#West Coast Conference

[bongaboi]

Saint Mary's: 2023-24 West Coast Men's Basketball Champions

LAS VEGAS – It’s not a coincidence Gonzaga’s two lowest-scoring games of the season came against Saint Mary’s.

The Gaels rank second nationally in scoring defense (58.7 points per game), first in rebounding margin (11.9) and eighth in field-goal percentage defense (39.8%). All three were major factors in the Gaels’ 69-60 victory in Tuesday’s West Coast Conference Tournament championship game.

Gonzaga connected on 44.4% from the field, including 2 of 11 behind the 3-point arc. That’s well below GU’s season averages of 51.8% shooting and 35.7% on 3s.

Saint Mary’s owned the glass 39-22, including 12 offensive boards that led to an 11-4 advantage in second-chance points. A few of those extra possessions came at critical times in a close contest.

Saint Mary’s post Mitchell Saxen led the way with 15 rebounds, six at the offensive end. Graham Ike was limited to 20 minutes due to foul trouble and Gonzaga’s leading rebounder finished with just five boards.

“That could be it (stretches without Ike on the floor),” Zags forward Anton Watson said. “And (Mason) Forbes and Saxen are good rebounders, they kind of sit next to the hoop and they’re strong. I didn’t know Saxen had 15 rebounds.

“We got pounded on the glass.”

Saint Mary’s handed GU a 64-62 defeat at the McCarthey Athletic Center. Gonzaga won the rematch 70-57, thanks to a 44-point first half when it was able to get out in transition in the regular-season finale.

Ike, who came into the tournament riding a seven-game streak with at least 20 points, scored 20 points in two games.

“It was just incredibly physical in there,” Gonzaga coach Mark Few said. “You let Saxen be that physical, he’s tough to score on. It was a sumo wrestling match down there. If that’s the case he’s probably going to win. He’s the biggest and strongest of these guys.”

Ike made just 9 of 23 shot attempts in two tournament games. The Gaels’ approach was a little different than San Francisco’s.

“Maybe just a little bit more one-on-one,” Ike said. “They were bringing another guy, not like three guys (on Monday night). The paint was a little clogged. That’s all right, we’ll learn.”

Saint Mary’s limited the Zags to four fastbreak points. Nearly every possession came down to execution in the half court.

“It’s a different type of team,” GU point guard Ryan Nembhard said. “You don’t play a team like that too often.”

Asked if it’s tough to stay patient against the Gaels, Nembhard said, “Yeah, I think I took a couple of shots, some bad 3s. I have to go watch film and figure out what I need to do better.”

Marciulionis tourney MVP Saint Mary’s dominated the all-tournament honors, much like it did with the regular-season awards.

Guard Augustas Marciulionis was named tournament MVP after averaging 13 points, seven assists and four rebounds in two victories.

He was joined on the all-tournament team by Gaels Aidan Mahaney and Saxen. Mahaney scored a game-high 23 points and made five 3-pointers in the championship game. Saxen added 19 points and 15 rebounds.

Gonzaga was represented by Watson and Nembhard. The two carried GU’s offense most of the night against the Gaels. Watson finished with 18 points, seven rebounds and three assists. He posted 17 points and seven boards in the semifinal win over San Francisco. Nembhard had 13 points and 11 assists in the title game, one night after finishing with 16 points and 12 assists .

[anygivengameday]

#14 Gonzaga Bulldogs at Portland Pilots

Saturday, January 28, 2023

Chiles Center, Portland, OR

[novaknicks]

knicks don’t play for another two days what’s the point anymore

[philomelas-tongue-says]

is there a better feeling on this earth than absolutely cleaning up at the secondhand store

[dionysus-complex]

also this is such a trivial and silly thing but I really like that I’ve managed to make it through my entire graduate career so far wearing only Converse and Vans and like…perhaps I am misinformed about the East Coast, but my impression is that at least in my field there would be a bit more judgment about that

[da-ill-spot]

November 2 - 9 | Den Music Fest | ATL x LA | INFO

[venus-haze]

Love Is a Ring on the Telephone (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: When work calls you away from New York, Homelander can’t bear how much he misses you.

Note: Gender neutral reader and no descriptors are used. This fic is fluffy (and shorter than what I usually write) but still a little dark, and takes place vaguely during season 2. Inspired by Bruce Springsteen’s and Patti Smith’s versions of Because the Night (I actually got inspired for a few fics based on various lines in the song). Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Some possessive behavior and emotional manipulation (it’s Homelander). Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Homelander stared at the calendar taped to the wall in a desperate hope that he could somehow will time to race forward, and you’d be back home. He missed you terribly, spending the past few nights in your shoebox apartment he had yet to convince you to move out of. It was too cramped and loud for his liking, between your neighbors and the street noise, but he hadn’t realized how attached he’d become to it until you were gone. 

He went as far as pulling on one of your sweatshirts to sleep in, just because it still smelled like you. It was only day two of your five day business trip to a conference in Los Angeles, but each day without you felt like a week that dragged on endlessly. He’d been on bullshit missions from Vought that went longer, ones where he couldn’t even contact you until he returned, his insides shredded to bloody mush at the lingering anxiety that maybe in his absence, you found someone else.

From the moment he stepped into the disgustingly crowded airport with you, a melancholy swept over him. He offered to fly you to your hotel in LA himself, frustrated when you decided to do things the pedestrian way. At least his presence allowed you to skip the security line that stretched all the way back to the bag check as he graciously took selfies with each TSA agent. After all, you couldn’t be a threat if you were with The Homelander of all people. 

