink.

“I’ll leave if you want,” she said, voice calm. “But I’m not here to seduce you. I’m here because I want to find out what you’re like when nobody’s watching.”

Your heartbeat kicked, sharp.

Still shirtless, you walked to the table, poured water just to have something to do. “You expect me to believe this has nothing to do with the game tomorrow?”

“I don’t care about basketball,” she said.

You turned.

She stood in front of the window now, city lights painting her in neon glow. No makeup tricks. No media smile. Just Ryujin—low voice, loose stance, one corner of her mouth tugged up like she already had your answer.

“I’m not a fan,” she said. “I’m curious.”

You studied her. Long enough that the silence thickened.

Then you nodded once. Just enough.

Ryujin pulled one leg under herself on the couch, fingers laced over her knee. She looked at home. Like this wasn’t the penthouse suite of Seoul’s most expensive hotel. Like she belonged exactly here—with you watching her, trying not to want her.

You sat across from her, water untouched. Every breath a little shallower than the last.

“You really don’t care about the game?” you asked.

She tilted her head. “I care about what happens after.”

That landed heavy between you.

You leaned back. “Why me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because you don’t flinch.”

Her eyes dragged across your chest, slow and deliberate.

“Everyone else stares like they’re waiting for you to crack. You stare like you’re already picking out their weak spots.”

You smirked. “You’re analyzing me.”

“Mind if I ask you something?” she said.

You nodded.

“If I hadn’t said anything tonight… if I’d just stayed quiet, sat on this couch—what would you have done?”

You didn’t answer at first. Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I would’ve kept watching you. Trying to decide if I was imagining the tension.”

Ryujin smiled. “You weren’t.”

She stood, slow. Walked toward the minibar. You watched the shape of her move, too aware of how little stood between you and the edge.

She poured herself a drink. One finger trailed along the rim of the glass.

“You want one?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I want you to stop playing with me.”

She didn’t turn around. “Who said I’m playing?”

You rose, crossing the floor with measured steps. She felt you close—your height wrapping around her like heat. Her breath hitched.

You didn’t touch her. Not yet.

“You sure you didn’t come here to seduce me?” you asked, voice low.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I came to see what happens when I get too close.”

You stepped closer. Your chest brushed her back. She didn’t pull away.

But you didn’t push.

You let the tension coil between you, tight and humming.

And then you whispered against her ear:

“Keep going. Let’s both find out.”

Ryujin took a slow sip from her glass and leaned back against the counter. The hem of her sweatshirt rose slightly, showing just a slip of her waist. Her eyes lingered low, then climbed back to your face.

“I’ve never been this close to someone built like you,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Tall?”

She smirked. “Tall. Big. American. Black.”

There it was—no filter, no apology. Just curiosity sharpened to a fine, gleaming point.

You held her gaze. “You’re wondering about the stereotype.”

She didn’t deny it. Just stared at your mouth like the answer might come from there.

“You think I’m going to confirm it?” you asked.

She stepped closer. “I think you don’t have to.”

Her voice dropped into something breathy. Something confessional.

“I’ve seen photos,” she said, almost like a dare. “Clips. I’ve heard things. But hearing isn’t the same as…”

She trailed off, eyes flicking down again, her lip caught between teeth.

You moved closer. Close enough that her breath hit your chest.

“And you think if I showed you, you’d be able to sleep tonight?”

Her cheeks flushed—just a flicker—but her stare didn’t waver.

“No,” she whispered. “I think it’d fuck with my head.”

You laughed, low and rough.

She stepped back just slightly, like the distance would help her breathe.

“You’re not even touching me,” she said. “Why does it feel like you already are?”

“Because you want me to,” you said. “And because you’re letting yourself wonder what it’d feel like.”

Her thighs shifted. Subtle. Wanting.

“You want to know how I got here?” she asked.

You didn’t answer. Just watched her—shoulders tight, breath measured, like she was about to jump or confess.

“I didn’t win anything by singing,” she said. “Not really. Not enough.”

