#Reporter

[amirasainz]

Hey love. Could I please request some Oscar story. Maybe Oscar and reader being in love with each other and the other drivers teasing them a bit but still think it's cute?

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 🧡

Quiet Hearts, Loud Paddock

The paddock buzzed with its usual chaos: mechanics bustling around, reporters scribbling notes, engines humming in the background. Yet amid the noise, one corner always seemed to shine just a little brighter — wherever Yn stood with her microphone, offering kind smiles and thoughtful questions to drivers who appreciated her genuine warmth.

Yn was the youngest reporter in the paddock, just twenty years old, but already well-liked by the entire grid. Her interviews were never intrusive or sensational. She focused on the people behind the helmets — their personalities, passions, and quirks.

And while everyone enjoyed her presence, one driver seemed particularly captivated by her: Oscar.

The quiet Australian wasn’t one to seek attention, but when Yn was around, his shyness melted into soft smiles, flushed cheeks, and playful remarks. The two of them turned every interview into a game of compliments and shy glances. Everyone could see it — the stolen looks, the way their eyes lingered a beat too long, the rosy tint coloring their cheeks after even the simplest interaction.

The other drivers found it both hilarious and heartwarming. But despite their teasing instincts, they decided not to meddle. Young love, after all, had its own pace.

----------

Media Day

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the paddock as Yn stood by the media pen, holding her microphone and checking her notes. She smoothed her blouse and glanced at the interview schedule. Oscar — 3:30 PM.

Her heart skipped. Why did she still get nervous? She’d interviewed him dozens of times, yet her palms always got clammy just before he arrived.

“Waiting for someone special?” a voice teased.

Yn turned to see Lando grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“No,” she said, feigning nonchalance. “I’m just working.”

“Sure, sure.” Lando’s eyes twinkled. “I bet your ‘work’ blushes as much as you do.”

Yn rolled her eyes. “Go annoy someone else, Norris.”

He laughed but left her alone.

Moments later, Oscar approached, dressed in his team polo and cap. Yn's breath caught, but she forced herself to smile as she raised her microphone.

“Hi, Oscar!” she greeted, too brightly.

“Hey, Yn,” he replied, his dimples showing instantly. “You look…uh…nice today.” His eyes flickered to her yellow blouse. “Sunshine-y.”

“Oh, thank you!” she said, cheeks warming. “You always look good in team colors.”

Oscar laughed softly, ducking his head. “I mean…it’s required, but I appreciate it.”

“So, uh…let's talk about the weekend ahead,” Yn said, refocusing. “How are you feeling going into tomorrow’s practice?”

“Excited,” Oscar said. “The car’s feeling good. The team’s worked really hard. I just hope I can do them proud.”

“You always do,” Yn said automatically.

Oscar’s lips parted slightly, as though surprised by her conviction. “Thanks,” he murmured. “That means a lot.”

She cleared her throat. “And how’s the track looking this weekend?”

“Challenging, but fun. I mean, you've walked it, right?”

“Yeah. Nearly tripped over a curb though.”

Oscar chuckled. “Well, I promise not to do that in the car.”

They both laughed, the tension easing into something light and familiar. The interview went on, sprinkled with gentle teasing and lingering glances. When they wrapped up, Yn lowered her mic, but neither of them moved.

“Well…good luck, Oscar,” she said softly.

“Thanks, Yn.” His eyes softened. “See you around.”

As he walked away, Yn exhaled deeply. Across the paddock, Lando caught her eye and mimed a dramatic swoon. She ignored him.

----------

Post-Qualifying Interviews

Oscar had qualified P4 — his best of the season. Yn’s heart swelled with pride as he walked toward her with a grin.

“Congratulations, Oscar!” she beamed as he stopped beside her. “P4! How are you feeling?”

“Over the moon,” Oscar said, running a hand through his hair. “The car was great. The team nailed the setup. Honestly…I’m just happy I didn’t mess it up.”

Yn laughed. “You? Mess up? Never.”

Oscar ducked his head with a bashful smile. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But I'm usually right.”

He met her gaze then, something unspoken crackling between them. She felt her cheeks flush and quickly asked another question.

Behind them, a group of drivers loitered near the hospitality suite. Carlos elbowed Charles.

“Look at them,” Carlos whispered. “They’re practically heart-eyes emojis.”

“Just confess already!” Charles mock-shouted toward Oscar.

Oscar heard. His neck turned bright red. Yn nearly dropped her microphone.

Max, standing nearby, shook his head. “Leave them alone. Let them figure it out.”

Carlos sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if they don’t kiss by the end of the season, I’m intervening.”

----------

Race Day

Oscar finished P4, earning solid points. Yn was the first reporter to greet him as he stepped from the car, hair damp with sweat and a tired but happy smile on his face.

“P4!” Yn said, raising her mic. “That was some brilliant driving, Oscar!”

“Thanks, Yn. It was tough out there.”

“You made it look easy,” she said, her admiration shining through.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, his usual tell of nervousness. “Well…maybe I had some extra motivation today.”

“Oh?” Yn tilted her head. “Care to share?”

His eyes met hers. “Nah. Not yet.”

Yn's breath caught. The air between them seemed to thicken, and the world blurred into the background.

When Oscar walked away, Lando sidled up. “Did he just flirt with you?”

“I don’t know,” Yn said faintly.

“You’re both helpless.”

----------

The paddock party was lively, music thumping, drivers and team members mingling with drinks and laughter. Yn stood by the balcony, watching the celebration unfold.

