#best functional trainers

[technicallyhappyarcade]

Functional trainers are versatile pieces of gym equipment designed to provide a wide range of exercises and workouts. These machines use adjustable pulley systems, cables, and attachments to target various muscle groups, making them ideal for strength training, functional fitness, and rehabilitation exercises. With options for barbells, dumbbells, and body weight exercises, functional trainers offer a comprehensive fitness experience. Users can perform barbell squats, cable rows, lunges, and more, making them suitable for both beginners and advanced athletes. Whether you're looking to build muscle, increase flexibility, or improve overall fitness, functional trainers are a valuable addition to any home or commercial gym.

[functionalaf]

Best Personal Training Clarkson | Functional AF

Unlock your fitness potential with the best personal training in Clarkson at Functional AF. Our expert trainers are dedicated to helping you achieve your goals through tailored workouts, personalized guidance, and unwavering support. Whether you're aiming to build strength, improve endurance, or enhance overall wellness, our dynamic programs and state-of-the-art facilities are designed to empower you every step of the way. Experience the difference with Functional AF and embark on a journey to a healthier, stronger you. 

[kaizentrainingsolutions1]

Soft Skill Training in Delhi NCR

Kaizentraining Solutions is a leading provider of soft skill training in Delhi NCR. We provide a variety of courses that can help you develop your leadership, problem-solving, teamwork, communication, and other soft skills. In order to ensure that you learn the material properly, our courses are made to be interesting and practical.

[seapomelo]

The act of rape is an invaluable tool for anyone trying to shape the perfect doll. I see three main functions of it:

1. Correction of bad behavior

2. Instilling fear

3. Training or reminding of training

First thing that has to be noted is that rape is something to be done when you either have firm control over the cunt in question or control the environment she lives in.

Now, in the first role, one has to be aware that even with the best trainer, the trainee is still only a woman. Because of that, we cannot expect perfect understanding or execution of a task given by an owner.

In such situations the whore has to be punished. Rape can be used in case of small issues, but I think it may be ineffective in these cases.

The second one is similar; you are training a whore. Sometimes the whore - even though she understand you know best - won't want to listen to your command because of some stupid reason she has thought of. Fear is important in such cases. Leveraging it will allow you to force your bitches out of their control zones right into your pleasure zones.

Third and last is that raping your woman is the best way to teach her that she isn't important. Her focus should be to care about the man, serve him, fulfill his needs. The rest is not even secondary. Her pleasure is just a side effect.

How can rape be such a diverse tool? The answer is obvious if you look at what it does to the girl.

If done correctly, it is a very formative experience. It is frightening to just be taken, with no warning, forcefully in a way that is aimed not at fulfilling the Masters needs, but just to hurt the cunt. The mix of pain and pleasure from it is a very potent drug even for the strong minded bitches. Finally, if you make her cum during the rape, it is the final nail in the coffin of her independence; her body knows more about her needs than she knows herself.

The cunt that gets raped by your guest after she spilling hot tea on him will remember for a long time to be careful around people while carrying hot liquid.

The maid that won't clean something dirty because it is disgusting will fear, and will not put her preferences before your needs.

Even the idiot bimbo will understand her role in life after you once push her over and cum deep in her pussy.

Finally, it is such a great tool because raping your toys is just fun. Sensing the unease as you enter them, feeling them fight the pleasure... A magnificent feeling.

[forzalando]

hi marissa! first, i hope you have a wonderful time with your family!!

second, could i request “i might have had a few shots” with max, where reader drunk calls him after a breakup? thank youu 🫶🏻🫶🏻

i feel like i took some creative liberties with this one! i wasn't sure if you meant reader and max breakup or reader calls max after breaking up with someone else - so i went with the latter and couldn't resist making them idiots in love😭. after writing the danny ric angst, i needed to heal my own heart lol i truly hope you love it, liyah! thank you for always being so kind, it was a pleasure to write for you! wc: 1.8k warnings: cursing (most likely), a little bit of angst, mentions of drinking/reader being drunk

Getting ahold of Max Verstappen was nearly impossible – his use of the custom “Do Not Disturb” function was impressive. He had custom settings for everything: a work setting, a setting for when he was streaming, a race day setting, but his most prized was his sleep setting.

Once local time hit 10pm, Max Verstappen was unreachable to everyone. Well, almost everyone. His family, Christian, and you were the only exceptions, which aggravated Daniel to no end. “I’m your best friend, too!”, he’d claimed. But it wasn’t the same.

Max wasn’t secretly in love with Daniel. He’d take your calls anytime, day or night.

It was nearing midnight – Jimmy and Sassy were sound asleep at the foot of his bed and he’d been watching some legal drama you recommended. He hated it, but for you he’d watch it forever and take notes just to have another thing to talk to you about.

At this point, the show had practically put him to sleep, but the loud chime of his phone and your contact picture lighting up the screen jolted him awake.

“Maxie?” You yelled into the speaker. “Maxieee, are you there?”

“I’m here, liefje,” he chuckled. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Th’girls made me go out,” you whined. “Said I needed to dance and drink the night away.”

“And did you?” Max teased - by the sound of your voice, it was obvious you had taken their advice.

You giggled and the sound made Max’s heart clench in his chest. “I might’ve had a few shots, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret. Can you keep a secret, Max?”

His heart clenched now for a different reason – he was the best at keeping secrets. He’d been in love with you for over a year and the only living souls who knew were his cats. And probably Danny, though he'd had the sense to never bring it up.

“For you, I would do anything,” Max declared. In your drunken state, you failed to recognize the full extent of the meaning behind his words.

“Perfect!” You hiccupped, stumbling slightly before your friend caught your arm.

It was silent for a moment – Max waited for you to say something else but only heard your breathing through the speaker. “Is everything ok? Why did you call?”

“Well, no. Wanna go home but everyone else wants to stay out. Can you come get me, Maxie? It’s cold outside.”

“Are you alone?” He asked frantically, jumping out of bed and throwing a sweatshirt on in record time. He shoved his feet into his shoes so quickly that his ankle rolled – his trainer would be pissed when it came time for tomorrow’s workout.

“No, Nat and Peter are outside with me. They’re good friends. But not as good as you!”

Max breathed a sigh of relief – grateful that your closest friend and her boyfriend were watching over you. Unfortunately, the relief didn’t keep his stomach from twisting at “good friend”.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes, ok?”

You shouted thank you gleefully and hung up – he could picture you jumping up and down in excitement, you’d probably fall over unless Nat and Peter were close enough to catch you.

Minutes later, he pulled up alongside the club and he’d barely made it out of his car before you were jumping into his arms.

“I knew I could count on you, Maxie.”

He gently put you in the passenger seat, buckling you in and grabbing a jacket from his backseat to drape over you. Once you were comfortable, content, and ready to go, he turned to your friends to thank them for waiting with you.

“Thanks for staying with her until I could get here.”

“No problem at all,” Nat smiled. “We all thought she deserved a night out after the week she’s had, but I think she’d rather just be with you.”

Max blushed, unintentionally ignoring that your friend had just let slip you’d had a terrible week and he’d had no idea. He thanked them once again, and slipped into his car to find you half asleep and cuddling his jacket.

He thought you’d be out like a light in moments and turned the radio down, content to sit in silence until he got to his place. He’d rather die than wake you up to find your keys when you looked so peaceful.

“Can I tell you another secret, Maxie?” You murmured, startling him when you broke the still silence in his car.

“Sure, Y/N.”

“Alec dumped me. And I’m not even sad about it.”

Your latest boyfriend – you’d been dating for a couple of months. Max wondered why you had called him instead of Alec, but he didn’t want to ask since he didn’t particularly like talking about your boyfriends, even if they were nice. As far as he could tell, Alec was one of the nice ones.

“I’m sorry. Is that why your friends wanted you to go out?”

“They thought I’d be devastated,” you said bewildered. “And I haven’t even cried! You know me, Maxie, I’m a crier. I had to pretend to be upset when I told them.”

Max laughed at that, looking at you as you laughed along with him. His dimple and shining eyes caused your heart to skip a beat, and your smile slowly disappeared.

Suddenly, you had a horrified look on your face. You knew why you hadn’t cried – it was because you didn’t really care that much about Alec. Sure, he was sweet, kind, and attractive, but something was missing. When he broke up with you, he was so gracious, telling you that he thought the world of you but that it would never work because you were clearly in love with someone else. You’d protested – told him the only constant male presence in your life was Max, your best friend. He’d just smiled at you and said “I know”, leaving you perplexed when he left the coffee shop you had met up at. Until now, you had no idea what he meant.

You turned away from Max, shocked at the revelation of your feelings, staring out the window until he got to his apartment.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he explained when he saw your confused face. “Didn’t want to rifle through your bag for your keys or wake you up. The spare bedroom has fresh sheets anyway.”

You nodded, practically catapulting yourself out of the car and into his building. The speed at which you trekked up to his place was impressive, especially in the shoes you’d chosen for the evening, and Max began to sweat. Had he done something wrong? Were you pissed he didn’t take you home?

When he unlocked his door, you ran straight to the guest bathroom and shut yourself in. Max was disoriented – you didn’t seem that drunk, and truthfully you were only ever quiet when you were asleep.

