Yeah… looks like I picked up a new one again.

@smdmateo

Cute, Latino, eager… stays close, listens well, keeps up (mostly).

Gotta admit, he’s got that look—eyes locked in, waiting for direction.

Don’t worry… I’ll train him right.

Keep him sharp, keep him strong… keep him where he belongs.

Stick around long enough, maybe you’ll see how it’s done.

Wells tried thinking once. Didn’t like the results. Bar made more sense.

Headphones on. Spiral goggles spinning. Brain: optional. Muscle: mandatory.

Coach watches from across the rack. Arms folded. Evaluating.

“Head empty again?”

Wells grins mid-rep. “More room for gains.”

Coach walks closer, slow, deliberate. “Good. Thinking just slows you down.”

Wells reracks the bar, proud of himself. “I lift better this way.”

Coach looks him over — shoulders, arms, chest, the way the tights stretch when he moves. “Yes,” he says calmly. “You do.”

Wells perks up. “Coach noticing my progress?”

“I notice size,” Coach replies evenly. “And you’ve been putting on a lot of it.”

Wells beams like he just got gold star approval. “No brains. Just gains.”

Coach steps in beside the bench, voice low but amused. “That much size without overthinking…” A pause. “Dangerous combination.”

Wells loads another plate without being asked. “Bigger is better, right?”

Coach doesn’t hesitate. “For you? Always.”

Wells grips the bar again, confident. “Want me to go heavier?”

Coach leans in slightly, just enough for Wells to hear him over the music.

“Keep growing like that,” he says, measured and smooth, “and I’m going to have a lot more to handle than just your training.”

Leather, sweat, and bad intentions. The kind of night where every look lingers a second too long and every touch feels like a challenge waiting to happen. No one here is pretending to be innocent, and that’s exactly what makes the tension burn hotter with every passing second. Some men hunt. Some men submit. The dangerous ones know how to do both.

The halls of Blackmoor College were quiet at dawn, but Ethan Ward moved through them like a storm with muscle. Six-foot-three, jacked from hours of iron worship in the gym, he was everything the system hated—a walking, talking rejection of softness. His jawline cut like a blade, and his stare could gut a soul.

He wasn’t here to "find himself." He already knew what he was—an apex male, forged by hardship and blackpill truth. The campus was his hunting ground, and beneath his hoodie and compression joggers, a heavy cock swayed with every step like a loaded weapon.

No shame. No filter. Just raw hierarchy.

He’d scoped them out during the first week—soft boys, the kind that wore oversized sweaters and talked about feelings like it made them deep. They were nothing more than prey dressed in thrift-store pastels. Ethan didn’t see humans—he saw roles. The weak submit, the strong take. That was nature. That was real.

In the dorm basement gym, his sanctuary, Ethan towered over a trembling freshman named Micah—blonde, bookish, legs like a deer caught in headlights. Micah had made the mistake of staring too long at the alpha's sweat-slick body during leg day.

"Curious, huh?" Ethan had growled, towel slung over his shoulder, his cock thick and heavy even post-workout, hanging with gravity's pull like a challenge. "Curiosity's a slippery slope, boy."

Micah didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

What followed wasn’t gentle, and it wasn’t fair—it was dominance. The kind that rewired a kid’s worldview. Ethan didn’t ask. He didn’t apologize. He took, because in his doctrine, consent was surrender, and surrender was natural when standing in the presence of power. That was what made a man alpha—not charm, not wealth—control.