“Hey.”

She turned. Oscar stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “Congrats again.”

“Thanks.” He shifted on his feet. “I, um…wanted to say something.”

Yn’s pulse quickened. “Okay.”

Oscar took a deep breath. “I really like you, Yn. Like…a lot. And I know we’ve kind of danced around it for a while, but…I just had to tell you.”

Yn’s heart soared. “I really like you too, Oscar.”

His face broke into a smile of pure relief. “Really?”

“Yeah. Always have.”

The silence stretched, comfortable now. Then Oscar, emboldened by the moment, asked, “Can I…maybe take you out sometime?”

“I’d love that.”

They stood there, the party noise fading into a distant hum.

From across the terrace, Charles fist-pumped the air. “Finally!”

Carlos laughed. “Took them long enough.”

Lando raised his glass. “To the shy ones!”

Max shook his head with a fond smile. “Leave them alone, guys.”

But Yn and Oscar didn’t even hear. They only saw each other — their quiet love finally spoken aloud.

[wonderjanga]

Marvel Lying

One day, Billy realizes he can just lie. To press, to the JL (only when they really ask about his identity), and to world. And the best part is that almost no one can prove him wrong, because what’s Black Adam or someone else going to do? Prove him wrong? (I kinda already talked about this but meh) Like here’s something I can see Billy maybe doing because one time and one time alone, a reporter asked and he quotes:

Reporter: “Captain, I’m sure many people are speculating, and I’m sure it’s a question asked often, but who is your Missus Marvel?” *holds mic to Billy’s face*

Marvel: “…Huh?” *Has confused expression* “Can you repeat that?”

Reporter: “Who is your Missus Marvel?”

Marvel: “Uh… Ma’am, there is no—” *Does air quotes* “—Missus Marvel.”

Reporter: “Then who is the mother of Captain Marvel Junior and Mary Marvel?”

Marvel: “Uuuuh… Me? Technically? They’re both made from parts of me, but not parts *gestures to his lower region* of me, no.” *He shook his head.* “If I remember correctly Mary was made about 10000 years ago when one of my arms were chopped off. (He’s lying through his teeth right now. The only reason he hasn’t been caught is because of Achilles allowing him to bullshit his was through without blinking.)

Reporter: “I- I see.” *stunned*

Marvel: “And then Junior’s a…” *snorts* “…leg.” *Muffles a laugh into his hand not realizing no one will get his joke besides Freddy and Mary*

Reporter: *confused by Billy laughing but doesn’t say anything* “Interesting… Are Mary Marvel and Marvel Junior your only children? Spawn? Wards?”

Marvel: “Oh, yeah. I could more though. Like, watch this.” *Literally breaks off his ring finger, splintering the bone and everything without a single flinch. Then drops the finger on the ground and it morphs into what looks like a four year old Marvel. Billy picks him up and holds him like a parent would their toddler.* “It’s super easy.” *He’s even doing the slight bouncing that parents do when they hold their kids.* “But I don’t know… now that I’m holding this one, I’m starting to get attached. We might keep him.” *looks down at the mini Marvel, who in turn looks back at him.*

Reporter: *still horrified she watched a man, if he even is one, snap one of his fingers off like nothing. Said man’s finger nub is also still exposed to the world in all its disgusting glory. Safe to say she’s looking a little green* “O- Oh really?”

Marvel: *moves Mini Marvel around in his grip, and then suddenly throws the toddler like a paper airplane. Thankfully, instead of falling on the ground and splattering like meat pie, Mini Marvel takes to the skies is flying over the nearby crowd and such. Marvel turns back to the reporter.* “Yeah, but before that happens, he’ll have to develop a consciousness and personality. It took a bit for Mary and Junior to develop their own. Now they have their own likes, dislikes, and feelings. Who knows how long it’ll take the little guy.” (Again, he’s bullshitting this completely. He’s mishmashing Solomon’s wisdom on golems with things he makes up on the fly)

Reporter: “That’s… amazing.” *looks greener now. Looks to cameraman and motions for him to cut the feed. As soon as he does, her hand moves to her mouth.* “Oh my god, I’m going to be sick.” *runs over to nearest trashcan*

Marvel: “I guess that’s my cue to leave.” *starts to float off the ground* “Thanks for having me, miss!” *Marvel then whistles and Mini Marvel immediately stops entertaining the crowd and flies over to Billy and they fly off into the sunset.*

Elsewhere… Mary’s working an odd job for some money when she sees a tv on the news channel. She nearly has a heart attack because for three brief seconds she thought her dad was holding a young Billy in his arms like he used to. Then she blinked a couple times and realized it was just Billy as Marvel with four year old dressed like him. Fawcett kids really love Captain Marvel, huh?

(Oh yeah, and as for how he made Mini Marvel, he’s my hypothesis. When he broke off his finger, he destabilized its form and it reverted back to a part of living lightning for a brief couple of moments. Then, in an effort to not return back to the rock, as it could sense part of itself still nearby, it stabilized itself once more and forced itself to take the form of a miniature Marvel) (and if anyone makes sense of that, I’ll be darned)

[clubmiami]

News Reporter France, photo by Gian Paolo Barbieri, June 1977

[tswrites0]

Jury’s Still Out - footballer x sports reporter

The wind swept through the empty stadium, carrying the crisp bite of late autumn as Taylor Rooks stepped onto the field. She immediately lifted a hand to shield her freshly straightened hair, her long strands whipping against her face despite her efforts. A Brazilian blowout wasn’t cheap, and she wasn’t about to let Cincinnati’s unpredictable weather ruin it before her segment even started.