While you were in the bathroom, Max put a change of clothes and spare toiletries on your bed, slipping out when he heard the sink stop running.

You smiled when you saw the pile Max had left on your bed, suddenly feeling very ashamed for abruptly ignoring him. The TV was on in the living room and after changing, taking off your makeup, and brushing your teeth, you felt slightly more sober and a lot more guilty.

“Max?” you whispered, slinking into the living room to sit beside him on the couch. “Can I tell you one more secret?”

“Of course, you can always tell me anything.”

“Alec broke up with me because he thinks I’m in love with someone else.”

“Well, that’s crazy,” Max scoffs. “He must not want to tell you the real reason or didn’t have one so he made that up. I mean, what guys do you know that he’s even met? Peter? Another one of your friends’  boyfriends? You don’t even have that many close guy friends except me and - ”

Max cuts himself off, slowly turning to face you. He doesn’t think he’s breathing, blood rushing in his ears and a tightness starts to spread throughout his chest.

You have a sad smile on your face and your eyes are downcast, playing with the sleeves of the hoodie Max had given you.

“I don’t think I even realized until tonight,” you whispered. “Looking at you in the car, watching you laugh, how you were the only person I wanted to call and you dropped everything to come get me. It just kind of hit me – who Alec meant, why none of my relationships have ever worked out.”

Max scoots away from you, and suddenly it’s painful to breathe. There’s an ache in your chest that almost burns –  like someone’s waving a lighter back and forth over your heart, each time leaving the flame against you a little longer.

“You’re drunk, Y/N, you don’t know what you’re saying. Please, please don’t do this.”

When you look at his face, see the panic that’s masking heartache, you realize that he’s not moving away from you because he doesn’t feel the same.

He’s moving away because he does, and for how long, you don’t know – but the flame licks higher and higher until the burning reaches your throat when you understand that he thinks you’re too far gone to understand your own feelings.

“Max, I’m not – ”

He cuts you off, reaching out to cup your face with his hand. “In the morning. If you wake up, and you still want to have this conversation, I will listen.”

You nod and stand up from the couch, leaving him sitting under the glow of the television. The apartment feels colder as you walk towards the guest room, and when you stop to look back at him, his head is in his hands and it terrifies you. Max was the one person in this world that you could never lose – it would shatter you.

Sleep never came to you – tossing and turning in the plush pillows that you picked out because Max wanted you as comfortable as possible in his space. When the sun came up, you crept out of bed and didn’t stop until you were in front of Max’s door. You knocked twice, rocking back on forth on the balls of your feet.

The door opened within seconds – Max’s tired eyes showed that he got about as much sleep as you did.

“It’s morning,” you whispered.

“It is.”

“It’s morning and I still love you.”

He smiled at you, so big and so bright, it rivaled the Mediterranean summer sun. You wanted this moment captured forever – painted perfectly in a portrait done by the most highly esteemed artist in the world.

You threw your arms around his neck, sacrificing seeing the beauty of him to feel him in your arms. His soft breaths tickled your skin, and your giggles made him squeeze you even tighter.

“You don’t know how many mornings I’ve spent waiting to hear you say that.”

“You’ll never have to live through another one again, Max.”

[foldingfittedsheets]

One time during my Slut Era the most beautiful lesbian came into my store to convince me to join a gym. I had no interest in joining a gym but I literally lost cognitive function near her and told her maybe because I kept losing my train of thought looking at her.

I told my buddy about it to make fun of myself and first he asked how I knew she was a lesbian to which I just gave him a flat look. Later she’d go on to reference her wife and I gave him a smug smile. But the second thing he asked was why I wasn’t gonna join a gym. I scoffed and said I didn’t see the point.

He insisted it was good to move your body and cajoled me into joining with him. I wasn’t diagnosed yet with any of my various ailments so three times a week we’d work out for an hour or two. I felt a screaming sourceless sense of badness from my body like I was dying as my body tried in vain to communicate I didn’t have the reserves for this. That part sucked.

But the upside was I was fit for the second time in my life the first I thought I had leg cancer. I had little biceps and the best part about having him as a gym buddy was he used to be a gym teacher.

He’d decide what we were working on and direct us to different machines. It was like a homebrew personal trainer and I didn’t feel awkward or like everyone was staring at me when we went together.

Then he got a girlfriend and I literally never saw him again.

[twopoppies]

Soooooo h’s trainer did an article on his workout routines for touring and outside of touring. Brad not mentioned - i think Brad was used either secondarily if his trainer couldn’t travel the whole time or as we all like to think was an Azoff ploy. Maybe Brad was used to give H a little more freedom in starting to come out of the closet, but I’m still not a fan. His trainer though had the kindest things to say about h. This could also start kickoff the rumblings of a new tour

SO interesting. Thibo has been with him for years. I remember him being quoted a number of times. So what the hell was Boring Brad there for? It sure seems like he was just a minder. Maybe a workout partner. He sure set himself up very well having everyone think he was the reason Harry looked so amazing during Love On Tour.

We gained unprecedented access to the star's workout secrets from the man who has worked with Harry for over five years and built his stamina to where it is today - personal trainer Thibo David.

Thibo first met the 'As It Was' singer when he was working on his first album via a recommendation.

[…]

Setting a workout plan on day one of Love on Tour would not have cut it. The sell-out shows ran for 22 months covering 173 shows across seven legs and five continents so adequate physical preparation was essential maintaining physical health and the stamina required to keep up with such a rigorous set.

"Harry's main priorities ahead of a tour are building endurance, maintaining energy levels, and staying injury-free," Thibo reveals. "His tours are incredibly demanding, both physically and mentally, with long performances, travel, and limited recovery time."

The trainer explains that the 'Watermelon Sugar' singer focuses on improving cardiovascular fitness, strengthening his core, and incorporating mobility exercises to enhance flexibility and prevent strain.

"Beyond physical fitness, he places a strong emphasis on mental clarity and stress management, ensuring he's fully present and capable of delivering his best on stage," he adds. "Hydration, sleep, and balanced nutrition are equally essential in his preparation."

Thibo is no ordinary personal trainer. His background as a commando heavily influences the training programme he devises for Harry before, during, and after a tour. He tells us: "Touring often presents unpredictable conditions—whether it’s a lack of equipment, limited space, or tight schedules. The ability to adapt quickly and create effective workouts in unconventional settings was key.

Thibo says that Harry's tour workout looks different from his other work commitments: "For a film, we might prioritise functional strength, agility, and endurance, while for a photoshoot, we'd incorporate elements of conditioning and aesthetic-focused training. Regardless of the goal, the workouts always maintained a balance of mobility, strength, and recovery to ensure Harry remained physically prepared for the demands ahead."

[…]

"We had a lot of fun. One of our traditions was running the stairs of every stadium and arena we visited, turning it into a unique challenge." Making exercise fun for the star is a priority for Thibo and he had a certain trick up his sleeve for lifting the energy before a show.

"Sometimes, we even turned these sessions into team events, with the musicians and crew joining in. This approach not only kept Harry in peak physical condition but also fostered camaraderie and morale among the team," he says.

[…]

"…we focus heavily on energy management, tailoring sessions to complement his performance schedule. Recovery becomes a top priority, with techniques like mobility work, active stretching, and massage incorporated regularly."

A tour coming to a close does not signal the end of Harry's workout plan. This new phase allows Harry to use exercise to recover and rebuild. Thibo explains: "We shift the focus to activities like running, boxing training, and recovery practices, such as cold baths, to help his body decompress from the intense demands of touring.

"The workouts are less about high intensity and more about maintaining his fitness base, regaining mobility, and resetting his energy levels. This phase is also a great time to experiment with new methods and address any imbalances or tightness that may have developed during the tour."

Having worked closely with the former One Direction star, Thibo can attest to Harry's dedication – a trait that makes a personal trainer's life undeniably easier. He tells us: "Harry is an amazing human being—focused, disciplined, and incredibly dedicated to his craft.

"He fully understands the benefits of optimising all aspects of his performance, which makes working with him both rewarding and effective."

Full article and photos here

[pokemonshelterstories]

hi Charlie! i come seeking your knowledge on the Nincada line :D

if someone has a Nincada that evolves into Ninjask, and subsequently getting a Shedinja as a result… what would happen if they couldn’t take care of the Shedinja? (where they live only allows one pokemon, they’re not qualified to take care of ghost types, etc.) would it be safe to separate the two and give it to a relative or surrender it to a shelter? or is the Shedinja still “connected with” the Ninjask, in a way? and on top of that - how high-maintenance (or low-maintenance) are they to take care of?

this is all hypothetical, of course - i’ve never had a Nincada before, so i just got curious haha

you would be fine to separate them. my sibling's shedinja has been separated from its ninjask since the day it evolved.

shedinja are low maintenance aside from keeping them safe from damage. they don't eat or breathe, and their behaviors are really just leftover automatic functions from being a nincada. they aren't really "alive" or conscious in the way we think of a normal pokemon (even including other ghost types). they do react to some stimuli, but it's on an extremely basic level.

ninjask, on the other hand, are not an easy pokemon to raise. i would not recommend one for home life. they're extremely fast and need a lot of open space to fly in, as well as regular access to trees to feed on. they're loud, too, and the sound they make can cause headaches because of the frequencies they hit. on top of all this, they are notoriously difficult to train and should only be handled by an experienced bug type trainer. i've only ever seen captive ninjask on battling teams or in places like zoos, and i think that's for the best!