He would’ve gone with you, if it weren’t for the ‘Dawn of the Seven’ promotions that Ashley couldn’t get him out of. She nearly threw up while breaking the bad news to him, and he could hear her heart racing even as she practically sprinted down the hallway after he dismissed her. Reluctantly, he stayed behind while you went away, gritting his teeth through every interview and guest appearance. Having been paraded around plenty of Vought conferences himself, he knew damn well plenty of people used them as an excuse to get drunk and fuck around without their significant others’ knowledge.

He huffed, turning away from the calendar and practically rolling his eyes at himself. You’d proven time and time again that he could trust you, that you were the one for him. Still, his self-assurance did nothing to abate the sourness in his stomach, and suddenly, he’d pulled out his phone, ear pressed to the screen as the dial tone rang almost mockingly. He paced the kitchen floor, glancing at the clock on the wall. A little past one in the morning on the West Coast, but you wouldn’t mind if he woke you up.

“Baby? It’s late,” you yawned, the mundane noise making Homelander’s nerves settle slightly. “Is everything okay?”

He chewed his bottom lip, feeling like a schoolgirl calling her crush for the first time, almost instinctively reaching to play with a non-existent phone cord. There was neither pride nor shame when it came to you, only the affection and devotion that he’d spent his life longing for. Your presence soothed him, but your absence made his heart wrench in his chest. 

“Missed you,” he said softly.

“I miss you too. This conference is so boring. The people are weird, and I haven’t gotten a chance to see anything in LA.”

“What’s there to see? You’ve got a hot blond at home,” he said.

Your laughter made him feel indescribably lighter, even when it became muffled by your hand covering your mouth. 

“There aren’t palm trees in New York, smarty.”

“If you wanna see palm trees, I can think of at least five places I can take you that are nicer than LA.”

“I read that some palm trees grow in the Mediterranean, like Greece and Italy.”

“We’ll have to go one day to see, huh?”

You enthusiastically agreed, and he clung to your every word as you described your dream vacations in detail. He’d bring you everywhere, wrapped tightly in his arms from the moment he took off in New York until the two of you inevitably ended up in bed somewhere beautiful and secluded, where you could truly be alone together. 

He wondered what you’d think of moving out of the city, maybe to one of the smaller beach towns out on Long Island or somewhere more secluded in the Catskills. Either way, he’d have a commute for the first time in his life, but he could deal with a quick flight to Vought Tower if it meant waking up beside and coming home to you each day. After years of clamoring for the adoration of the masses, millions of people cheering his name and going into a frenzy in his presence paled in comparison to the sincerity in your voice and steady heartbeat whenever you told him that you loved him. 

Often, he felt like no one else knew what being in love was like, otherwise they wouldn’t make him go on asinine press tours or send you away to the opposite side of the country for a conference. Something so passionate and all-consuming as what he felt for you couldn’t be ruined by distance, and though he could listen to you talk on the phone all night, it wasn’t the same as being able to see and feel you. He’d grown far too accustomed to the warmth and gentleness of your touch, the way your eyes lit up for him and nobody else. 

A loud bang and the sound of drunk chatter outside your room interrupted your voice, and though no human could have heard the commotion so clearly, he could, and his lip curled in response. You immediately apologized, ranting about the people at the conference, most of whom you found uppity and unpleasant, finding networking with them at panels and meals more of a chore than an opportunity.

He looked at your refrigerator, colorful magnets holding up your handwritten lists and reminders, but his gaze was focused on the selfie of the two of you on your second date to the Bronx Zoo just a few months prior. You’d taken the time to get the photo printed and displayed in a spot that was domestic and sentimental, somewhere you and anyone else who entered your place could easily see. His hands suddenly felt cold in your physical absence, and a lump formed in his throat as he found himself on the verge of tears.

“If it’s such a drag, you should just leave early and come home.”

“Baby, you know I can’t—“

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised softly, the ‘from now on’ was unspoken, but from the way he could hear your breath faintly hitch over the phone, he knew you understood.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Will you come get me?”

“I’ll be there before you blink.”

“I’ll keep my eyes wide open for you.”

He smiled, letting out a soft chuckle at your words. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“That’s impossible.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Can’t I try?”

“You don’t need to try. Just being mine is enough, darling.”

Everything in his life had gone to shit so fast, but not you, never you. He’d raze cities to ash before letting you go, before possibly losing the warmth that enveloped him at the thought of you and how much you loved him. Even if he could bottle the feeling, inject it into his veins whenever he pleased, he wouldn’t, not when he had you by his side. He wasn’t sure if anyone could compare. As much as he wished he’d met you sooner, he supposed later was better than never.

You ended the phone call, your voice soft and melodic as you once again professed your love to him. He did the same before hanging up, hastily grabbing one of your sweaters from your closet. You’d always get cold while flying with him. He brought the knitwear to his nose, the scent of your fabric softener and a hint of your perfume almost making him dizzy. Wasting no more time, he left your apartment to make it to Los Angeles before you could fall back asleep.

He knew which hotel you were staying at and the room number, having texted it to him before you left. Of course, he’d memorized the details, and within half an hour was hovering outside of your eighth floor hotel room window, which you gladly opened for him. You were in your pajamas, your small suitcase packed on the bed.

“My hero!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms around him and pressing a playful kiss to his cheek.