She walked to the couch, sat like a dancer—back straight, knees tight, chin lifted. “But when you know how to move… how to look at someone like you already own the room…”

Her sweatshirt slipped off one shoulder. Intentional. Every move was.

“You don’t need to beg for deals,” she said. “You make them beg to sign.”

You stood across from her, arms crossed. “You saying you fucked your way to the top?”

She laughed softly. “No. I made them think I would. That’s all it took.”

She lifted her legs onto the couch. Turned sideways. Bent one knee toward her chest. It pulled her loose shorts higher on her thighs. Every inch was choreography.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I’d sit in a director’s lap just long enough to ruin his focus. Whisper things while adjusting my bra. Let fingers slide under a table and stop an inch too soon.”

Her eyes found yours.

“I never had to fuck anyone,” she said. “But I learned exactly how much power a body has—if you know how to use it.”

You stepped forward, slow. Sat across from her, knees nearly touching.

“And you think I’m one of them?” you asked.

She shook her head. “No. You’re not a man who needs tricks. That’s why I want to show you anyway.”

She shifted forward. Placed one hand on your thigh—not bold, not demanding. Just there. A test. Her nails grazed the fabric of your sweats.

“Let me show you what I’ve learned,” she said. “Not for a deal. Not for fame. Just for you.”

You didn’t stop her.

Her fingers slid higher. Her breath hitched.

And then she dropped to her knees between yours, slow as a curtain falling.

Eyes locked to yours.

Mouth parting.

Worship in her posture.

No more teasing.

No more pretending.

You stopped her before she could go further—fingers in her hair, firm.

Ryujin froze on her knees, eyes wide, breath short.

You didn’t speak.

Just leaned down.

And kissed her.

Hard.

It knocked the air from her throat. Her lips opened against yours, soft, then hungry. She melted forward, hands climbing your thighs, fingers curling into your skin like she needed to anchor herself.

You pulled her up by the waist, lifting her into your lap in one smooth motion. Her legs straddled your thighs, sweatshirt rising, skin hot.

She gasped as your hand slid up the inside of her shirt—tracing ribs, the undercurve of one breast. You palmed her through thin fabric, thumb circling her nipple until she moaned.

"You're not ready for this," you murmured into her ear.

"Try me," she whispered.

You slid your sweats down just enough. Her eyes dropped.

And widened.

She swallowed.

"Fuck," she breathed. "It won’t fit—"

"It will," you said, steady. "But only if you stop thinking and start feeling."

You pushed her shorts aside—no panties. She was soaked. She trembled in your lap, breath hitched, hips already shifting.

You lined up. Gripped her hips.

She whimpered as the head pushed against her entrance. Her forehead dropped to your shoulder.

"Too much," she whispered.

You kissed her neck. "Then take it slow."

She lowered herself, one inch at a time.

Her body rolled—slow, unsure, trembling. She gritted her teeth and rocked forward, trying to open wider. You held her still. Guided her hips.

"You want to impress me?" you said against her collarbone. "Then ride me like this is your debut stage."

Her laugh cracked—nervous, breathless. Then she moved.

She slid down further, tight heat dragging every inch.

She cried out—half moan, half disbelief. "I can’t—"

"You’re doing it," you said.

She buried her face in your neck, nails digging into your shoulders. Her hips rolled again, tighter this time. Rhythm building. Skin on skin.

She wasn’t graceful. She was raw. Messy. Desperate.

And it was beautiful.

You held her, lifted into each stroke, let her grind deeper, feel every impossible inch.

“God,” you muttered, voice low. “These are fucking perfect.”

Her mouth twitched into a breathless smile. “You like Asian flavors?”

You grinned. “Didn’t think Korean cuisine would feel this soft.”

She laughed against your mouth—then gasped as you rolled her nipples between your thumbs. Her whole body shivered.

“Oh my god—right there,” she whispered, eyes fluttering.

You leaned forward, mouth brushing the curve of one breast. “You ever let anyone taste you like this?”

She shook her head. "They never… touched them like they mattered."

“They matter now,” you growled.

You sucked one nipple into your mouth—slow, focused, teasing. She cried out, grinding harder on your cock as your tongue circled, teeth grazing gently. You switched to the other, wetter this time, letting her squirm in your lap while her thighs quaked around you.