[merakiui]

another octavinelle in captivity concept, but consider (rather than a research lab) merfolk are something of an entertainment for humans and are captured and sold to aquarium parks.

there hasn't been enough research on them to determine whether or not this is humane and ethical and whether or not merfolk function on the same level of intelligence as humans do. but then there are ways to skirt around suspicions and questions, covering up dubious morals and ethics with all sorts of convoluted legalese and happy diversions. besides, merfolk are so novel and exciting. so many people are eager to see them in their tanks, performing all manner of fun tricks for the public, so the flashiness of something new does well to cover up the mounting dread that this isn't right.

there are three merfolk in captivity at your local aquarium. two eel mermen, twin brothers, and an octopus merman. they're so fascinating. no one's ever seen anything like them before. one of the twins is far more playful; he's a fan favorite. audiences are astounded by his agility, his ability to perform amazing tricks as he weaves through obstacles, jumps up out of the water like a majestic dolphin, catches fish midair, and seems to have such friendly, outgoing relations with his trainers. he even lets kids pat him on the head when they're randomly selected from the audience to get close to him. as scary and strong as he may seem, he is quite the gentle sweetheart.

the other twin is much more reserved and quiet, but he knows how to entertain. he's sly and sneaky, swiping things from the trainers and then making them disappear before the audience's eyes with skillful sleight of hand. children adore him. tiny hands press against the glass beneath the main event area, where people can watch them swim at deeper depths. both eels love amusing the children, swimming in circles, pressing their hands to the glass in greeting, waving and clicking with big, toothy smiles. it's very endearing. they even pose for photographs!

and then there's the octopus.

he's had...incidents and so he isn't kept in the spotlight anymore. they isolate him from curious eyes. he isn't very friendly. rather, he's excessively gloomy and defensive. he's kept in a pool for the ill. you tend to him, doing your best to provide stimulation. he's so smart, but you're not allowed to tell anyone that or else ethics will be brought into question. you slip him cube puzzles and other curiosities, and for a while he seems pleased. it took many months for him to be comfortable around humans after his last incident, and now it seems like he genuinely trusts you. you sit poolside and chat with him for hours, and he responds with his clicks and chirps. you wish he wasn't kept in captivity like this. it doesn't seem fair. he's missing out on so much life in the wide, vast ocean beyond this cramped enclosure.

you know you should feel happy when you see him every morning, noting how brightly he lights up when he sees you enter his enclosure, but you can't help the sadness that strikes through your heart. it's not fair. he and the eels shouldn't be put on display. their home is in the ocean. they deserve freedom.

wild animals will always be wild animals, for they can never be tamed no matter how much you might delude yourself into thinking so.

so it's horrifying when the eel twins tug their trainers into the pool, bloodying their maws and the water before an audience of once-awestruck people, reminding everyone that, no matter how sweet and friendly they may seem, they are predators from the deep who can tear a human to shreds within mere seconds. it's just as horrifying when the octopus is wrapping his tentacles around your ankles and wrists, clicking frantically at you, face flushed blue and desperate as he tries to pull you into his pool.

you're not killed, but maybe that would have been better than having to endure the poor octopus's clumsy, possessive attempt to mate with you.

the pool for the ill gets two more visitors, and the eel twins are pleased to see you again, flashing big, broad smiles and clicking with excitement. you've stopped visiting and training with them ever since you were transferred to the octopus, so they had to take matters into their own claws and find a way to meet you again.

merfolk are not a novelty to be captured and placed on display. the aquarium park learns this the hard way, and so do you when they refuse to give you up to the humans.

[bodybeyondstories]

story prompt: a brand of jockstrap quickly becomes the gold standard amongst college and professional athletics because the competitive price structure that makes them cheaper to buy in bulk than any other brand. The fit is different than everything else on the market too. These jockstraps keep their butts so high and tight it's almost as if they're bigger. Are their butts bigger? That could explain the number of pants-splitting wardrobe malfunctions that are afflicting athletes across all sports. Say nothing of the guys who like the little lift and have started wearing the jocks under their street clothes too

Ok I've actually been thinking about a similar thing for a while because occasionally my Insta feed is inundated with these ads for perky butt pants, which look like low quality chinos that are just well fitted in the back I guess, but I always feel like the algorithm is being shady.

1239 words

_______________________________

[Nadir: I left you a gift on the entry table, try 'em on 😛]

[Carlos: Are these those perky butt jockstraps I keep seeing ads for?]

[Nadir: Yeah probably lol. A friend of mine got a sponsorship deal or whatever and they basically threw a case of these at him. I think they kind of work, they're all over my socials]

[Carlos: All of those guys already have nice asses, this is Marketing 101. You flood everyone's social media feeds with athletes and fitness influencers who are already stacked so you can make the claim that *your* special jockstrap has some cutting edge butt lifting technology. Then every faux butt model follows suit, it becomes a ubiquitous gay fashion piece, and the money rolls in until the next fad]

[Nadir: Ok, fair enough. But in the meantime would it hurt to look a little more caked up?]

[Carlos: You're not wrong 👀]

Carlos sighed at his phone, then at the pile of individually packaged jockstraps on the coffee table that his roommate left for him. It wasn't like he cared all that much. He was more so just annoyed at the progression of ads and sponsorship deals preying on queer men's perpetual body image crises. What looked like a regular jockstrap with tighter bands seemed to suddenly be everywhere. Of course personal trainers and athletes with huge followings were ripe for sponsorship deals to build out a market, but now he was seeing random dudes with generally unremarkable figures post in these things like they were life changing.

But they do look good, he admitted to himself, thinking about a friend of his who for years was incapable of putting on any mass, yet suddenly his private stories featured him in nothing but these jocks framing a delectable bubble butt that came seemingly out of nowhere. He held the packaging in his hands. And they seem functional. And I've been needing to re-up on gym gear for a while. And and and... he thought to himself, finally relenting and ripping open the plastic cover.

They were cute, higher quality than expected, but mostly resembled every other jockstrap on the market. He whipped off his underwear right there in the living room and slid on the jock. It was surprisingly comfortable, so much so that he didn't know why he'd been wearing any other underwear all this time.

Not to mention his ass looked great. He had a pretty dedicated workout routine and was so stranger to some heavy deadlifts, but as he turned toward the full length mirror, he almost gasped at the bubble that stood out behind him. He didn't even know he had that much ass to work with. He gave it a shake just to make sure it was real.

"I knew you'd like it," said Nadir, beaming as he entered through the front door.

And he did. He wore them to the gym the next morning, and the next, and the next. They immediately became a staple in his workout gear, and he was having some of the best leg days he'd had in maybe ever. The only issue was keeping himself from leering at his own dump truck in the mirror, or at the other gymgoers who had obviously also gotten the memo about these booty enhancing jocks. He was more than happy to let go of his previous cynicism and learn to love this new fad for however long it lasted.

The way they lifted his butt made a statement, his ass becoming the main attraction in any pair of pants he wore. After a while, he couldn't shake the feeling that his derriere was holding on to some of the added umph even without the jock. He chalked it up to the added confidence producing serious gains in the gym, confirmed when, in the middle of a set of deep squats, he felt an unexpected breeze across his butt cheeks.

He'd been noticing how significant his progress had been, but didn't think it was enough to blow out the seat of his gym shorts in broad daylight. He didn't even know that was a thing that really happened. He tried to cover his ample posterior as his face flushed with embarrassment, but after a quick glance around, realized that everyone around was largely unconcerned. In fact, there were a few others casually finishing their workouts with split seams. He did the same.

"Don't sweat it," said Nadir later that day. "It's been happening to me all the time." He had always had a shapely bottom, carefully constructed through his budding career as a personal trainer, yet in recent weeks Carlos couldn't help but notice it inflating well out of proportion, his follower count and engagement inflating along with it. "At my gym, these are basically optional now," he added, pulling at the hem of a pair of gym shorts that strained for dear life across his comical bubble butt, the bottom third of his cheeks spilling out, framed by the straps of his jock.

It was a look coming back in style, booty shorts that looked woefully incapable of full coverage. Carlos had just donated a bunch of old pairs that he could've sworn fit fine just a few months ago, but now dug into his cheeks halfway down.

Nadir's pants optional policy had been catching on across the more professional, private, influencer-heavy gyms, a pragmatic way of extending the longevity of gym shorts that didn't stand a chance against the juicy pumps emphasized by these now ubiquitous jockstraps. It wasn't uncommon, and was slowly becoming fashionable, to see people walking around with their cheeks exposed, seat of their pants fluttering in the breeze like accidentally assless chaps.

Unfortunately, many day jobs weren't yet so lax with their dress codes, producing a menswear crisis of over-stressed seams, constant tailoring, and increasingly frequent instances of catastrophic failure. It became obvious who had been influenced into wearing these jockstraps not just at the gym but in their day to day, their disproportionately round butts bursting through the fabric of slacks and khakis whenever they bent down too fast, or more often encased in much more forgiving spandex or very loose sweats. A serious bubble butt had basically become the norm, to the point where navigating through the crowd at circuit parties meant risking being crushed to death by a gauntlet of jock-encased oversized glutes.