Dressed in a sleek coat and knee-high boots, she walked with purpose, her eyes scanning the field until they landed on him. Joe Burrow was out there alone, save for a trainer watching from a few yards away. He moved carefully, testing his knee with light footwork drills, the kind meant to ease him back into action. Even in the simple motions, there was something undeniably sharp about him—focused, determined, the same guy who turned pressure into poetry on the field.

Taylor exhaled, shaking her head slightly as she stepped closer. She had interviewed him before, had seen the intensity in his eyes when he talked about the game, but this was different. This wasn’t post-game adrenaline or locker-room bravado. This was a man fighting his way back from injury, alone in the cold, with nothing but the sound of the wind and the weight of expectation pressing down on him.

A gust sent her coat flaring behind her, and she instinctively reached up to hold her hair in place again. That was when Joe finally noticed her. He slowed to a stop, his breath visible in the chilled air as he looked her way. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t think I’d see you out here,” he called, his voice carrying across the field. “Braving the wind for me?”

Taylor let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Braving the wind for my job,” she corrected, though the teasing glint in her eyes said otherwise.

Joe tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering. “I don’t know,” he said, wiping his hand over his sleeve. “Feels like you’re putting up more of a fight against the weather than I am against rehab.”

Taylor arched a brow. “And who’s winning?”

His smirk deepened. “Jury’s still out.”

Taylor glanced around the field, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as the wind settled for a brief moment. The place was eerily quiet, the usual sounds of practice—whistles, laughter, the heavy thud of cleats—conspicuously absent.

“No teammates out here today?” she asked, her gaze drifting toward the empty sidelines.

Joe took a slow breath, adjusting the sleeve of his hoodie. “They’ve already left,” he said casually, like it was no big deal.

Taylor’s brows lifted. “So why are you still out here?”

He gave a half-shrug, glancing down at his knee as he flexed it slightly. “Wanted to get some extra work in.”

Something about the way he said it made Taylor study him a little closer. There was no arrogance in his tone, no need to explain himself—it was just who he was. The guy who stayed behind when everyone else went home.

She hummed, slipping her hand into her coat pocket. “And how’s the knee holding up?”

Joe exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight onto his injured leg as if testing it again. “Better,” he admitted. “Some days are still rough, but I’m moving the way I want to again. Just gotta be patient.”

Taylor nodded, reaching into her other pocket and pulling out her recorder. The moment she clicked it on, Joe hesitated, his eyes flickering to the device.

“The interview,” he said, more to himself than to her.

She gave him a knowing look. “That a problem?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Nah,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Can we walk and talk?”

Taylor gestured toward the field. “Lead the way.”

Joe started moving at a slow, steady pace, and Taylor fell in beside him, her recorder pointed in his direction. The wind had settled, but the cold still lingered, and as they walked the length of the field, it was just the two of them, his voice low and thoughtful as he spoke about his recovery.

As they walked along the edge of the field, Taylor kept her gaze steady on Joe, watching the way he moved—controlled, deliberate, but still careful. The weight of what he’d been through was there, even if he wouldn’t outright say it.

She let a beat pass before asking, “How do you make a comeback after an injury like this?”

Joe exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he thought it over. “You don’t think about the comeback,” he said finally. “Not at first. At first, you just think about the next step. Then the next one after that.”

Taylor nodded, her recorder steady in her hand. “And when does it shift? When do you start thinking about the bigger picture?”

Joe glanced ahead, eyes narrowing slightly against the breeze. “When you stop feeling like you’re rehabbing and start feeling like you’re playing again,” he said. “It’s a mental thing. You have to trust your body, trust that all the work you put in means you can move the way you used to. Maybe even better.”

Taylor studied him, intrigued. “So, is that where you are now? Do you trust it?”

Joe hesitated, just for a second, then met her eyes with a small, knowing smirk. “Jury’s still out.”

Taylor huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “You love saying that, don’t you?”

He grinned. “Keeps things interesting.”

Taylor let his words settle before shifting her recorder slightly. “Alright,” she said, tilting her head. “Then how do you keep yourself motivated? Rehab isn’t exactly glamorous.”

Joe let out a quiet chuckle, his gaze fixed ahead as they walked. “No, it’s not,” he admitted. “Some days, it’s frustrating as hell. Feels like you’re working twice as hard just to get back to where you were before.”

Taylor studied him, catching the brief flicker of something deeper in his expression. “So what keeps you going?”

Joe exhaled, thoughtful. “I remember what it felt like to play free. To not think about my knee, not second-guess every move. That’s what I’m chasing.” He glanced at her then, his voice steady. “I know I can get back there. That’s enough.”

Taylor nodded, letting a small pause stretch between them. “You ever have moments where you doubt it?”

Joe hesitated just for a second, then said, “Yeah. But doubt doesn’t do anything for me.” He shrugged slightly. “So I keep going.”

Taylor considered his words, impressed by the quiet certainty in them. She didn’t press further—he had already said everything that mattered.

She looked away from him, pulling a small notebook from her coat pocket and jotting down a few notes. The recorder had caught his words, but sometimes it helped to write things down—little observations, details she might want to come back to later.

Joe watched her, his gaze steady as she scribbled something onto the page. After a beat, he tilted his head slightly and asked, “So, did you plan on interviewing me today, or were you just hoping to catch whoever was still out here?”