Your lips on his skin made it feel like he was on fire, and he took your face in his ungloved hands, kissing you desperately as your sweater fell to the floor. Two days had suddenly transformed into a lifetime of longing and separation, and as he slipped his tongue into your open mouth, he did so with the intention of savoring you, getting as close to devouring you as he could. 

Squeezing his hips to steady yourself only encouraged him further, a groan rumbling from deep in his chest. Sometimes, you made it so hard for him to have any self-control, and in those moments he almost lamented his powers. His strength made your being with him inherently dangerous, yet despite the risks, you willingly sought out his embrace and intimacy.

“Always yours,” he muttered huskily against your lips. 

You looked at the sweater on the floor, smiling at the gesture. “Thanks.”

“Can’t have you catching pneumonia on the way home, can I?” he said as you pulled the sweater on.

You grabbed your suitcase off the bed, and he took it from you with ease, holding it in one hand, his other arm firmly around your waist. He’d flown you plenty of places before, and though you were no longer nervous like the first time he took you flying, he loved how you clung to him anyway.

[lancerslover]

The Private Conference

(this lovely moodboard was created by @vintagedebutante ♥︎)

Pairing: President John F. Kennedy/Petite!Reader

Summary: As Cold War tensions rise, President John F. Kennedy calls one of his secretaries into the Oval Office to help him relax.

Word Count: 2.8k

Further Info: 18+, includes swearing and smut, specifically oral sex

A/N: happy Fourth of July, everyone!! i simply cannot think of a more patriotic way to celebrate than posting a fic about America’s hottest president. in this one, i tried to combine a few different requests, including one asking for the setting to be in the Oval Office, one asking for an angry/angsty Jack, and one asking for the reader to be on the petite side. i hope this fic at least somewhat does justice to those amazing ideas, and i hope you all have a wonderful, safe holiday! ♥︎

You froze for just a moment, almost like your shoe had caught on the carpet, when you stepped into the Oval Office and saw the President on the phone. This wasn’t uncommon—in fact, you’d estimate that at least half of all the “private conferences” you’d had with him since becoming his secretary had been interrupted, at some point, by a call. Typically, it didn’t put a damper on things (though you liked to groan and pout up at him whenever the phone rang, but that was only because you liked the way he would give your nose a playful, reprimanding pinch and tell you to “hush now, baby”). In all honesty, it made you feel oddly powerful, like a glamorous concubine of old, to sit with this big history book figure and listen while he discussed Castro and Khrushchev and all the other monumental responsibilities he carried on his wide, ex-Harvard-football-player shoulders.

On this particular afternoon, however, you immediately picked up on the fact that his call was putting him in a very bad mood. You knew tensions had been heating up with Cuba (you weren’t let in on any of the specifics, but you figured whatever threats Castro was making must’ve been pretty severe because, recently, you’d noticed your coworkers in the West Wing laughing less and pointlessly bustling around more), and you figured that was what the President’s call was about because you’d never seen him glower quite like he was now. His eyes were solid stone as he tracked you across the royal blue carpet; it was almost like he couldn’t truly see you through the dark film shadowing his gaze—he didn’t even offer you so much as a wink or a little throwaway smile.

As you came closer, you decided to test the waters and cast your usual finger-twiddling wave his way, but the only response you saw, and the only confirmation you got that he’d even registered your hello, was his eyebrows suddenly furrowing—drooping, almost—down his brow, as if your wave had actually stolen energy from him somehow. You quickly dropped your hand back to your side. The President was in serious need of some de-stressing today.

“Here’s the problem I have,” he was telling whoever was on the phone as you came up beside his looming Resolute Desk. “You can’t give me a definitive answer as to how long that’s gonna take.”

As he listened to the little voice (voices?) that jabbered away in response, he slowly swiveled in his chair to face you—and you supressed a delighted shiver. Since he was so tall (or maybe because you were so pitifully short), the two of you were exactly at eye-level whenever he sat down, and at this proximity, you swore you could feel the hot, agitated energy emanating off of him in thick, nerve-frying waves.

“Well, there’s no sense in you making any kind of official statement,” the President snapped abruptly, cutting the other man off (and making you flinch instinctively, which you normally would’ve been deeply embarrassed about after the fact, but the President hadn’t seemed to notice; at this point he was still looking more through you than at you), “until I can get up there and restore order.” You noticed then that his trademark East Coast accent sounded especially thick today, almost British. He pronounced “restore order” like ree-sto-ah oh–ah-dah, and he spit cigar smoke with every syllable.

Though the thought of turning around and leaving made your ribs clench around your heart with a yearning, almost schoolgirlish disappointment, you knew his needs ultimately came before yours. So, you started to mouth Should I come back later? as animatedly as your lips could manage, hoping you’d finally grab his attention enough to at least get a goodbye, when suddenly, his hand swung out to grab the skirt of your pencil dress and he pulled you, half-stumbling, between his large, knobby knees. Your hand flew to the edge of the desk so you wouldn’t trip over right into his chest (admittedly, if he was in a better mood, you probably wouldn’t have been so quick to catch yourself), and as you regained your bearings, you found yourself sucking in your cheeks to stave off a full-on beaming smile. You should’ve known better than to think John F. Kennedy was ever not in the mood, phone call be damned.