Carlos, with a blessed work from home gig, had taken to wearing mostly nothing below the belt for the sake of comfort, his massive globes spilling out over the edges of the stool at his desk as he plugged away on his laptop. His phone pinged with a text from Nadir.

[Nadir: Can you check for a package? I'm expecting some new product they asked me to demo. Feel free to check it out, I think they sent extras!]

Sure enough, there was a package on the porch with a thank you note for Nadir and some guidelines for the kinds of posts he should make to feature their product. His fitness career had really taken off in recent months, which Carlos was glad to see. He opened the packaging and pulled out a stretchy tank top that promised to "Lift, frame, and enhance your pecs!"

Again with this, he scoffed, turning the fabric over in his fingers. Might as well take it for a spin. It is push day.

[nitrrofitness01]

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[malk1ns]

march 1 vs bruins, 3-2 loss

lotta angry penguins out on the ice today in that one, huh? wowie.

this postgame puts this project over 100k. dang. thanks for coming along with me!

Zhenya narrows his eyes across the weight room where Sid is grunting through a set of bench presses.

There was no skate before today’s game, but the gym session is still mandatory even if most of the guys are phoning it in a little, half-heartedly racking weights and getting in a few reps before they pause to chat.

Not Sid. He’s pouring sweat, mechanically running through his sets like they don’t have a game in just a few hours, adding more weight than Zhenya remembers as his usual but still lifting it like it’s nothing, biceps straining and forearms veiny.

He’s hiding something.

Sid came back from Four Nations doing his best to pretend that his left arm wasn’t practically paralyzed, and he’s been spending pregames and most intermissions holed up with the trainers, getting wrapped and re-wrapped and injected with all sorts of shit to numb the pain and get him through games. He won’t hear a word of sitting any more out, but Zhenya’s seen the toll it’s taking on him.

Not today. Today, he’s going through his exercises like his elbow never was hurt in the first place. Not a wince, not a poorly-hidden grimace, nothing.

Whatever they gave Sid this morning, Zhenya wants it. His knee is better, but it aches when he skates for too long, and it’s making ominous creaking noises every morning when he gets out of bed.

Sid’s been cagey all morning, but Zhenya’s going to track him down and force it out of him. All hockey teams are secretive about their less-than-legit methods of keeping their players on ice no matter how injured they are, but Zhenya’s not used to being shut out of a new miracle cure. Is he not as deserving as Sidney Crosby of pain relief and enhanced performance?

The doctors and trainers are a dead end, they’re used to Zhenya by now and won’t give him anything. The weak link, as always, is Sid himself.

Zhenya times his approach perfectly; Sid’s in the middle of carefully lowering the bar back onto the rack when Zhenya plants himself between Sid and the rest of the room. If Sid tried to slither away now, it would be noticeable enough to cause a stir.

“Hi, Sid,” Zhenya says sweetly, baring his teeth in a smile. “Look good. Elbow better?”

Sid sits up and rolls his shoulders back, eyeing Zhenya warily. There’s a droplet of sweat making its way down from his hairline. Zhenya’s eyes trace it all the way to Sid’s cheekbone before he gets a response.

“Lots better, thanks,” Sid finally says, shaking out his left arm a little. It’s for show; Zhenya’s not an idiot, and it rankles that after all this time Sid thinks he’ll be fooled by something like that. “I figured I should get a pump in before we play, you know, get the blood flowing.” He swings his legs over so he’s sitting sideways on the bench. “That all? Because I was gonna find Ned, give him a little pep talk.”

“What they give you?” Zhenya says, furious suddenly—with the evasion, with the way Sid won’t meet his eyes. “Shot, maybe, or pill? Why you get and nobody else?”

He’s raised his voice enough that guys are starting to look at them, and Sid’s face goes hard and unpleasant before he gets to his feet, grabs Zhenya by the shirt, and hauls him out of the weight room.

Zhenya starts to protest, but Sid hisses not here at him, and the promise of an answer makes Zhenya pliant as Sid drags them down the hallway and into one of the video rooms the team never uses anymore.

“Fuck, you’re annoying,” Sid complains, slamming the door shut and whirling on Zhenya, crossing his arms over his chest. Zhenya frowns at him—he could have sworn Sid’s shoulders weren’t this big on Thursday. Is there some new fast-acting steroid he’s testing out?

He’s so busy thinking through the implications of a shot that can give you that much more visible, functional muscle in under four hours that he must have misheard what Sid said. “Sorry, huh?”

Sid narrows his eyes. “I said, I’m in a time loop,” he snaps, dropping his arms to his sides. “I’ve been in here for…six weeks now, when I wake up tomorrow. Today, again. Whatever. It’s been today 41 times as of this morning.”

“Shit,” Zhenya says blankly, sitting down in one of the chairs and abruptly remembering why they don’t use this room anymore when a spring jabs him unceremoniously in the ass. “Sid, Jesus, how this happen?”

“I don’t know!” Sid says, throwing his hands in the air. “Obviously, like, if I knew why I was here I’d just…take care of it, end this damn thing. Do you really think I’m doing this by choice?” His voice cracks.

“Sorry,” Zhenya mutters, guilt lurching through his gut. All he could see this morning was Sid’s perfectly-functioning elbow seemingly mocking Zhenya’s achy knee, but now that he’s looking closely Sid looks frayed around the edges, exhausted and tense. He’s got black circles under his eyes, and he can’t stand still.

Sid’s usually so calm on game days, a soothing presence in the arena that settles everyone down no matter how nervy they are. Seeing him like this is unsettling. Zhenya wants to bundle him into his car and drive them to the safety of his house set back in the woods until they figure this out.

Time loops are vanishingly rare, at least the ones publicly talked about are. The people who stumble out of them are usually fundamentally altered somehow—traumatized even, in some cases. It’s not as simple as waking up on the same day over and over, as if that in and of itself isn’t a total mindfuck—if you’re in a time loop, time doesn’t stop for you. Whatever happens to you on a given day stays with you when you wake up the next morning, weeks and months and in some gruesome cases decades piling onto your body and mind until you figure out how to break free.

Sid’s only been in for six weeks. Not long enough for significant changes, not really, but certainly long enough for him to have visibly bulked up if was taking his stress out on the weight machines. Zhenya can see razor burn on his face from where he must have been shaving every day to try and maintain his stubble.

“Okay,” Zhenya says, getting to his feet. “You tell to me before? You tell to anyone?”

“No,” Sid says, shoulders slumping a little. He looks like he’d been expecting a fight, or maybe like he’d have to spend more time arguing his case—as if Zhenya can’t tell when Sid’s trying to lie to him by now. “I thought about it, but…I think I know what I’m supposed to do, and it’s not anything anyone can help me with. I just…haven’t figured out how.”

Zhenya presses his lips together. “Stupid. Maybe it’s big pain for tell every day new again, but you should be tell me first thing, like, call me before we leave house. Shouldn’t be doing alone, even if you’re think I can’t help.” Sid’s probably wrong about that, Zhenya adds to himself. Sid always thinks he has to do everything alone, that he has to shoulder the burden of an entire team—an entire league—all by himself. 

“Maybe,” Sid mutters, slumping back against the wall. He looks so exhausted. Zhenya wonders how sleeping words in a loop—does Sid wake up feeling refreshed for a few seconds before it all comes crashing down, or does the reset happen when he’s only gotten a few hours? “Well, you know now. We’ll see how happy you are when I wake you up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to read you in.”

“Not have to, because we fix today,” Zhenya says, injecting his voice with as much confidence as he can. “What you think you need to do?”

Sid sighs heavily. “I have to figure out how to get us a win today,” he says, voice dire. “I’ve tried everything, G, I really have. I’ve even called and said I was sick and needed to be scratched just to shake stuff up and still no. I called my mom, god, she thought I was dying or something. Basically anything that can happen in a hockey game, I’ve watched it happen.” His eyes go dark and distant for a minute, and Zhenya doesn’t want to know what he’s reliving, what he’s seen. Hockey is a lot more dangerous than any of them like to think too long about.

Shaking his head, Sid meets Zhenya’s eyes. “Basically anything that can happen I’ve seen,” he repeats, “and not a single time have I been able to pull a win off in this one. There was one where I thought maybe…it was a ten-round shootout, but even then we fell short.” He sighs, looking down at his hands. “I don’t know what else to do,” he admits. “I’m so tired. My entire body aches, so badly. The gym helps, you know how a good workout makes you kind of forget how you’re feeling, but…I can’t do this for much longer.”

That’s the other danger of a time loop, the one nobody likes to talk about too loudly.

Zhenya isn't going to let that happen.

“Well, you enjoy last time today,” he says, clapping Sid’s shoulder. “We get win, you go to bed tonight, still have to play tomorrow but this time it’s Leafs, okay, still bad, but different. Yes?”

“Sure,” Sid mutters, but Zhenya can tell that he’s feeling better. It really was stupid of him to not say anything; six weeks is too long to be totally alone.