Taylor glanced up, catching the teasing glint in his eyes. She decided to play along, tapping her pen lightly against the notebook. “Well,” she said, drawing out the word, “I was hanging around outside the locker room, but Tee was my first choice. He was just faster getting out of here.”

Joe let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Figures,” he muttered, still amused. Without another word, he lowered himself onto the grass, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Taylor arched a brow. “Getting comfortable?”

Joe leaned back on his hands, smirking. “Might as well. No rush, right?”

Taylor glanced down at him, the corners of her mouth twitching. “No rush,” she echoed, tapping her pen lightly against her notebook.

Joe patted the grass beside him. “Then sit.”

She eyed the spot warily. “I’m fine standing. Not really trying to get my pants dirty.”

Joe smirked, tilting his head. “If you sit, I’ll give you the inside scoop on why Ja’Marr got evicted.”

Taylor’s eyes widened slightly, her curiosity flaring. “You’re lying,” she accused, narrowing her gaze.

Joe just leaned back, looking entirely unbothered. “Guess you’ll never know.”

Without hesitation, Taylor dropped down beside him, crossing her legs as she hit record again. “Start talking.”

Joe raised a brow, glancing at her with an amused expression. “Is this interview supposed to be about me or every other teammate on the roster?”

Taylor pressed her lips together, then straightened up, putting on her most professional voice. “You’re right. My apologies, Joe. This interview is solely about you, your greatness, and your heroic return to the field.”

Joe laughed, shaking his head. “Relax, I’m joking.” Then, with a small smirk, he added, “I’m just not great with sarcasm.”

Taylor gave him a pointed look. “That’s a shame. It’s a major part of my personality.”

Joe shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to keep up.”

Taylor shook her head slightly, as if resetting her focus. “I’m gonna have to cut this recording up,” she muttered, making a quick note in her notebook before glancing back at Joe.

He smirked. “Can’t have me rambling about Ja’Marr’s eviction making the final cut?”

She gave him a look but didn’t take the bait. Instead, she clicked the recorder back on and asked, “Alright, what’s your relationship with your receivers like?”

Joe’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful. He stretched his legs out, resting his arms on his knees. “It’s all about trust,” he said. “You spend enough time with them, and you start to understand how they move, how they think. A good quarterback-wide receiver connection isn’t just about talent—it’s about knowing, without hesitation, where they’ll be and when they’ll be there.”

Taylor nodded, intrigued. “And how do you build that?”

Joe glanced at her, a knowing look in his eyes. “Reps. A lot of them.”

“That’s why you want to get back out there so quickly,” Taylor murmured, more to herself than to him, her voice thoughtful.

Joe ran a hand through his tousled hair, nodding. “Of course,” he said, exhaling. “Being injured… it can feel isolating. You’re still part of the team, but not really. You’re on the sidelines, watching everyone else put in the work, and it just—” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. “It feels like you’re not doing enough.”

Taylor studied him, the weight behind his words settling in. She knew that for a guy like him, someone who prided himself on his leadership and presence on the field, being forced to step back must’ve been frustrating.

“You have to make sure you’re good first,” she said, her voice softer now. “Your teammates understand that.”

Joe turned his head to look at her, his expression shifting. After a beat, he smiled—small, but real. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as he watched her jot notes down and the wind picked up again slightly, blowing a few strands of her hair into her face and sticking to her lip gloss. Taylor sighed before pushing her hair back.

“Can I?”

Taylor turned over to see Joe moving over closer to her to smooth her hair out. “It looks bad?”

“A few fly aways that’s all, you look beautiful…as always.” Even after saying that he kept his eye contact with her before she broke it, going back to trying to write but only coming up with a few random letters to make it look like she was writing.

“How long are we going to keep doing this, Taylor?”

That was the question that made her pen stop, “Doing what? The interview? We can stop it early and meet another day-��� She shut her notebook and cut off the recorder and by the time she looked up at him his eyes were already on her.

“You know what I’m talking about.” His voice was rough and he cleared his throat, “now that you got that recorder off let’s talk about us.”

Taylor shook her head and stood, “Joe.”

“Taylor please.”

[drawnwithrage]

Part one.

Part two: https://www.tumblr.com/drawnwithrage/775653457321492480/im-starting-to-know-what-im-doing?source=share

Omg, me and my unpredictable obsessions 🫣. (I did take some liberties, hope that’s ok.) Megamind is one of my favorite movies. I was obsessed with this film when it first came out. And I realized I haven’t made fan art of one of my favorite ships in a while. So after reading a really good fanfic (it’s called A Merry War by Keltatonic on Ao3) I decided I had to draw one of my favorite scenes. This author has reignited my love for Megamind. I highly recommend it or any of their stories really. I felt like I was watching this film all over again with this story. I had so much fun working on this. It took me weeks (work and my iPad kept dying 😞). Let’s see how much art I can make while this obsession last. (PS. I’m not interested in watching the 2nd movie or the show 😒). Ok, have a good one everyone! Be safe and stay warm 🌸.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621141/chapters/62191810

[liillyliilly]

I Need A Challenge

ushijima wakatoshi x reader words; 3804 synopsis; she writes a scathing review of ushijima's volleyball skills. how else should he respond if not by inviting her out to dinner?

She was tired of people like him. People who had no reason to be so stereotypically perfect. Everyone knows the type, comically good looking, is a prodigy in their one specific thing, acting so nonchalant that it ends up becoming their token personality trait. It was all so boring to her.