You were close enough to him now that, when you finished smoothing your rumpled skirt and looked up at him, you could smell the confused mix of cigar and minty toothpaste on his breath, and you could see the secret swirls of gray and green surging through the stormy blue of his eyes. He was definitely the most handsome man you’d ever been with—the combination of his boyishly-freckled, chronically-sunburnt cheeks with the square-shaped, no-nonsense masculinity of the rest of his face was undeniably endearing. During the quick half-second you two hung there staring at each other and his pupils (at last!) zeroed in on you and you alone, you felt a sudden sear of jealousy for the First Lady. It must be wonderful, you sighed inwardly, to be loved by a man so attractive. Sure, you were called in almost daily to the President’s office or the White House pool to help him “blow off some steam,” but you weren’t dumb enough to think that was love. You’d seen how he and his wife giggled like teenagers while they whispered in each others’ ears and how, whenever she spoke, he gazed down at her with eyes so soft and tender it made your heart hurt. The two of them simply sparkled. And though you liked to think you’d achieved a certain level of friendship with the President, he’d always made it clear, without ever having to say a word, that no one—not you or any other pretty young secretary, no matter how good you all got at giving blowjobs—could ever hope to reach the height of the First Lady’s pedestal in his mind.

As if to illustrate that very point, the President moved the receiver a few inches from his mouth and tore you from your thoughts with the very first words he’d spoken to you all afternoon, which were: “Don’t waste any time now, alright?” with a pointed glance down between his legs for emphasis. Then he added, “I’m having one hell of a day” and reached around to plant a firm pat on your butt.

And so, you began the familiar routine of stripping off your clothes and laying them neatly to the side—to ensure they’d stay wrinkle-free—until you were wearing nothing but your skin-colored stockings and the cross around your neck (for some depraved reason, the President liked it when you wore that necklace while you sucked him off).

You barely had time to kneel before he was clasping his hand around the side of your head and hooking his giant, hairy-knuckled thumb in your mouth to practically drag your face closer. Your throat tightened around a sharp intake of breath. Lord, he was impatient.

While you were in the middle of unzipping his slacks and pulling his penis out from the big bramble of hair beneath his belly, you suddenly jumped, startled once again as his voice sliced through the room, deeper this time and undercut with a predatory rumbling you could feel in your chest. “That fucker,” he snarled into the phone, which was now balanced between his shoulder and ear. “You oughta tell him he can stick that silly little ultimatum, if that’s what it is, right up his ass.”

Electricity sizzled up through your stomach. The President was going to be rough with you today, you could tell. You almost wanted to thank Castro personally for riling him up so much (you might’ve felt guilty for thinking something like that, but you were so confident the President would never let anything happen to his country that you truly didn’t see why Castro’s threats should be any cause for concern). Why the idea of the President taking his anger out on you was such a thrill, you weren’t sure. You were simply desperate for human touch as fast and hard as you could get it, you supposed—and in that way, if in no other, you thought you and the President were sort of kindred spirits.

You were practically leaning into his palm like a purring cat when he pulled his hand out of your mouth and ran it up over your cheek and back across your scalp to gather all of your hair into a makeshift ponytail. He was muttering into the receiver all the while (“Uh-huh. God, I know. Shit.”), his voice wet with saliva from the two or three painkillers he’d popped absentmindedly into his mouth.

Once your hair was all out of your face, you spit into your hand just like he’d once taught you to and gave the length of his gradually-stiffening cock a few long, indulgent strokes. But to your dismay, he gave absolutely no reaction. You watched, puffing your cheeks out with frustrated air, as he slowly set his cigar down in the ashtray and, like you weren’t even there, began tapping his pointer finger against his teeth like he always did when he was lost in thought—thought that clearly had nothing to do with you.

You didn’t waste any more time before bending over and wrapping your lips around him, eyes fixed frenetically on his face, and you swore your heart itself squealed with joy when, finally, his eyes flicked down to you, and he tilted the receiver away again to let out an appreciative, whistling breath.

You felt your hair tangle around his fingers as he moved his hand from the back of your head to the nape of your neck, and then, barely giving you enough time to adequately relax your throat, he pushed your head down with appalling strength, his tip jamming up into you with enough force to rub the insides of your cheeks raw. Your hands latched onto his knees.

“There we go,” the President said in a soft half-whisper-half-groan that made your inner thighs flush hot. “Atta girl.” Always the one to set the pace, he began moving you hastily up and down.

After working through the first eye-watering, throat-burning few seconds, you thought you were adjusting pretty well—until his hips made a sudden, violent twitch while he was buried to the hilt in your mouth (which was accompanied by a heaving grunt that could’ve been either from pain or pleasure, you weren’t sure), and you hacked a loud, wet cough that made the guy talking in his ear falter and go silent for a moment.

Your eyes fluttered wide. Had the President’s men heard you?

The President certainly seemed to think so, because he suddenly jerked you still halfway up his cock, which only served to send you into a fresh fit of choking, your whole body wracking with every cough. In an attempt to drown you out, the President leaned back in his chair and spoke louder into the phone. “Well, that bastard’s incompetent,” he said, patting his fingers against your cheek as if that would somehow shut you up. “I wouldn’t have him running, uh, a cathouse.” His wedding band burned cruelly against your skin.

Eventually, he oh-so-benevolently relented and lifted his hand from your neck, and you instantly whipped your head up—not so much to catch your breath (you were pretty sure you would’ve gotten ahold of your coughing fit without having to interrupt your “de-stressing” session if he’d have given you just a few more seconds) as to gauge whether or not you’d only made him angrier with all your noise. But to your relief, he was actually smirking now as he looked down at you, his lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh, completely unfazed by the men now clearing their throats and timidly resuming the conversation in his ear. That figures, you thought. The President probably wanted those men to hear you, deep-down. You knew him well enough by now to understand that he occasionally got off on the fact that his bodyguards and cabinet members were plainly aware of how many doe-eyed, obedient women—not just secretaries and interns but Hollywood starlets, too—he had giggling and dropping to their knees at the snap of his fingers.