Sid leaves to hunt down Ned for whatever ghoulish pep talk he has in mind, and Zhenya makes his way to the lounge, head spinning.

He doesn’t know a single person who’s looped. There was an experimental vaccine back when Zhenya was a child, something that claimed to block a person’s ability to fall into one—when he’d disclosed it to the Penguins’ medical staff for the first time they had exchanged horrified looks, but nobody in Zhenya’s entire city that got the shot has looped.

Zhenya wants to help Sid. Is determined to, really. But now that he’s alone and thinking about it, he doesn’t know what to do. All he can do is control his own play, make sure he’s giving it his all out there and give the team the best chance to win.

That will have to be enough. He won’t let them fail Sid again.

—

They come agonizingly close. 

Close isn’t good enough, though, and Zhenya shatters his stick in the hallway back to the locker room after the final buzzer sounds.

“Easy, big guy,” Rusty says, skirting his stall with an odd look. “It’s one game, eh, save it for tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Zhenya mutters, plucking at his skates and swearing as his trembling fingers fumble at the sodden, ice-cold laces. 

From across the room, Sid barks out a bitter laugh, one he cuts off quickly. Zhenya keeps his head ducked down.

Four points last game and not a thing to show when Sid actually needed him. He doesn’t think he can meet Sid’s eyes.

He settles some in the shower, thinking through what’s next. Maybe Sid was wrong. It’s still so early in the day, after all, and who knows what Sid’s been doing post-game this whole time—maybe there’s something else he’s missing because he got fixated on winning this game. He’ll just go to Sid’s after the game and they’ll keep trying, and if they can’t get it tonight, he’ll make Sid promise to call him first thing tomorrow and explain it right away.

The logistics make his head spin. He doesn’t fully understand how it’s possible that Sid could pick up the phone to call him tomorrow—today again—and Zhenya won’t remember a thing, but Sid will. It should be impossible.

All the more reason to work as hard as possible to fix it tonight.

Sid dawdles in the room like usual, but Zhenya’s lurking at the door must get his attention, because finally he packs away his stuff and gets to his feet, patting Ricky on the shoulder as he makes his way to Zhenya’s side.

“We tried, eh?” he says as they walk to the garage. Zhenya doesn’t like how defeated he sounds. “That was a new score at least—before this one it’s been the same for a few days. Maybe it means things are moving in the right direction.” He doesn’t sound like he believes a word he’s saying.

“I come home with you,” Zhenya says, and Sid snaps his head to look at him, eyebrows nearly up to his hairline. “Well, first I stop at my house, get freezer pelmeni. You need real food, not shit from meal service. We eat, you feel better, we think about maybe it’s something that’s not game, we try stuff.”

“You’ll let me have some of the freezer pelmeni?” Sid asks, and he sounds so pathetically grateful that Zhenya’s heart breaks a little.

“You get all freezer pelmeni,” he promises recklessly—there are several pounds stuffed in his kitchen freezer, and more down in the basement ice box, but Zhenya will give it all up if it makes Sid smile in a real way. “Want good vodka too? I bring.”

Sid’s eyes crinkle a little. “Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Either way, I’m playing a game tomorrow, so…better not.”

“Right,” Zhenya mutters, calculating how much sour cream he’ll need to bring. Sid only has Greek yogurt at his house, and that won’t work. “Okay, I go get food, then come over. You change code yet?” Sid changes his gate code every Saturday out of what Zhenya used to call paranoia but after the break-in earlier this fall is starting to think is maybe just good sense.

Sid hesitates. “I didn’t for a while, I wasn’t sure if it…but it felt weird not to, so yeah, I actually just changed it yesterday. Um, it’s 073186.”

It takes Zhenya a second, but— “My birthday!” he says, charmed. “Sid, so sweet. I remember for sure, maybe you keep for a while.”

“Maybe I will,” Sid says, looking at Zhenya for a shade too long before shaking his head. “See you in a bit.”

Zhenya watches the way Sid clambers into his car, the slowness in his movements. He really is reaching the end of what he’s physically capable of. They have to figure this out tonight.

He stuffs Sid full of his mama’s cooking first. Sid protests the full-fat sour cream, but when Zhenya ignores him in favor of dolloping several spoonfuls onto his plate he stops arguing. Zhenya watches until Sid’s had his entire first serving and is helping himself to more before he relaxes. He might not have been able to win Sid this game, but he can at least feed him properly.

After dinner, they talk. Zhenya prods at Sid about unreturned phone calls, events he might have forgotten to attend, anything that could be hanging over his head that might be the key to all of this. 

Sid gets prickly at the implication he’s forgotten anything, of course, but Zhenya keeps pushing until Sid relents and walks them both through everything he did the day before he started looping. Try as he might, Zhenya can’t find a single thing that Sid forgot, a single transgression that would be egregious enough to tip him into this nightmare.

Once they run out of things to say, they fall silent, sprawled out on Sid’s big couch. Zhenya thinks about Sid spending the last six weeks alone in here, watching the clock tick by and waiting for the day to end, falling asleep hoping that he’d figured it out only to wake up the next day and have to do it all over again, and his throat gets thick and his eyes prickle with tears.

“Oh, G,” Sid says, and Zhenya scrubs furiously at his face. This isn’t about him, he shouldn’t be making Sid give him comfort. “No, c’mon, it’s not that bad, I mean…” The sofa cushion Zhenya’s occupying dips as Sid scoots closer until they’re pressed together. “It sucks, yeah, but now I’ve got you, right? I can…like you said, I can call you and tell you, and I’ll have you all day, and maybe we really will figure it out. Just having someone else know…you were right. It was dumb of me to not talk to you right away.”

Overcome with emotion, Zhenay wraps his arms around Sid’s shoulders and hauls him close, ignoring Sid’s protests. He can’t stand it—Sid doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve living through this shit, not after everything he’s already sacrificed his whole life

“Not fair,” he whispers into Sid’s hair. “Sid, so sorry, I want to fix so bad for you. It’s not fair.”

Sid squirms in his arms a little, pulling back so he can look at Zhenya. “No, it’s not,” he agrees. “It hasn’t been all bad, though. I mean, the loss sucked. But otherwise today’s been pretty great. And it’ll be okay if I do all this again tomorrow with you.” He hesitates for a minute, eyes flickering over Zhenya’s face. “I guess there’s one thing I haven’t been honest about,” he admits, and Zhenya’s heart leaps. “It won’t…I mean, it’s been years. If the loop was from that, it should have happened way before now. But, well.” He leans forward and brushes a kiss over Zhenya’s mouth, dry and soft and over before Zhenya can even properly react. “You won’t remember this tomorrow,” he says quietly, cupping Zhenya’s chin, “and I’m sorry I didn’t ask first. But it’s not like I’d ever tell you this for real, and maybe that makes me a coward, but I may as well tell you once even if it doesn’t stick, eh?”

Zhenya touches his lips. Sid’s mouth on his had been so brief, but he feels like his whole face is buzzing. He doesn’t know what to say.

Sid smiles sadly at him. “It’s okay,” he says, correctly interpreting Zhenya’s stunned silence. “I’m not expecting anything. Don’t worry about it, eh, you’ll wake up tomorrow and it won’t have ever happened for you. I guess maybe I thought…” He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “I’m going to go to bed,” he says, glancing at the clock. “I know it’s early, but I’m so tired. Game day tomorrow, after all.” He waits for a minute longer, but when Zhenya still doesn’t speak, he purses his lips. “You can take a guest room if you want. You know where everything is.”

Zhenya listens to Sid’s heavy footsteps. It’s not until Sid’s bedroom door shuts that he feels like he can move again.

There are things that you don’t think about when you’re a pro athlete, feelings you’re not allowed to have. It’s part of the sacrifice to make it this far—damage to your body, and denial of your self. Zhenya did the math on that years ago, weighed his options and made his choices with clear eyes.

He’s never been good at tucking away his emotions long-term though, not like Sid is. Zhenya wears his heart on his sleeve, always has. It makes him a better hockey player, but it also leaves him more susceptible to heartbreak and far too aware of feelings he’d be better off shoving down and ignoring.

Zhenya always thought Sid was bad at lying, or at least bad at lying to him. It turns out that Sid’s been holding in a secret for…fuck, he’d said years, years he’s kept this from Zhenya, and Zhenya had no idea.

He’s not sure he would have been brave enough to do anything if he’d found out any earlier. Now, though?

He drives home in a daze. Staying at Sid’s house doesn’t feel right, not like this. He had a momentary fit of insanity where he considered crawling into Sid’s bed, wrapping his arms around him and letting Sid’s loop suck him in too, but he’s pretty sure that’s not possible, and if it was it wouldn’t help anything anyway.

I have to remember, he chants to himself as he gets ready for bed. I have to remember. I have to remember. I have to remember.

He falls asleep mumbling to himself.

—

When his alarm goes off the next morning, it takes Zhenya a minute to blink sleep out of his eyes.

His eyes fly open. He remembers. 

The display on his phone reads MARCH 2. Heart in his throat, Zhenya pulls up Sid’s contact and hits call.

Sid’s phone barely rings once before he answers. “G?” he says, voice raspy like he spent the night crying. “Is it really tomorrow?”