Which is why, as she was taking notes in the most recent Volleyball Nations League game, she wrote down some very harsh words for her analysis of star spiker Ushijima Wakatoshi. It was just the brutally honest truth of the world, she reasoned. Her editor, after reading the article she wrote at the game, almost dropped their jaw in shock at what she had written.

“This is really,” Editor Xhou sucked in some air through his teeth, “This is almost borderline libel material.”

She inspected her nails, shrugging as Xhou kept talking to her.

“I mean, you said that he is, and I quote from your own words, ‘Ushijima is the default setting for a volleyball player, there’s nothing too particularly unique’. You want me to let the paper publish this?” Xhou leans back into his office chair, pushing his glasses up and sighing.

“I write the truth, and the truth is that when Ushijima is on the court, you always know the exact plays he’ll make, the exact moves he’ll execute. The result is consistently the same. The games are too predictable when he plays.” She stands up from the seat opposite to Xhou.

Xhou sets the paper on his desk, checking that she really is okay with the article having her name attached to it.

A thumbs up is the only response she gives to her supervisor.

Xhou stamps the paper with his name, and faxes the documents to the coordinator putting together the sports magazine review for this issue. He wonders if the legal team is going to get involved again, he remembers the last player she reviewed, he was crushed and had to move to Alaska to play in a much smaller league. Xhou fully believes he’s going to get the magazine sued for letting her article fly.

Tendou finishes his squat set, hanging up the weights with a heave. Ushijima finishes his hundredth bicep curl, finally finishing his repetitions of this exercise.

Tendou pokes some fun, “I'm so sad for people without legs, they have to skip leg day.” He muses, trying to see what reaction or comment his best friend will make. Tendou twists and flexes in the full length mirrors lining the gym.

Ushijima only responds with a nod. He checks his phone, only to see that he’s received a little over four hundred notifications and counting. The beeping and noises start to pile up. Tendou peeks over Ushijima’s shoulder and gasps, he steals Ushijima’s phone away and immediately investigates what all the hustle and bustle could be related to.

“You should probably read this article, I think the writer has it out for your throat Wakatoshi.” Tendou grimaces while handing the phone back.

He skims the article, viewing the main talking points and major issues the author brings to light about his play style. His boring, everyday genius playstyle. He’s read criticisms of his volleyball skills before, but this one doesn’t seem too targeted solely about him, just using him as the mechanism to get a broader point across about the lack of challenges in volleyball recently. He chuckles at one of her comments, reading it aloud.

“Monster generation? I need a real challenge from these players, but all they’re giving me is platinum dreams without true passion and anger for the sport. I want them foaming at the mouth with new tricks, but I’m getting the same exact game over and over again.” Tendou cringes as Ushijima reads the words out loud. Ushijima stifles another chuckle.

Ushijima tucks his phone into his pocket, picking up his duffel bag. “I like her. She knows volleyball.”

It wasn’t just her comments, it was also the name of the author that Ushijima liked.

Tendou drops his water bottle in response to Ushijima’s behavior, stunned at the openness of amusement he has for the article and for the investment he has for this particular reporter.

Ushijima’s manager says that she’ll have a cease and desist letter issued to the paper for publishing such a slanderous piece. Ushijima proposes an entirely different solution.

She didn’t expect to be sitting at a restaurant, pencil and paper in hand, waiting for someone she just dragged through the mud to arrive so they could share a meal and an interview.

It was winter, and her reading glasses had fogged up slightly in the difference between the outdoors temperature and the warmth of the restaurant. The main features of the restaurant was the Western Style dining choices and decor, it reminded her almost of a hibachi place, but instead of Japanese food it was just a bunch of American and European dishes.

“It’s nice to see you again.” Ushijima pulls out his chair and settles into it, grabbing his glass of water so he can drink from it.

“High school seemed so long ago, but yes it is nice to see you again Wakatoshi. Sorry for the piece, your name just carries the right amount of importance to get my bigger points across.” She crosses her legs, setting her pencil behind her ear. The waiter comes around and takes their orders. He asks for the salmon, and she gets the house soup.

“No, I totally get it. But the statement about how people just continually eat up the single dish I serve? I thought you would’ve found a better analogy for my consistency on the court.” He just smiles at her, watching her move the pencil from behind her ear to her mouth so she could chew on it a little. One of her tells of when she was deeply thinking about how to respond to something.

Ushijima remembers all the stories she would write back in high school, ranging from sports analysis of Shiratorizawa clubs for her journalism extracurricular to getting paid to write love letters from person to person. She garnered enough money to pay for a new laptop and her entire wishlist of stationery items.

He remembers her lending him a pen once during class, it was a weightier metal pen. The ink was so black he was sure it was made of pure darkness. While he admired the pen she went into a rant talking about the pen itself, the quality of it and how it took forever to be delivered to her. They both got chastised by the teacher for having a side conversation and had to sit outside the classroom. But they ended up talking outside the classroom despite being told not to.

“Like you’d know what a good analogy looks like.” She hides her smirk behind a spoonful of soup. Ushijima appreciates her ability to be unapologetic, her honesty and bluntness matching his own linguistic traits.

They talk for three hours, about volleyball, life after high school, the article she wrote, about friends and the situations they found themselves in. Ushijima talks about Tendou and his chocolatier aspirations, she brings up Semi Eita’s new album that actually sounded truly alternative and unique.