“You feel everything so deep,” she gasped.

You pressed her down, full length inside her again.

“I want you to feel it in your chest,” you said.

Her lips trembled. Her fingers curled behind your neck.

You moved together—her riding, you thrusting up to meet her, both of you moaning now, louder, breath tangled. The wet sound of your bodies slapping echoed off the walls.

She arched back suddenly, hands braced on your thighs.

“Harder,” she whispered. “Please—I want all of it.”

You gripped her waist. Slammed up into her once. She screamed. Again. Again. Her tits bounced wildly with every stroke, nipples slick and flushed.

“You’re handling me like a fucking champ,” you groaned.

“I’m not done,” she panted. “I want to feel sore. Wrecked.”

You flipped her.

Flat on her back, legs hooked over your arms. You drove in again, deeper now, fucking her slow and hard, watching her face twist—pleasure, disbelief, surrender.

“Never had a black man fuck you like this?” you growled.

She moaned so loud it cracked.

“Never had one, period,” she gasped. “You're ruining me.”

You bent down, kissed her mouth, her neck, her chest—then bit softly over her nipple.

Her body was twitching, lips parted in a moan she couldn’t control, nipples shining from your tongue. Her thighs trembled every time you thrust up into her—deep, thick, stretching her wide enough to leave her gasping.

“Fuck,” she choked, hands pressed flat on your chest. “I—wait—something’s—”

You knew.

You felt it—tight around you, wetter than before, her whole core pulsing.

Then it happened.

Her hips jerked once—twice—and she screamed. Not a polite moan, not a staged gasp. A raw, guttural, high-pitched wail as liquid burst out of her and soaked both of you.

“Oh shit,” you said, eyes wide.

She blinked, dazed, and then looked down.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Did I—? I did—”

You both started laughing.

You wiped your face with your forearm, still buried inside her. “Jesus, Ryujin. I thought you were about to pass out.”

She collapsed onto your chest, giggling. “I might. That was—holy shit. Did I just… squirt?”

“You did,” you said, grinning. “Like a fucking geyser.”

She looked mortified. You kissed her anyway.

“Don’t be shy,” you murmured. “That was beautiful.”

She exhaled, messy and breathless, still smiling. “I’ve never—no one’s ever made me—”

You kissed her again. Softer now. She tasted like sweat and heaven.

Then she shifted in your lap, still breathless, and looked down between your bodies.

“You didn’t finish,” she whispered.

You shook your head. “Didn’t want to yet.”

Her hand curled around your jaw, pulling your face to hers. “Tell me how to do it.”

You blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Teach me.”

She licked once, from base to tip—slow, deliberate. You exhaled through clenched teeth. Her tongue circled the head, then slipped over it like silk. Her lips followed—soft, warm, swallowing you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you muttered, head tilting back.

She moaned around you, the sound vibrating through your length. Her pace was slow at first, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked to yours. Every bob of her head was smoother than the last. Deeper. Greedier.

Her spit coated your shaft. She pulled back to stroke it, watching her own hand move with a little awe.

“You feel insane in my mouth,” she said.

“You’re making it hard not to finish.”

She smiled. “That’s the goal.”

She went back down—lips tighter, cheeks hollowed, tongue working every sensitive nerve. You watched her: ponytail swaying, jaw working, throat stretching around you.

You warned her once—voice rough, barely holding back.

“Ryujin, I’m close.”

She pulled off, breathing hard, mouth slick and red.

“No,” she whispered, climbing into your lap. “Not like that.”

You blinked, chest heaving. “What?”

She kissed you hard, then lined you up between her legs again.

“Inside me,” she breathed. “I want to feel it. All of it.”

You grabbed her waist and thrust up—deep. Her mouth fell open. She dropped all the way down with a shuddering moan.

“That’s it,” she panted. “I want to keep it this time.”

You gripped her hips, lifted her up, let her slam down again. Her body clenched around you, tighter now. Hot. Desperate.

You didn’t hold back.