“It’s tomorrow,” Zhenya whispers down the line, clutching the phone to his ear. “Sid, it’s tomorrow. And I remember.”

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[gamesetattach]

Crushing Feelings - Part 1

Jannik Sinner x Reader Nothing like an unrequited crush being rubbed in your face all the fucking time to help you move on... said no one ever

When you first joined Jannik Sinner’s team, it was all business.

As a performance analyst, you were responsible for analyzing opponents, developing match plans, and ensuring Jannik had every tactical edge possible when he stepped onto the court. You had a knack for seeing patterns others didn’t, for noticing weaknesses that even the most seasoned strategists overlooked. You had quickly become an indispensable part of the team; the final, decisive piece—the last nail in the head keeping him pinned to the No. 1 spot.

It had been nearly a year now, and you were fully embedded into the tight-knit unit that traveled and trained with Jannik week in and week out. The team functioned like a family, moving like a well-oiled machine through the stacked tennis schedule. The older members—the coaches, the trainer, the physio—had easily adopted you into their dynamic, acting almost parental in the many moments between professionalism; they'd offer guidance, tease you good-naturedly, and make sure neither you or Jannik lost yourselves in the intensity of the tour.

But along with your developing relationship in the team came a growing problem: you were starting to fall in love with their golden boy.

---

Jannik had been oblivious from the start.

It had started as a harmless attraction, because who didn't entertain their days with a little work crush. But somewhere along the line it had shifted into something deeper, and you couldn't be sure when. Maybe it had been the first time he actually laughed at one of your sarcastic remarks instead of just kind of blinking at you. Or maybe it was that first late-night strategy session, when you sat side by side reviewing footage for hours and he trusted every one of your calls without question. Or maybe—and most likely—it was just that he was Jannik. Kind, driven, determined, sweet Jannik.

The rest of the team picked up on your little thing for him pretty quickly.

Their teasing was subtle, but relentless, because how could they not take the bait, what with all the time you spent pining after him. Like when you lingered a little too long after practice, or when you went the extra mile to make sure his game plan was perfect, when your frustration at his losses held a little more emotion than it should have.

“Don’t watch him so hard, he’ll still need an analyst when he’s thirty,” Uli, his physio, had once told you after you’d spent an extra two, unnecessary hours analyzing a match tape. You didn't like the smirk on his face when he'd said it, and you avoided the knowing glint in his eyes.

Marco, his trainer, didn't bother with any allusions and would just go straight into it. "If I didn’t know better, which I don't, I’d say you were trying to impress him."

You had rolled your eyes, flipping through your notes. "Yeah, because nothing says ‘romance’ like match statistics."

You withstood their teasing with grace, knowing it was all in good jest and that Jannik would never catch on. Besides, you could hardly deny their claims. He had you incurably charmed, and it went beyond his dedication as a player or his support of your tactics. It was the small things—his deadpan, goofy humor that had you snorting into your drink at dinner, or his surprising ability to remember the smallest details about you, like knowing which of the tour's cities you most wanted to experience or even how you preferred your tea before bed.

The more you knew him, and the more he knew you, the more your feelings fortified. But then, throughout it all, there was Jannik himself: utterly clueless.

---

When you first joined, Jannik had been in a long-term relationship. His then-girlfriend was present at the occasional tournament, and you had been nothing but professional. The crush had been minor back then, a non-issue really. Just a silly, rational admiration for the best player in the world. But a few months into your tenure, Jannik and his girlfriend broke up.

And something shifted soon after that.

You got closer, in a way that felt separate from your work. There were little moments that made you think that maybe—that just maybe—something could happen. The way he lingered after meetings, how he always found excuses to stay near you during travel, all the private jokes you had from the late night, plane conversations. It had been so easy to believe there might be something there. That he might feel the same.

And then he started dating another tennis player.

That one had been harder to stomach.

You had spent too much time with him by then, and often caught yourself daydreaming about things you shouldn’t. Seeing him in a new relationship, in such close and constant proximity, had been a slap of reality, forcing you to bury whatever flicker of hope you had allowed yourself to entertain.

So you buried your feelings, put on a brave face, and committed yourself to maintaining your friendship and professionalism without willing for something more.

But soon his latest relationship fizzled too, and Jannik was single yet again. Still, you refused to backtrack on the promise you had made yourself. You swore you wouldn’t pine; that you'd put yourself out there and move on. You had vowed that you wouldn't just wait for something that was never going to happen.

And so you had to push down any hope that tried to resurface even though he was single once more. Though 'forcing' yourself to move on was mostly just you pretending to.

If you had learned anything in your time with this team, it was that you had a job to do—one that you did well. You weren’t going to let a little crush ruin that.

Besides, Jannik Sinner was nothing if not uninterested.

And just when you'd finally started to convince yourself of that, Jannik began acting differently...

---

It started small.

Something about the way he interacted with you had undeniably changed, deepened. It wasn’t drastic, probably not conscious enough for him to notice, but you did. It was in the way he'd look for you on court during practice, how he always seemed to find his way to wherever you were in whatever hotel, how he'd casually prop himself against the nearest surface as if there was no where else he'd rather be.

There'd been one night, after an especially long travel day full of delays and last-minute changes, where one of his gestures of this newfound affection had first caught you off guard. Too exhausted to continue standing, you had plopped on the hotel floor outside your room to sift through your bag for the keycard you’d only just received. Frustrated and tired, after a whole day of misplacing things, it felt like the last straw. Jannik, having heard the rummaging and loaded sighs from down the hall, walked over to you, racket bag slung over his shoulder. Without a word, he crouched beside you, pulled your backpack into his lap, and started searching with a level of patient concentration that made you and your worries feel like the most important thing in the world. When he found it tucked into some inner pocket, he held it up with an easy smirk.

“You really should get a better system,” he teased, pressing it into your palm before standing and holding a hand out to help you up.

Another time, you had spilled a drink on your top during a meeting while reviewing match notes on your laptop. Immediately, Jannik wet a clean towel from his bag, reached for the hem of your shirt, and carefully dabbed at the fabric. He hadn't even stopped talking, his attention still on the discussion at hand, as if it were the most natural thing for him to tend to you like that.

There was also the night after a particularly grueling match when he had found you in the hotel lobby well past midnight, working through data with a frustrated expression. Instead of telling you to sleep, he slid a bottle of water across the table and just sat down next to you. "You work too hard," he said simply, his voice softer than usual.

His most common, new thing, though, was this habit of detangling your hair for you. It started when he noticed you tugging through your knots in frustration after a windy and active day. The first time, he had simply reached over and started working through a particularly stubborn section at the nape of your neck. "Hold still," he had instructed, so focused that he didn’t notice the way your breath hitched.

That one had become routine after that. If your hair was messy before or after a long day, as it so often was, and if you seemed too busy to deal with it yourself, he’d see to it without asking. It was never rushed, never a pain—it was an almost unconscious, reflexive act of care for him. Sometimes he'd brush a stray hair from your face just because. And it was one of many small actions that made it very, very difficult for you to move on.

The rest of the team, of course, picked up on all of this. And though they had thankfully stopped picking on you for your feelings sometime during Jannik's last relationship, they'd now taken to teasing him instead.

“Jannik,” Marco drawled one afternoon when you were all waiting for court assignments. "If you’re going to be all over her, at least wait until after the session."

Jannik, who had just nudged your chair closer to his so he could lean over and rest his chin on your shoulder to see your screen, only blinked. "What?"

Uli snorted, exchanging a look with the rest of the team. "Give the girl some room to breath, man. It's like you're stuck to her."

Jannik rolled his eyes, his go-to response when the guys started ganging up on him like this. "We’re just close."

"Yes, yes," even Simone chimed in. "So close, no?"

Jannik just scoffed, laughing it off, completely missing the way you stiffened at how quickly he dismissed the idea of there being anything more. How it was such an incredulous thought for him, all he felt to do was wave it off. How it was an accusation so baseless, he didn't even feel the need to deny it.

It shouldn’t have stung—you were supposed to be moving past it after all. But it still did, because you still hadn't.

---

Your next big stop as a team was his home country, and you hoped that meant he'd have less time for you. As much as you loved it, you could hardly begin to get over him when his attention was all over you.

Turin was bustling when you arrived for the tournament. The first night, the team decided to go out for dinner at a local favorite. Most of the group was back in their native land, and were fully in their element. Only you and Darren were true outsiders here, leaning on the others for cultural guidance. They all happily jumped with recommendations and translations, though, overwhelmed with all their enthusiasm, you had trouble narrowing a dish down.

When the waiter came over and introduced himself to the table, he immediately locked eyes on you after a scan of the group. And though you'd yet to look up and notice, the rest of the team rustled with amusement at his obvious interest in you.

“Ladies first,” he said smoothly, waiting for your order.

Eyes still glued to the menu, you waved to the others and murmured distractedly. “I'm sorry, I still need another minute.”

He went around the table, taking everyone else's orders before circling back. You still weren’t sure, so you asked for the waiter's opinion between two dishes and gestured at the menu, “Between the risotto and this pasta, which would you recommend?"