He remembers her having a crush on Semi throughout high school. He didn’t really see why she would sit at their practices sometimes, just sighing wistfully, before freezing and turning flustered when Semi tried to make conversation like a normal person. But when Semi was seen to be a slight habitual complainer, she grew a distaste for him. Ushijima was sure that Semi was her longest crush, clocking in at around two months or so.

Ushijima did enjoy that she came to their practices sometimes, because then he could ask her about her pen collection and she would openly, loudly, and enthusiastically layer on every detail she could fit into her remarks. And she was someone who asked him about his favorite things, primarily volleyball but also about reading the advertisements in the Weekly Shonen Jump Magazine. Or about how good a runner’s high could feel sometimes.

Around her, he could share without fear of being misunderstood. She just accepted what she heard, and then analyzed it, taking her time and asking clarifying questions. He did his best to emulate her mannerisms and tact within their conversations, usually failing, but she didn’t mind.

She did openly declare an aversion for him throughout high school, that genius powerhouses should never be entertained with acknowledgement. What others considered harsh from her was almost like beaming encouragement for him. It was like she was telling him, if he didn’t continually improve and advance then the stagnation would leave him in the dust. A push in the right direction was more accurate of why she would say what she did about him.

He takes the bill from her, puts his gold debit card on the clipboard, and returns it to the waiter before she can even open her purse. Rolling her eyes, she sets some bills on the table and slides it over to him. Glaring at him until he accepts the cash and puts the bills into his wallet.

“Are you dating anyone right now?” Ushijima inquires while they walk down the street to get to the train station. The night air leaves a chill around the two of them. He had his hands tucked into his pockets, and she had her arms folded over her body.

Snow falls from the sky, catching the lights and making streaks of color burst in small flickers like fireflies. The piled up snow in the roads hadn’t yet been plowed thoroughly, and wasn’t sullied with pollution that made it yellow and black. The snow was much more like a blanket.

“Listen, I’m what people consider easy to love but hard to please. Most people say they felt like they were never enough for me when we were dating.” She bites on her bottom lip a little. It’s a confusing feeling to be unnerved by him, and she feels even more uneasy when she realizes that she’s speaking too openly. “I don’t intentionally degrade those I date, I just, I have high expectations. I don’t give many second chances.”

His breath comes out in puffs of white, winter nipping at his nose which makes him feel uncomfortable. He wonders if she’s as cold as him. He knew that she had high expectations, none of the boys at their high school got remotely close to being romantically involved with her. She wanted more than what most people could offer. She wanted someone who was as open as her.

She feels a little guilty about her article now. Maybe she pushed the words a little too much on his bad qualities. Ushijima really wasn’t that bad, he was just dependable and rational, which crafted his playstyle of being an ultimate pillar of strength for a team. Why shouldn’t a team go with the most reliable way of scoring points? Then she shooed the thought. If volleyball wanted to keep being popular, it needed to evolve.

“I liked your article a lot.” He offers, segwaying the conversation, knowing her thoughts better than she knew them. “Power goes far, but even then, there’s ceilings that need to be broken. There’s talents that need to be unearthed, planted, and then allowed to bloom.”

They sit on the bench under the covering for the train station. The screen shows that the train she needs to take will come in around ten minutes.

“Thanks. My editor was worried you were going to sue me for what I wrote.” She laughs a little, rubbing her hands against her thighs to build up some lingering heat in her hands and her body.

He passes her his gloves from his jacket pocket. Making a small hum he waves them in front of her. She accepts and embraces the black fleece covering her fingers.

“Oh, no, there’s no way I’d want you to be sued. But I do want you to add another part to the article.” He blows some air onto his hands, rubbing them together. She raises an eyebrow inquisitively, turning towards him on the bench.

Once he had finished reading her piece on Ushijima’s game, he went through and read all her other articles. He found out her favorite current player was actually Hinata Shouyou, the energetic innovator. She had written about his unique approach, due to natural athleticism. Also about his experience in Brazilian beach volleyball making his defense skills unique in the field of both Japanese volleyball and on a global scale. It was all about Hinata this, Hinata that. But could the ultimate decoy ever compare to the pillar of strength?

“What do you want me to change? I can’t make any promises.”

“Say I’m your number one, because I don’t do last place.” Ushijima lifted her chin up, looking right into her eyes. He inspects her face, the small miniscule motions her features display show that she’s listening, actively listening. “Did I ever mention that you’re the only one that has my attention?”

She really was. The only reporter he cared to give quotes to after big games, the only girl who he ever wondered if there was any possibility to develop a relationship with. He was hooked on every word she wrote, every interview she hosted online. She was in his world, but never overlapped her social circle with his for longer than an hour at best.

She swallows thickly, “I’m sorry to say this, but I really am unimpressed by your playstyle.”

He raises an eyebrow, sliding his hand from her chin to the side of her neck. He can feel the way her pulse is racing under her skin.

“We both know that’s not true.”

Her train arrived. She ducked under his hand and made her way onto the train. Before the sliding door closes, she motions him closer so she doesn't have to yell.

“Then show me your talents. I need a challenger for my first place.”

Tendou lies on his stomach on the floor, Ushijima is reviewing some plays written by his coach. He scans for any play that could show off his left hand spikes, or any play that he could try and improvise a receive if he wasn’t on the front row rotation. The plays are different from what he’s used to. But his coach said that they were all optional, and that Ushijima’s playstyle was perfectly fine as it was. But ‘fine as is’ doesn’t earn him any accolades in her book.