Each thrust shook her. Her tits bounced against your chest. She was babbling now—broken Korean, breathy English, fingers clawing your shoulders.

You warned her again, voice rough. “I’m gonna fill you.”

“Do it.” she gasped. “Please—I want it.”

You came with a growl—hips locked, cock pulsing deep inside her. She cried out as the heat flooded her. Her nails left marks. Her breath staggered.

But she didn’t get off.

Not in the emotional sense.

Not yet.

She stayed straddling your lap, hips resting against yours. You felt her shift—just a little.

You flinched.

“Too much?” she whispered, eyes wide and innocent.

You nodded. “Sensitive.”

She rolled her hips again.

Your whole body jerked.

“Still so full,” she said softly, like it was a compliment. “Still hard enough.”

You groaned. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiled—and started moving.

Slow at first. Lazy. Just the barest grind.

Your cock was softening, but still thick, still inside her. Her warmth kept you there, her slick body teasing you without mercy.

Your thighs trembled.

“Fuck, Ryujin…”

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You shouldn’t have let me stay.”

You blinked.

She kissed the shell of your ear. “You really thought I came here for fun?”

You opened your mouth—but she rolled again, deep. You gasped instead.

“I told you I volunteered,” she whispered. “What I didn’t say… was why.”

You were dizzy. Sensitive. Helpless.

She rode you with soft, deep strokes now, not fast, just steady. Every nerve in your cock lit up. Your whole body was trembling, too wrung out to fight it.

“You’re not playing tomorrow,” she said gently. “You’re not going to move.”

You tried to grab her waist, slow her down. She caught your hands and pinned them to your chest.

“You think you’re still in control?” she teased. “Sweet.”

Your hips twitched. You were barely inside her now—just the head—and she still worked you like she owned you.

“I made you come inside me,” she whispered. “Made you spill every drop. And now I’m keeping you here.”

You groaned. You couldn’t stop her.

“You’re twitching,” she giggled. “Are you gonna cry?”

You laughed—breathless. “You’re fucking evil.”

Her eyes softened. “You loved it.”

You did.

You hated how much you did.

She leaned down, kissed your jaw. “Sleep, starboy. Tomorrow’s game’s canceled.”

She kept moving. You couldn't stop shaking.

And then… you went under.

You woke to warmth. Soft skin. Bare thighs straddling your hips.

And Ryujin’s nipple brushing your lips.

You blinked, disoriented.

She giggled, already grinding slow, teasing, like she hadn’t just ridden you into unconsciousness hours ago.

“Rise and shine,” she whispered. “Literally.”

You groaned. Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. She rolled her hips, and you twitched—half hard, half helpless.

“Ten rounds,” she said softly, tapping her chest. “One for each time you finish today.”

She leaned in, slipped her nipple between your lips.

You sucked.

She moaned, arching against you, hand braced on your chest. “You ditch the game,” she whispered, “you get both tits and the rest of the buffet.”

You looked up, dazed. “You’re serious.”

“Totally.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What if I want just two rounds?”

Her smile turned slow and wicked. “Still worth it.”

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You looked at her. Then at her chest, rising and falling against your mouth.

You grabbed the phone, turned it off.

Then stood up—naked, cock rising, muscles shaking.

She clapped, beaming.

And then—

A second knock at the door.

You froze.

It opened on its own.

Yeji stepped in first, hair loose, wearing nothing but a silk shirt and that same unreadable smile from two nights ago.

“Game’s canceled, huh?” she purred.

Lia followed, in boyshorts and a lace bra. “Good. Now we get to play.”

Chaeryeong peeked in from behind them, blushing, holding a tray of food—actual food—but her eyes said something else.

Yuna walked in last, stretched like a cat, wearing Ryujin’s discarded hoodie. She winked. “We brought dessert.”

You stood there stunned—naked, hard, marked by Ryujin’s bites.

And five idols stood before you, all in various states of undress, all with the same look in their eyes:

Hungry.

Ryujin leaned into your ear. “Full Asian course meal, starboy.”

Yeji blew you a kiss.

And the door clicked shut behind them.

----- m night shyamalan twist ahha