Vaguely from across the table, Simone tsked; he'd already tried to explain the distinction.

“The flavors are very different,” the waiter began, and you finally raised your eyes to his. The moment you looked up at him and met his gaze, his voice faltered. The words tripped in his throat, and he stammered for half a second before recovering.

The table definitely noticed that.

Marco elbowed Simone. Uli covered his mouth, trying to suppress his laughter. Even Darren smirked at the situation unfolding. You, now aware but patient, simply smiled at him and selected his favorite after his thorough, floundering explanation. No one missed how his cheeks dusted pink when you handed the menus back to him.

The second he left, the table erupted. Though Jannik was notably, and uncharacteristically, silent throughout the commotion.

“Dio mio” Marco cackled, shaking his head. “Poor kid couldn’t even think straight.”

You shook your head and shushed them, suppressing a smile. “Oh please, leave the guy alone! What if he comes back and hears?”

“If?” Uli snorted. “He’s definitely coming back every five minutes just for you."

"At least we're assured good service." Darren added, still chuckling to himself.

You had rolled your eyes, but, sure enough, the waiter continued to check in on your table far more times than necessary. Each stop, the team made sure to give him a hard time.

After one of his visits, Marco muttered something in Italian to him. The waiter's eyes flickered towards you, and he grinned before responding.

The trainer chuckled, nodding approvingly. "Good man."

Next to you, Jannik had gone completely rigid.

You'd noticed his unusual quiet throughout the meal and hadn't wanted to pry, but now you gently asked, “What’s wrong?”

He barely looked at you. “Nothing.”

You shrugged and rejoined the table's conversation as the waiter walked away with a smile your way for the dozenth time that night.

“What did he say?” you asked, you'd picked up the word bellisima but not much else.

Uli smiled. “He said you’re very beautiful and that he’s working up the courage to ask you out.”

You eyebrows shot up. “Wait—really?”

Jannik now focused his gaze somewhere off in the distance, and chugged his water glass dry. You glanced over as the table rattled when he firmly set the cup down, but shook your head and chose to move past his mood. He wasn't your responsibility, and this waiter could be the first, real opportunity for you to move on. The rest of the team, however, exchanged knowing glances at Jannik's obvious irritation.

You brought the attention back to your inquiry, your expression still one of pleasant surprise. You glanced toward the waiter, who was still hovering nearby, before looking back at the team, a smile tugging at your lips. “He said he was going to actually ask me out?”

Jannik’s grip on his fork tightened and, voice sharper than necessary, he snapped, “Does it even matter?”

The abruptness stunned you, and had the rest of the table stilling.

“Excuse me?” You frowned, turning to him. “I think he’s cute, and, honestly, I’d love to go on a date. So what?”

When his expression only darkened and his jaw clicked, you scoffed and continued. “Why do you even care? It has nothing to do with you.”

He didn’t answer. But the rest of the team had silently glanced around at each other with hidden, knowing smiles and drawn breaths.

The waiter continued his frequent check ups, except now Jannik was all but fuming. You basked in the attention, leaning into it—flashing the waiter soft smiles, brushing your fingers against his as you passed a plate. And each time, Jannik sat silent and tense, picking at his food.

He watched it all unfold, displeasure plain on his face.

But dinner wrapped up and the waiter's ask never came. Jannik rushed to pay the bill as you tried not to look around expectantly. Jannik mood seemed to lift instantly as they exited the establishment. Finally perked up, he practically ran the group out of the place.

You, however, felt disappointment settle in your chest. So much for a fun, Italian fling.

Seeing Jannik’s smug reaction only made it worse. You tried to play off being let down, but huffed when you caught that satisfied smirk he wasn't even trying to suppress.

You muttered, “Asshole,” under your breath.

Jannik turned to you, frowning. "What did I do?"

You rolled your eyes, and the rest of the team just shook their heads at him in warning.

Then, before you could answer, you heard hurried footsteps patter behind you and watched as Jannik’s face fell.

“Wait!”

You turned to find the waiter had run after you, only slightly breathless as he reached. “I—sorry, I meant to ask sooner. I just got off now, and maybe I take you around the city?”

You couldn't help but smile at his earnest. "What, like right now?"

He shrugged and nodded, "If you want? If you have the time."

"Sure, why not." You accepted easily. "I'd love to."

You glance at the team, ignoring Jannik and the way he had gone stone-faced. “I’ll see you all later.”

They smiled and waved you off, and even gave the waiter a too-strong pat on the back—a warning no doubt. You didn’t spare Jannik another glance as you walked off.

---

Jannik didn’t sulk. At least, that’s what he told himself. He was not sulking.

But even he had to admit, sitting in the team’s shared hotel suite while staring blankly at his phone while the rest of the team watched a movie, he probably looked a little sulky. His mind was elsewhere, tracing over the way you had smiled at the waiter, the way you had walked away with him.

“Mate,” Darren finally sighed, switching off the TV and leaning back in his chair with arms crossed. “I think it’s time you ask yourself why this is bothering you so much.”

Jannik frowned, ready to argue, but Uli cut in. “Yeah—don't be an idiot.”

Simone, who was getting up to leave for his room, gently hit him upside the head.

Jannik huffed, shaking his head. “I don’t—” He stopped himself. The words I don’t care felt hollow, even to him.

No one argued further. They just let him stew in his thoughts. Eventually, one by one, they filtered out for the night, leaving Jannik alone.

He didn’t know how long he sat there before he heard the door to the suite open. He looked up to see you walking in, looking flushed and giddy from the night out. You stopped short when you saw him, a flicker of residual anger crossing your face before you exhaled and shook your head.

“I’m not letting you ruin my mood,” you said immediately, pointing at him. “I had too good a time to let you get to me.”

He opened his mouth, but you were already turning to head toward your room.

“Wait, please.” he said, standing abruptly. His voice was soft, sincere in a way that made you pause. “Can we talk?”

You hesitated, still facing your door, before finally exhaling. You pushed it open and gestured for him to follow. “Fine, whatever.”

Inside, you leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. He lingered by the door, shifting his weight. The hesitation was unlike him, and you raised a brow. “Well? What is it, Jan?”

Jannik ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I was an ass before,” he admitted. “And I'm sorry. I got pissed and I—I think I was jealous.”

Your expression didn’t shift, but you know he saw the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides. He pushed forward, voice quieter now. “And I think—no, I know—it’s because I have feelings for you.”

Silence stretched between you. For a moment, he thought maybe you hadn’t heard him. Until, suddenly, you let out a dry, bitter laugh.

“Oh, now you have feelings for me?” you snapped, pushing off the dresser and throwing your hands in the air in disbelief. “When I’ve spent all this time pining after you, waiting and hoping—while you act the way you do to me like it's nothing? But now, the second I go on a date and have a nice time, you decide it was actually something?”

Jannik’s mouth opened, but he didn’t have a response. He could only follow as you led him to the door, swinging it open.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered. “Go to bed, Jannik.”

The door shut in his face before he could process what had happened.

---

He barely slept.

The frustration, the sadness, the regret—he didn’t know what to do with it. He had thought admitting his feelings would be enough. But clearly, he had missed something. He had hurt you, even when he had never meant to. And now, he wasn't sure if he had gone and ruined everything.

A knock at his door woke him. He blinked blearily, disoriented, and dragged himself up to answer it.

It was you.

Still in your night clothes, hair slightly frizzy—and in spite of the night before, Jannik only wanted to smile at the sight of you. His finger itched to fix the few stray strands of hair displaced from the part of your hair. You always were the favorite part of his day, it just might have taken too long for him to realize.

You crossed your arms and pushed past him, letting yourself in with a small sigh.

“I shouldn’t have blown up like that,” you admitted, shifting on your feet. “I needed to get it out of my system. But... you should know, I— I do have feelings for you. And I have for a long while.”

His stomach flipped. He stayed silent, waiting, as you met his gaze steadily.

“But if we do this,” you continued, voice firm, “we start slow. We’re intentional. I’m not doing… whatever that was again, and I won't let myself be led on.”

He nodded immediately. “I have to earn you.”

Something softened in your expression, he always was too sweet for his own good. You took a small step forward and shrugged. “Yeah,” you murmured. “You do.”

Then, to his surprise, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He barely had time to register the warmth before you pulled back, watching his reaction with an amused look.

His lips curled into a slow grin, one that was playful and a little relieved. “So,” he said, tilting his head. “Can I take you out tonight?”

You hummed, pretending to consider it. “Mmm… I might be able to fit you in, but I have another date with the waiter.”

His smile faltered, brows furrowing slightly with something in between panic and disbelief.

You laughed, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Relax, I’m kidding.”

He exhaled in relief before his grin returned, wider this time. He caught your hand as you drew it away from his face and checked once more, anyways. “So you're free? You accept?”

You rolled your eyes, pulling away from his grasp, but the way you smiled told him everything he needed to know.

---

Part 2 Here

Thought about splitting this into parts, then was like nah eff that and so here we are: a longer one-shot. Hope you enjoyed today's fic xx

[oneslimybastard]

Another underutilized aspect of N, Natural Harmonia Gropius himself, is that he's conceptualized as not just a Math Guy, but a Math Genius if we go by some interview trivia notated on Bulbapedia.