At least you’d gotten him to smile, though—if not exactly in the way you’d hoped.

After a long pause, during which you were trying in vain to wipe away all the spit and pre-cum that had dribbled down your chin, the President said with an air of finality, “Alright, there really isn’t anything more to say here.” Say hee-ah. You froze mid-wipe and let out an excited gasp.

He responded by scooping a strong forearm under your armpit and hoisting you up onto his lap like you were nothing but a tiny doll, forcing you to clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle a squeak of surprise.

Leaning against his warm chest was like reclining into a giant sofa back as you settled onto his muscled leg. His penis, now only half-erect again, stirred plaintively against the inside of your thigh, seemingly sulky after having been abandoned.

“I’ve got my hands full over here.” The President was grinning widely at his own pun as he took to rubbing his free hand down your body, the width of his fingers splaying across the entirety of your stomach as he inched toward your clit with agonizing slowness. In retaliation, you reached back over his shoulder to grab a fistful of thick auburn hair.

“Call me back this evening with some good news, would you?” was the the last thing the President said before, in a blur, the receiver was slammed into its cradle and his hand was around your neck, his fingers were in your mouth, his hips were twitching up into your backside with an eager mind of their own. Suddenly, you could feel his heart thunking between your shoulder blades and your ear growing moist with heavy, animal-like breaths.

“God,” he groaned as he finally let his hand fall to your clit. “God-fucking-dammit. You drive me crazy, you know that? You dirty little girl.”

He started nibbling on your neck (he’d never actually kissed you—this hungry, barely-restrained biting, like a wolf chomping at its muzzle, was the closest he ever came) and cupping your breasts and tugging at your nipples with the same fiery-eyed ferocity you’d seen when he was on the phone. You and the other secretaries teasingly referred to this do-or-die passion of his as the famous red-blooded Kennedy “vigor” the press always talked about. Though what the press didn’t know, you and the girls always joked, was that this eager, youthful energy—this incessant, almost pathological need to dominate and conquer—extended far beyond just bull-headed political policies.

“They heard you,” the President was murmuring between his little bites. “God, they all heard you. That excites you, doesn’t it?”

Unwilling to admit how right he was, you instead smothered your face in his hot, pulsing neck to cover up a whimpering moan, and then you were twisting around to loosen his tie, unable to stop yourself—when a loud knock banged against the Oval Office doors.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the President griped dramatically against your ear, making you laugh.

“I can come back later,” you said, more pleading with him than anything, whispering right into his mouth. You watched his eyes flick ravenously around your face as you wrapped your hand around his cock and added, with a small chuckle, “To finish you off.”

“That you will,” he said, “if you know what’s good for you.” Then he gave you that long-awaited wink and grin before wrapping his hands around your waist to stand you back up, and you were pleased to hear him groan softly at the loss of contact.

When you bent down with wobbly legs to pick up your clothes, he offered you his hand to hold and steady yourself on, and you felt yourself blushing at this perversely chivalrous gesture, even though he’d done similar things countless times before and was always unabashedly ogling your body as he did so.

“That knock means I’m going to have to head down to the Sit Room,” he told you then, wearily running his fingers through his perfectly-mussed hair while you tugged your blouse over your head, one hand still cradled in his. “But in about an hour, when I come back,” he continued, “I want you in here, naked and lying on that sofa over there.” He flung a finger towards the parlor area across the room.

You breathed a smiling sigh and shook your head, knowing you’d soon be in your office counting down the seconds. “Whatever you say, Mr. President.”

[collegetennisoriginstory]

Colleges in the Two Coast Conference

There are 13 schools in the Two Coast Conference, of which Cargill is a part of. Colleges will compete for a place at the eventual NCAO Div I championships.

<This information will be in the choice script stats glossary page.>

— East Coast (8) —

Cargill University (New York) - Coyotes

Empire State University (New York) - Bulls *RIVALS*

Miami State University (Florida) - Manatees

University of the Carolinas (N/S. Carolina) - Deer

Appalachia University (Virginia) - Patriots

Maryland Institute of Technology (MIT) (Maryland) - Robins

True North College (Maine) - Moose

— West Coast (5) —

North California College (NoCal) (California) - Grizzlies

State University of South California (SUSC) (California) - Suns

Valley Institute of Technology (Valtech) (California) - Vultures

Portland University (Oregon) - Lumberjacks

Pacific Northwest College (Washington) - Redwoods

[anghraine]

Fellow PNW Tumblr girlie here - people outside the PNW definitely do not understand it at all 😂 I'm from Oregon, not WA, but when traveling on the east coast I've actually had people not know where Oregon is at all 🤦‍♀️ I've resorted to just saying west coast now, bc people will be like oh where are you from and then go 🙂???? when I say Oregon 😂😂

I've forgotten what prompted this, but you're entirely right, lol. It is genuinely a bit incredible to me how little most of the country knows about the PNW (despite all the griping about "coastal elites" not knowing all the nuances of other regional cultures). I almost always have to say I'm from "north of Seattle" to give people even a vague sense of my background (in reality, I grew up over 100 mi north of Seattle, but most people know so little about Washington that they just get blank and confused if I say anything more specific—even "on the Canadian border" is not always illuminating, somehow!).