Tendou perks up, “I always felt like fighting had romantic undertones.” He references what Ushijima had told him about how the dinner with his reporter went last week.

“But I don’t want to fight her? I’d hardly call a slight disagreement a fight.” Ushijima sets aside the packet he had been studying.

He opens his phone and refreshes the webpage for the newspaper she worked for. When nothing pops up under her name, he goes to the calendar page to see if she’d be attending an upcoming game he’d be playing in. He sets his phone aside when he realizes she will in fact be in attendance.

“But you do want to fight for her ‘first place’ hottie player ranking.” Tendou kicks his feet in the air, crossing his feet and tapping the top of his head.

Ushijima stands up and goes to check his closet, seeing if he needs to get a tighter jersey for the upcoming game. “She never used the word ‘hottie’ when talking about her favorite player.”

“So you admit that you do want to be her favorite player?”

Ushijima finishes trying on the jersey over his long sleeve compression shirt, the jersey fitted better than he remembered. He tugs on the front of the uniform. Then what Tendou said clicks for him.

Ushijima blinks, “I do want to be her favorite player.” He doesn’t see why he would deny that observation. Being her favorite player would be the ideal situation for him.

Tendou rolls over onto his back and wiggles his pointer fingers in the air, “You want to be more than just her favorite player.” He sings the words in a teasing manner.

“Maybe I do.”

One time, near the end of high school, she was talking during lunch. Her friends were uninterested, wanting to discuss boys or homework instead of her critical worldview analysis. Her table was right next to the table that Ushijima and Tendou were sitting at, their volleyball friends already outside tossing around a ball.

Ushijima listened in, drinking his milk while Tendou ate chicken nuggets. When her voice got quieter, almost to the point of fading out entirely due to her slowly realizing her friends were not as interested in the conversation as she was, Ushijima leaned in subconsciously, trying to catch her words.

Tendou pinched Ushijima, telling him that if he wanted to listen to her, he should ask her to come sit with them. Ushijima froze. So Tendou invited her to come sit with them. Placing her lunch tray down, she ate a carrot, sensing Ushijima’s hesitance and Tendou’s eagerness.

It was Ushijima that spoke first, “Keep going. You remind me of someone. He said almost the same thing, about his worthless pride and not forgetting about it.”

She brightens. Continuing her dissection of the value of pride, she refers to Ushijima as a reference point for pride. Using him in her examples and demonstrations of her illustrative examples. Around the third time she says his family name, he makes another request.

“You can just call me Wakatoshi.”

Tendou drops his chicken nugget, but quickly regains his pace in eating the arms off the dinosaurs.

She says his name, once and then twice. Letting it settle onto her tongue and leave a trace of what a first name basis could mean. Pondering on that instead of her newest philosophy interest is quickly dropped. She only ever calls him by his name from then on.

Needless to say, the next game he plays at, she’s there, with her notepad and pen. Each receive, hit, serve, and toss is carefully recorded on her paper.

He doesn’t do anything too off the typical, but he does try new things his coach had mentioned. Pressuring an opponent’s highest scorer more, trying a few block kills when he’s in the right rotation, scoring some points off the tip of the blockers hands instead of cutting right through their attempts to defend. He’s more tired after this game than his last one. Yet, he had more fun this time around. His teammates seemed thrilled with the results of never having a gap less than five points.

After the game, before he goes to the locker room to debrief with the team and change into regular clothes, he stalks his way over to her. She’s talking to another reporter that had been sitting in the media section, but the other reporter just elbows her lightly when he notices Ushijima making an attempt to approach. The other man slowly walks away, bidding her a farewell.

She’s still sitting on the bench, cheekily covering her notes with her hand, and writing something down. When he takes a place next to her, he spreads his legs a little, expanding his presence and bumping their thighs into each other. She initially retracts from the touch, but relaxes into it.

He’s aware that his body is thinly sheened with sweat. It drips from the hair at his nape down his back and soaks into his player kit. She brings her notepad up to her face, looking at him over the spiral binding of the paper. Trying to hide her comments and analysis of the game, which had been overwhelmingly positive for Ushijima.

“What’s your professional opinion of the game?” He uses a finger to push down her notepad that was covering her nose. A streak of ink and pencil lead was across her cheek and nose. He brought his thumb up and wiped away the markings. At first swipe, nothing moved, so he slid his thumb over again with just a little more pressure.

“It was entertaining in a different sense. Rather than being solely athletic entertainment.” She licks her own thumb and finishes wiping away all the marks that she could feel him trying to get rid of. She misses a sliver on the apple of her cheek but he doesn’t say anything, enjoying the way that it makes her seem less intimidating and more adorable.

“Care to share with the class?”

“Well, when a certain player keeps trying to make eye contact during the game, when he should instead be invested in the game, it does pose some interesting investigative questions.”

At this point, Ushijima slid his hand to her thigh, asking her to explain further, “Such as?”

“When will he get up the nerve to ask her on a date? Will he take her for a ride in that brand new car he got? Does he need glasses from how frequently it seemed he scrutinized the audience in search of her?” She pauses, then continues, “And will he be mad if she writes something about how attentive the setter was during the game?”

“Soon, for the date. Most definitely a long car ride to the mountains. His vision is actually perfectly 20/20, he just wanted to make sure she was having a good time by observing her reactions. No comments for the setter, he’s a rookie, and much less attentive than an older, more experienced player.”