It clearly shows in the way he speaks since his (translated) dialogue (idk about the original japanese one) is full of hamfisted references to formulas and frustration expressed when the chaos of the world does not align with them — which to me is like, the core of his character, something that makes him both An Asshole to deal with but also a very intellectually curios and creative individual. It's just a brand of creativity not a lot of people can keep up with nor understand.

N likes math because a lot of math is about clearly defined variables and their relationship to one another. If you come across an inconsistency that doesn't fit any prior definitions, you iron out a new definition and suddenly the field has expanded upon itself tenfold. It aligns with how his Very Autistic Brain functions, x + y = z, if I do x to y then z will happen. If z doesn't happen, then that just means I have to identify the hidden variables within the exchange and rewrite the formula to be more accurate.

Black and White's quality of writing is. Like pokémon often is. Questionable at best. The foundations are there but the execution is dumbed down and corny because it's still aimed at kids, BW in specific really cutting the theme of pokémon trainer ethics short in favor of just "dang u beat me in the pogiebattle guess ur right!". How-ev-er. In my head, and the reason why I still find the plot of those games compelling (aside for my unhinged thirst for goth man-milf Ghetsis) is that to me they're about local cult-raised autist Normal Henry Gropus bashing his head against the world over and over to desperately try and make the formulas make sense, to distill it into variables he can understand and predict on a consistent basis, and failing miserably at it. Because even if the world is Technically made up of a bunch of chemistry that you could, in theory, predict, there's just a lot of random noise in there from microscopic complexities that fuck everything up.

Pokémon are simpler creatures (discounting the eerily intelligent ones) who will be nice enough to behave like math problems most of the time. Humans rarely extend that grace, the more N studies them like a science project the more contradictory variables pop up. They have a million thoughts in their head he doesn't have access to, that brew into feelings he doesn't understand, which leads to actions he can't do a proper traceback through. Which is frustrating, devastatingly frustrating. At least at first.

Due to how BW2 pans out and my own yearning for thematic mirroring, whereas Ghetsis gives in to the Autistic Bitterness over all these NTs he doesn't fuckign understand, I like to think N develops a sort of joy in studying people like the impossibly complex math problems we are. Because he likes math, he likes figuring shit out, he likes buying a nightmare rubik's cube and charting the squares out on a nightmare variable graph (listen i am not a math guy. i respect the hustle but my skill level is too low to accurately attempt to simulate the process in writing. im sorry math guys) so he has a home-made flexible cheat code on how to solve any possible mix-up of it. It's fun for him, it stimulates his brain and he is so stupid good at it that he can only share that joy with like a stray alakazam or metagross because he's a bit of a tarzan just hanging out in the wilderness, he doesn't know any high end mathematicians he can casually geek out about combinatorial game theory with, and the normies just do not get it .

I think this math enjoying is kind of a big part of his ~Innocence~ as well, since there's a lot of childlike glee to being a Math Guy. It's the love of problem solving as a process rather than a means to an end, it's playful, but severely misunderstood to the point where people kinda might assume things about you if you are a math guy.

N's love of math helps him love the world but it also isolates him. He's a genius, but since he can't communicate it in a palatable way it'll get overlooked in favor of him just being a loomy weirdo on the street chatting up the local patrats.

If introduced to DnD though he'd spend so much time on forging ridiculously optimized multiclass builds, then migrate to digging through old obscure sci-fi ttrpgs from the 80s with hellishly complex systems just for the funsies of learning how the presented variables behave within a variety of frameworks, but then if you actually invited him to play with your group he'd look at you like you'd just called his mom a llama.

He's a neat guy to me, STEM guy who's also one of those animal rights activists who's a little too PETA-coded, I like him :)

[writing-rat]

Gym Crush

Pairing: Sam Carpenter x Reader

Warning: Just fluff!

Summary: Sam is a gym trainer when you join her classes. Soon enough you become friends and go to Sam's house...

WC: 1180

It was your first day of going to the gym, and you were nervous. You hadn’t gone to a gym in New York before, scared of the people who would be going, but you knew you needed to get back to working out soon. So that is when you decided to look at gym classes, where you found one you liked. It was functional strength, and it was a small class with a name you recognised. Sam Carpenter. One of the Ghostface victims. You knew her from the news when you first moved in when the incidents were happening. You knew she was innocent however, the news said so with proof as well as Gale Weathers, known for the books that spurred the people that wore the Ghostface costume on. Out of intrigue (and because of the class size), you thought you would join. You were lucky you did that due to it being the last spot available and you were excited. The class size was 6 people so you were grateful for that. The first classes you would be going to would be tomorrow, so you decided to get your workout clothes sorted. Grabbing an old faded hoodie and a plain shirt, you put them in a pile then grabbed your favourite sweatpants. You were going to be prepared, and glad you could work from home once a week.

-

It was officially the next day, and it was an hour before your class which was at 4 pm. You made sure you had your water bottle ready as well as having the correct clothes on. You checked the train times before deciding it would be better to walk to the gym. It would be good for exercise too anyway. As you were walking, you were looking around the city since you were still new there, having moved there months ago. 

Eventually walking into the gym, you showed your booking to the receptionist. “Just go down this hallway where there are the classroom gyms and it is the second right. The room is marked with Sam’s name too,” the receptionist said with a smile. “She is a good trainer. She wants to warn people who join however to not mention Ghostface or the allegations whatsoever. She will kick you out quickly if not,” the receptionist spoke, looking at her. You nodded, understanding. “Thank you,” you spoke before walking over to the room and entering, being the first one there. You were 30 minutes early after all. Sam looked up after putting some weights down and smiled.

“Hey! Y/N right?” she asked. 

“Yeah! That’s me,” you confirmed, looking around. “You can put your drink in one of the cubbies. I am Sam Carpenter, your new trainer. I will be helping you to achieve your goals and also make you stronger. You worked out before?” Sam asked, seemingly done with the set-up. “Yeah, but not for a few months. I just recently moved to NYC,” you confirmed, smiling at her gently. Sam was nodding. “Good, good. Well, I can’t wait to see how you improve,” Sam spoke. You nodded, eager to please her. Little did you know what would happen in the future…

-

It was 8 months after you first started lessons, and you were growing a crush on the taller girl. You looked up to her, metaphorically and literally. Hell, you even befriended Sam, having been in her classes the longest and communicating with her if you would be late or would not be able to make it to the lesson. Hell, Sam even started driving you to the sessions and sometimes home. You were thankful for that as you could save money than then go on the train every day. You even talked to Sam more personally, which led to a friendship becoming her best friend. She was still a strict coach with you though during lessons. 

You were currently at the Carpenter-Weather’s house, Gale cooking dinner with Tara while you were leaning against Sam, curled up after a long session and watching a movie with her. You were both watching The Addam’s Family Values, wanting a relaxing film. You felt comfortable in the strong woman’s embrace, leaning more and more into her neck. You weren’t even aware you were doing that as you were more distracted by the film. Sam meanwhile was rubbing your sides as she kissed your forehead, making you smile. You were about to speak when Tara entered the room. “Dinner’s ready!” she spoke, before going back to the kitchen. Sam groaned, stretching before she stood up, holding her hand out for you to take. You smiled, taking it as you got up, shocked that Sam kept holding it after. Your cheeks did heat up a little bit at that action but you didn’t say anything. Tara and Gale just looked at each other with a smirk for some reason that you didn’t know but you just decided to not care about it.

“Thank you, ma’am, Tara,” you spoke, nodding politely. Gale just smiled. 

“Oh please, call me Gale. Ma’am makes me feel old,” Gale just chuckled in response. Nodding in shock, you smiled as you sat down next to Sam. On the plate there were burritos. You were content with that as you started to eat while thanking both Tara and Gale for cooking. 

“If you want to stay over, you can!” Tara happily responded. Sam just widened her eyes and then glared at Tara, but you didn’t know why again. You decided to shrug it off again. “Sure, but where would I stay?” you asked, confused as you tilted your head confused. 

“Sam’s bed?” Tara suggested. Sam nodded. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” she admitted. Gale just smiled, seeing how Tara was being a wing-woman for Sam. 

-

That night, you had decided to stay over. That made you both go to sleep at 1 am, both of you going to her bedroom silently due to the other occupants sleeping. Sam just smiled at you before she kissed your cheek, making you even more flustered as you realised she was being more touchy. She was cuddling you, holding your hands and kissing you. “Are you flirting?” you asked quietly, shaking from nerves admittedly. Sam blinked before she thought then sighed and nodded. “Yes, I am. Is that… ok?” she asked. You just grinned and kissed her, before nodding. “Now let’s cuddle and sleep, I am tired,” you admitted. Sam just grinned and smiled before she went to the bed and was big spooning you. You just cuddled into her neck, glad your feelings were returned. 

The next morning, you woke up early, confused as to why before you heard the shutter of a camera. You looked up sleepily, then saw Tara in the room holding a Polaroid and putting it on the side. “Morning, Gale is happy for you. Now you can go back to sleep,” Tara spoke quietly before leaving. You smiled, shaking your head before quickly falling back to sleep. You didn’t miss the faint kiss of your forehead though. You sighed in happiness.