I definitely feel you about Oregon, as well. My mother's family lives in eastern Oregon, a bunch of my other relatives in central and western Oregon, and I lived in various parts of the state for over ten years, so it's very recognizable to me personally—yet most people I meet away from the PNW seem to have zero familiarity with anything about it except sometimes Portland. Occasionally a conversation arises in which I think about trying to explain how much eastern Oregon is absolutely not the stereotype of the PNW but is still very PNW in some ways, but it would require so much explanation that I usually don't bother.

I remember the first time I really travelled away from the PNW as an adult, when I went to this conference in Florida and met some awesome people. But it was kind of funny because all these people who were mainly from the East Coast were like "you're from Washington? The West Coast? It must be so scary!" while a literal tornado had just struck outside of where we were in Orlando and it tore palm trees up by the roots and nobody seemed particularly perturbed. It turned out the "scary" West Coast thing they were thinking of was earthquakes, which ... uh, don't exactly dominate life in the PNW, lol. I thought for sure it'd be the ever present threat of Rainier melting Seattle or something like that, but no, the West Coast is just California+ to the rest of the country (and "California" is just LA or SF despite how absolutely gargantuan it is).

[bongaboi]

Gonzaga: 2022-23 West Coast Men's Basketball Champions

LAS VEGAS -- Gonzaga's players heard the criticisms this wasn't the same Bulldogs team that has been among the nation's elite in recent years, and they even struggled themselves to live up to the program's enormous expectations.

"There were numerous days where I was not fun to be around," Gonzaga coach Mark Few said.

The Bulldogs kept working at it, and on Tuesday night, No. 9 Gonzaga sent a message to the rest of the country with a dominant-from-the-start 77-51 victory over No. 16 Saint Mary's in the championship game of the West Coast Conference tournament.

The Zags (28-5) continued their domination of the WCC with their fourth consecutive tournament championship and 10th in 11 years, with Saint Mary's in 2019 being the only exception. Gonzaga has won 21 tournament titles overall.

Drew Timme scored 18 points and became Gonzaga's all-time leading scorer, earning tournament Most Outstanding Player.

"I took for granted winning," Timme said. "I won so much in my career, it's a shock not to win. I think early in the year, it just kind of made me appreciate what it takes to win night in and night out. I think sometimes we kind of assume we were just going to win because we're Gonzaga.

"Sometimes it's hard not to fall into mindset we just need to get to March. It was grind this season. I think that grind has made us as a group appreciate each and every night winning and what it takes to win and be a good team."

Saint Mary's (26-7) was seeded first in the tournament after the teams split the regular-season series, and Timme said it was strange wearing a blue jersey rather than the customary white one. The Gaels were the last team to beat Gonzaga, which takes a nine-game winning streak into the NCAA tournament that includes beating Saint Mary's to end the regular season.

Both teams will find out their seedings and destinations Sunday.

Gonzaga made 58% of its shots, while holding Saint Mary's to 33% shooting. The Bulldogs led by as many as 37 points and never trailed.

Timme was efficient in making 8 of 10 shots to lead four Bulldogs into double figures. Malachi Smith scored 14 points, Nolan Hickman had 12 and Julian Strawther 10. Anton Watson had 10 rebounds.

Timme's short jumper with 10:18 left put him alone in first place as the leading scorer in Gonzaga history. He entered just five points short of breaking the mark, and his 18 points for the game gave him 2,210 for his career. Frank Burgess held the previous record of 2,196 from 1958-61.

Logan Johnson led the Gaels with 20 points, and Alex Ducas scored 10.

Gonzaga took control early, using a nine-point run to go up 14-4 and maintained a double-digit lead most of the way from there. The Zags at one point in the first half made 10 of 12 field goals, and by halftime, they had taken full command with a 37-19 lead.

"I told our guys we played 32 games and played pretty well in 32 of them," Saint Mary's coach Randy Bennett said. "This one, we're off. You can credit them. They played well. We didn't show up."

[female-buckets]

WEST COAST HOOPS AGENDA IS ALIVE AND WELL!!!!!

Now add Denver Colorado and move the Minnesota Lynx to the Eastern Conference :)

[ptersparkers]

OH MY G O D YOUR HOT WIFE X NEIGHBORS FIC INSPIRED THE MOST CHOOSE ME LOVE ME SCENARIO IN MY HEAD. so for the sake of this story let’s say aaron doesn’t have a kid. what if you’re away on a business trip but that’s when he moves into the house officially, and you’re not gonna be home for a week. so the girls across the house don’t know that he’s married since you don’t help him move in (obvs) and they try to flirt with him and he’s panic calling you and you come home and BAM they’re embartasssed

hi! i’m so glad you liked it. hope you don’t mind that i made y/n the breadwinner here x

***

Aaron panics when he realizes you aren’t in bed next to him when he wakes up. But then he remembers you’re on a business trip on the west coast.

He dropped you off at the airport on Sunday morning and couldn’t wait until you came home. The timing was incredibly terrible too—you’d been asked by your superior to attend a conference to represent the hospital you worked at, all while moving into a new house. You had only moved in your clothes and mattress before you had to leave.

Aaron took Monday off to help the movers load everything into the U-Haul trucks. They were parked out front and Aaron helped unload the boxes in the vehicle, telling everyone where his belongings should be placed. He’s grateful your incessant need to label every box came in hand.

After he tipped each mover handsomely, Aaron ordered takeout and caught up on reports for the thirty minutes he let himself eat. But the boxes were calling his name and he knew there were more things from his apartment he could fit into his car with a few trips.

