#tapout

ICECREAM Crystal Beanie

Hauntedstarbucks CS Bomber Jacket

Tapout Vintage Vest Hoodie

The mat was warm and a little sticky under the lights—just enough grip to punish hesitation. The air shimmered with a cocktail of rubber, skin heat, singlet stretch and competitive testosterone. Wells bounced once on his heels, gold singlet catching every beam like liquid metal poured over muscle. His knee pads hugged his joints tight, thighs full and pumped inside the compression.

Coach circled him in the black rubber singlet, thicker, shinier, more authoritative. His boots made no sound; his knee pads brushed with a low rasp. Just beard, eyes, and that half-patient, half-amused smirk that always meant Wells was about to earn something the hard way.

“Rule one,” Coach murmured, voice low and close enough that Wells felt it along his traps. “Alphas don’t wait for permission.”

Wells shot forward. Good aggression, sloppy angle. Coach caught him by the singlet hips, rubber stretching against Wells' skin with a sharp squeak. In three seconds, Wells was flat, breath punched out, shoulders pressed to mat.

Coach stayed on him, weighty, not crushing. Dominance without panic. “Again,” he said, breath warm against Wells' ear. “With hunger this time. Not hope.”

They didn’t wrestle for score or time. They wrestled for hierarchy. For instruction. For the kind of control you felt in the lungs more than the pride. Every hold had intention; every reversal had commentary.

Wells surged harder. Coach let him get close once, close enough that Wells could taste the win, before he reversed with surgical calm, pinning Wells chest-to-chest. Sweat met sweat, singlet rubber squeaking under compression.

“You’re growing,” Coach said, hands firm on Wells’s traps. “Chest thicker. Legs responding. But size without discipline is just bulk. I build strength that obeys.”

Wells swallowed, hips still pinned. “I can handle it.”

Coach pressed down, just a little. Enough to make Wells choose between breathing or squirming. “Handling is passive. Owning is active. I’m interested in ownership.”

They drilled takedowns. Counters. Holds that required commitment and breath. Coach repositioned Wells by the straps of the gold singlet, tugging him exact, guiding angles with knee pad pressure. Wells followed cues—when to explode, when to melt, when to play dead so he could strike clean.

With each rep, Coach narrated the growth like a sculptor critiquing his own creation.

“Back’s thickening. Lat sweep improving. Quads have the density now. Next comes traps and glutes. Growth is obedience, Wells. You grow because I tell you to.”

Wells didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. His body responded too eagerly to correction.

Then it happened, Wells nearly got the pin. Coach didn’t panic; he exhaled once, shifted hips, and rolled them both. Wells tapped twice against Coach’s thigh out of instinct, and Coach released instantly—no shame, no comment, just a nod that said good reflex.

When the round finally ended, Wells was dripping, singlet clinging, breath harsh and hungry. Coach stripped off knee pads slowly, methodical, ritualistic. “Not bad,” he said. “Still raw.”

Wells smirked up at him. “Thought you liked raw.”

Coach didn’t bite. “I like potential. And potential only matters if someone trains it.”

Vent fans hummed. Showers hissed somewhere in the distance. Wells sat on the bench, straps peeled to his waist, torso pumped and red from contact. The scent of rubber, sweat, and heat still clung to him like a second skin.

Coach didn’t talk right away. Didn’t towel off right away. He let the silence soak into Wells' nerves like another form of pressure.

“You know what I like about you?” he finally asked, stepping in close, boots still unlaced. “You take correction like fuel.”

Wells lifted his chin. “Makes me better.”

Coach smirked. “Makes you mine to improve.”

He hooked a finger under Wells' jaw, barely a touch, just a cue. Enough to tell Wells exactly where to look.

“That growth you’re chasing?” Coach continued. “It’s not just mass. It’s discipline. It’s control. It’s knowing when to bite and when to tap.” A beat. “My control.”

Wells didn’t look away. Didn’t hide the grin that spread slow across his face. Hunger and ambition braided together.

Coach nodded once, satisfied. “Good. You’re learning.”

He leaned in, voice dropping into that quiet dominant register that made Wells sit straighter. “Keep wrestling for me. Keep growing for me. And when you finally get big enough to make me work, really work”

He paused, letting the implication coil around Wells' ribs, as he passed him a bottle of water.

“I’ll decide if you tap… or if I do.”

Wells shivered—half arousal, half competitive hunger. “Guess that means I’m not done.”

Coach turned toward the exit, rolling his shoulders, boots creaking. “Not even close. Hydrate, protein, and sleep. I want your legs and back fuller by next week.”

Wells blinked. “Yes, Coach.”

Coach paused in the doorway, profile sharp, voice smooth and smug.

“And Wells?”

“Yeah?”

“If you hesitate next time, I pin you fast. If you try to impress me…” His smile shifted darker, kinkier. “I make you earn the tap.”