She hums a little in regards to his answers to her inquiries. Soon, she tugs on the back of his hand, the hand that was resting on her thigh. She bites the cap off her pen, waving the pen in the air, close enough to his skin for him to understand the point of what she was communicating.

The pen tickled the skin of his hand, but he liked the way she put one hand under his to make his hand rest flat so she could write her piece on his body. Capping the pen back up, she tucked it behind her ear.

Written on his hand was a series of numbers, along with a small doodle of a volleyball.

Getting up from her spot on the media bench, she leaves him with a short statement.

“I liked your response to my challenge. Keep making the Monster Generation bloom with each game Wakatoshi.” She halts for a moment, then turns back to him, “You can be my number one on those conditions. Blooming the Monsters and responding to my challenges.”

He’d return every challenge she gave him if it meant he could be hers.

[lonestarflight]

The second prototype of the Northrop XF-15A Reporter (42-8335) taking off. It started life as P-61C before being taken back to the modification shop of Northrop for conversion into the XF-15. It differed from the first prototype with its Pratt & Whitney R-2800-C Double Wasp 18-cyl. air-cooled radial piston engines

source

[euphorics-stuff]

𝘾𝘾'𝙨 𝙒𝙖𝙮 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

(cc x reporter!reader)

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜: ᵁʰʰʰ, ⁿᵒ ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍˢ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ..ʲᵘˢᵗ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ⁱᵍ ᶠˡⁱʳᵗᵃᵗⁱᵒᵘˢ ᶜᵃⁱᵗˡⁱⁿ.

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: ⁴⁶⁴ ᵂᵒʳᵈˢ

𝙍𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙩'𝙨 𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙚: ᴵ ʷʳᵒᵗᵉ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵃᵗ ²ᵃᵐ, ⁱᵗ'ˢ ˡᵒʷᵏ ˢʰᵒʳᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵛᵉʳʸ ʷᵉˡˡ ʷʳⁱᵗᵗᵉⁿ ᵒʳ ˢᵖᵉˡˡ ᶜʰᵉᶜᵏᵉᵈ ᵇᵘᵗ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ⁱᵗˢ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ. ᴬˡˢᵒ ᵘʰʰʰ ˢʰᵒᵘˡᵈ ᴵ ᵈᵒ ᵃ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ²??ˢᵒᵒ ᵘʰʰ, ᵉⁿʲᵒʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵈᵛⁱᶜᵉ, ᵗⁱᵖˢ, ᵃⁿᵈ ʳᵉqᵘᵉˢᵗˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵍʳᵉᵃᵗˡʸ ᵃᵖᵖʳᵉᶜⁱᵃᵗᵉᵈ.

As a reporter covering sports events, I had the opportunity to interview some of the most talented athletes in the industry. However, nothing could have prepared me for the encounter I was about to have with Caitlin Clark, the star basketball player known for her incredible skills on the court.

It was a typical day at the arena, and I was getting ready to interview Caitlin after her team’s latest victory. As she walked towards me, her eyes locked onto mine, and I couldn’t help but notice the way she glanced at my lips before meeting my gaze. There was a subtle hint of flirtation in her expression that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Hey there,” Caitlin greeted me with a charming smile, her voice smooth and inviting. “Ready for our interview?”

I nodded, trying to maintain my composure despite the unexpected flutter in my chest. As we started talking about the game, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that Caitlin’s attention was more focused on me than on the questions I was asking.

At one point, she reached out to adjust the microphone clipped to my collar, her fingers brushing against my skin ever so lightly. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I found myself momentarily lost for words.

“You have beautiful eyes,” Caitlin remarked casually, her tone playful yet sincere. “They’re almost distracting.”

I chuckled nervously, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks. “Thank you,” I managed to reply, trying to steer the conversation back to basketball.

But Caitlin wasn’t done yet. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against my ear as she whispered, “And those lips… they’re quite tempting.”

My heart raced as I struggled to maintain a professional demeanor in front of the camera. The chemistry between us was undeniable, and it seemed like Caitlin was enjoying every moment of our interaction.

As our interview came to an end, Caitlin flashed me a mischievous grin before turning to walk away. Before disappearing from view, she looked back over her shoulder and winked at me suggestively.

Little did I know that our flirty encounter would soon go viral online, with fans speculating about the nature of our relationship based on the footage of our interview. The comments ranged from playful teasing to outright shipping, creating a buzz around our unexpected chemistry.

Despite the attention it garnered, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to Caitlin’s flirtatious behavior than just a playful banter for the cameras. Perhaps there was a genuine connection between us that transcended our professional roles.

As I watched the video clip of our interview circulating on social media, one thing became clear - Caitlin Clark had left an indelible mark on me that went beyond just being another interview subject.

[coralsillustrations]

I kept seeing SadiexSaskia edits everywhere so, here we go.

Frustrated gfs on an interrupted coffee date 💋

[roxanneslosteyes]

You don't understand how much I need these men

I need them on my doorstep now, I need to take them out on dinners, They are so fine to me! I need them so badly!

[makingyourfavindti]

i made reporter from rhythm heaven in dress to impress

[facts-and-memes]

[vertigoartgore]

Lois Lane (sleeping on a plane with Superman far in the background) art print by French cartoonist Boulet/Gilles Roussel (2015). Source

[greenarrow-core]

While Clark is a mild-mannered reporter, Ollie is a wild-mannered reporter.

'Tec #543

[blondebrainpowered]

Groundhog Day, 1993