He cleans up and heads out to the car that’s parked in front of his house when he sees two girls approach him.

“Hi,” one of them greets.

“Hi?” Aaron says, though it sounds more like a question.

“We noticed you’ve just moved into the neighborhood and wanted to introduce ourselves,” the other says.

They tell Aaron their respective names and Aaron gives them a tight-lipped smile before giving them his name. He excuses himself to pick up his belongings.

It’s almost second nature for Aaron to recognize when people are looking at him. It’s the caution of his job and he’s not oblivious to the way the girls from before are staring at him from where they’re lounging in the front yard.

Aaron makes the mistake of glancing in their direction when he makes the turn onto his street. One of the girls waved at him and he snaps his gaze back in front of him.

The two of you agree to keep your 911 Turbo in the garage while his car sits in the front street until the boxes occupying his space are put away. Aaron starts to move the boxes into his house when the girls approach him again.

“Hey, Aaron,” Girl One greets.

“Need any help with these boxes?”

“No thanks,” he says honestly.

“Are you sure? You have a lot of boxes.”

He contemplates. Aaron’s not particularly interested in having strangers in his house but he doesn’t want to waste time by moving each box one by one. He needs to make one more trip to his old apartment before everything’s moved completely and didn’t want to pay the movers extra if he could do it himself.

“Sure,” Aaron says curtly.

The girls giggle to themselves and pick up each box. Aaron tells them to be careful with them and opens the door to let them inside.

“Wow, this is a big house,” Girl Two comments. “Do you live here alone?”

“With my wife,” he says, distracted by picking a place to put the boxes. He makes a motion for the girls to put the boxes down and walks to his car to get another box.

“Is she here?” Girl One asks.

“She’s on a business trip.” 

“Where’d you move from?” Girl One asks, brushing her hand against Aaron’s when she picks up a container. He moves aside and back into the house.

“Around the area,” is all he offers.

Aaron decides that he’s too tired to continue moving and unpacking after he tells the girls he doesn’t need anymore help. He gets the feeling they want him to ask them to stay, especially after finding the box with liquor and other bartending tools. Aaron takes the Hawthorne strainer from Girl Two, who seems a bit too excited after his hand touched hers.

Weirded out by the day’s interactions, Aaron decides to call you before he goes to sleep.

***

It’s halfway through the week when Aaron realizes they’re trying to flirt with him. He’s so preoccupied with work and unpacking when he returns home that he doesn’t pick up the fact that the girls are the first ones to greet him when he gets out of his car.

They’re always standing a bit too close to him and speaking to him like he’s a prize and they’re the winners. It feels all too uncomfortable to him, especially when they’re putting this hands on his bicep when they approach. He always leaves them standing alone, too devoted to you to even think about what they want from him.

Aaron thinks his job has seeped into his life after work. Particularly, his sense of perception. He’s friendly with his other neighbors and has accepted a few get togethers on his and your behalf. But these neighbors aren’t interested in him like these girls are. He’s perceptive of the way they change into clothing that’s the opposite of casual, the way their voices drops a few octaves when speaking with him, and the way their hands never seem to stay by their sides.

He finds it disrespectful because they know he has a wife.

He can’t wait until you’re home. You haven’t had a moment to spare except for quick goodnight calls and good morning texts, and he misses you.

Friday finally comes and Aaron’s able to take work off an hour early to pick you up from the airport. He’s taking your 911 Turbo, knowing you likely miss your car, and backs out of the driveway with the windows down.

Aaron hears whistling coming from his left side and he doesn’t need to know it’s those girls again. He rolls his eyes and steps on the gas without realizing it makes him look that much more attractive to them.

He meets you at the arrival gate after parking your car in the airport garage and attacks your face with as many kisses as he can muster. You’re giggling at him, which makes Aaron kiss you like he hasn’t kissed anyone in a year.

“Missed you, baby,” he mutters. Aaron pulls away and kisses your forehead before taking your luggage in his hands.

“I missed you too,” you say. “I’m sorry those girls are giving you trouble.” Aaron sighs and leads you to the car.

“Nothing I can’t handle but I’m glad you’re home.”

Aaron drives while you talk about the conference and catching up with old friends from your time at medical school. You’ve got the widest smile on your face and Aaron finds it troubling to look at the road because all he wants to do is look at you. 

He pulls into the driveway and opens the garage doors, parking the car inside of it. The both of you step outside and he’s about to close the door when he hears a voice from inside. 

“Aaron?” Girl One asks. 

She’s with her friend and they look more than startled to realize you’re standing next to him. 

“Ladies,” Aaron greets curtly. 

“Can we help you?” you ask.

Aaron’s not off the mark about how he described them: young, bold, and extremely nosy. The two girls are looking inside the garage and inspecting the car before looking between the both of you.

“What, you need Aaron to pick you up in his Porsche?” Girl Two scoffs. 

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, you just look like the type of person who would marry Aaron for his money.” 

Aaron recognizes that look on your face. Your eyebrows are raised, your mouth is slightly ajar, and you tilt your head as if to ask them to continue speaking their own version of the truth. 

“Let’s get one thing clear,” you begin. You gesture at the Porsche. “This is my car. I paid for it. This house? I paid for it. You don’t have the right to throw accusations about me when you’re standing on my property.” 

Girl Two tries to say something but gives up. Her friend tugs on her elbow and they retreat back to their side of the street as Aaron closes the garage door. 

“Who’s gonna tell them you pay for some of the house, too?” you sigh, feigning guilt. Aaron closes the door behind him and pulls you close to him by your hips as your arms move around his neck. 

“You pay more than half,” he says, kissing your nose. 

“Just a smidge.”

“The girl’s don’t need to know that.” 

[accio-victuuri]

sharing the article for chanel show in shenzhen. ☺️

Movies are like an invitation, allowing us to enter a life created by vision. In a moving dream. The reason why Chanel has a deep connection with this field is that fashion also shares this vision and mission: dream creation, connection. Connect with each other and broaden your horizons.

Virginie Via interprets dreams through creation: bringing different worlds to each other. Connection and collision inspire rich and diverse beauty. Los Angeles and the American West. The film industry and joyful atmosphere of the coast inspired Virginie to create the 2023/24 early spring vacation and you are invited to join this event about the journey of dreams.

Following Los Angeles, the 2023/24 early spring vacation series conference will be as follows: Come to Shenzhen today. From this, we are in this vibrant city to together, experience the dream and witness the profound connection between the Chanel brand and China.

Los Angeles is the beating heart of film. This season's Chanel cruise collection interprets the city’s light and shadow, the charm of the black and white movies of the 1930s. How do you feel about this city?

Wang Yibo: Warm and sunny, rich street culture, vibrant city. This time I was also very happy to play roller skating in Los Angeles.

How do you see the relationship between Gabrielle Chanel's creations and cinema?

Wang Yibo: It has built a bridge between the film industry and the fashion industry. Ms. Chanel served as a stylist or costume designer in many early Hollywood movies.

What’s your favorite piece in this season’s early spring resort collection?

Wang Yibo: I prefer a hooded cardigan. The cardigan itself is low-key black. The white and gold hats make the whole outfit very stage-like, sparkling and very suitable for dancing. There are also various sneakers and skateboard-style accessories.

he wore the clothes from that collection so well! especially the third one! 🤍

[eretzyisrael]

Alone at the helm

PM Netanyahu is the sole world leader who is standing against radical Islam.

Sep 04, 2024

Israel National News

By Phyllis Chesler

As I've long feared, the entire world is now electrically pre-wired with Jew hatred. From coast to coast, on every continent, every day, pro-Hamas demonstrations disturb the world's peace.

It has only gotten worse after 10/7. At every conference, on every holiday, and on every campus, the hoarse cries of "Free Palestine" pierce the air. The surging, keffiyeh-masked pro-Hamas mobs are seemingly everywhere. They are not stopping anytime soon, even if Democrats try to claim they are. They constitute Iran's bought-and-paid-for global army.

Iranian, Qatari, and left wing billionnaire funding of both Jew, Israel, and America hatred for the last fifty years have accomplished this. Everyone absolutely refused to see the danger coming. One cannot blame only PM Netanyahu for this blindness, the entire world is guilty as Hell. This time, the Gates of Vienna have fallen and Europe has already reaped the deluge.

Think of it: Hamas massacres and wounds thousands and kidnaps many hundreds of Israeli civilians--and Israel gets cursed for fighting back.

Hamas sadistically executes six completely beaten-down, still shackled, Israeli hostages in cold blood--and pro-Hamas demonstrations take place in Bled, Slovenia (!), at a global conference which is just ending.

In Bled, a so-called "Ambassador" from "Palestine" and a Palestinian Arab soprano had speaking (and singing) slots--and only one Israeli, left-wing Tzipi Livni, a former Knesset member and the minister responsible for the failed 2006 UN Resolution 1701 which prohibits all armed militias from operating anywhere in all of Lebanon, and who has long been out of power, was there, telling the Europeans just what they want to hear.

Media the world over continue to lead with headlines which position Israel's fighting back as pre-emptive overkill, as demonically genocidal.

Once again: Hamas sadistically executes six hostages, hours away from being rescued, and Israelis who want a very different kind of state, not the one they have, stop traffic in Tel Aviv, call a half-day strike, blame only PM Netanyahu for Israel being attacked by Iranian proxies on three fronts simultaneously.

These Israeli protestors, mad with grief and fear, (heartbroken too), do not march to protest at the Gaza border, or attack Iran demanding the release of the remaining hostages, dead or alive. They do not take on the mullahs. No one does.

PM Netanyahu is the sole world leader who is standing against radical Islam. Presidents Obama, Biden, and Vice-President Harris all enabled Iran to get this far. If Harris is elected, I have every reason to assume that she (and her handler, Obama), will take it even further.

If the world does not back PM Netanyahu--we will all be overrun by radical fundamental Islamists who yearn for the destruction of the West and for a Shii'a Caliphate.

[connormccafferyhater]

Babe can you explain what conferences are and like what they do? I got queer-baited into basketball so im new here 😔

i’m not sure what you mean by conferences but i’m pretty sure you’re talking abt teams and stuff in the league or in college. i’m 99% sure there’s conferences in every sport but in pro sports it’s separated by coasts i’m pretty sure, like in the wnba it’s east and west. in college sports, the conferences basically help coaches create like a basic schedule so they’re not traveling all over the place all the time because there’s colleges everywhere all over america, most of the teams in a certain conference will be in a certain area (ex: most of the big 10 teams are in the midwest, most of the sec teams are in the south, etc). during the regular season a team’s games are pretty much made up of in conference games and they play those teams consistently like you’ll see the same teams from a certain conference play each other 2-4 times in the regular season (including in the conference tournament) and they fill the rest of the schedule with non-conference games.