#commandoemir

The Formal Disaster — “Tank Top at the Embassy”

The embassy gala demanded black tie. Ezan heard “gold tie” and showed up in a skin-tight golden tank that left nothing to imagination, thick nipples pressing hard against the shine, every ridge of his eight-pack visible, microscopic shorts riding so low the deep V of his obliques pointed straight to the heavy, uncaged bulge swinging free beneath. Diplomats in tuxedos froze mid-sentence. Glasses trembled. Eyes glazed. Ezan scratched his head, delts flaring like wings, and grinned that dumb, beautiful grin. “Bro… what? It’s gold. That’s fancy, right?” Behind him, holiday garlands twinkled like they were laughing too. He had no idea every man in the room was silently leaking into expensive underwear, minds blank with need for the oblivious god in their midst.

Pajamas at the Pub — “Golden Stag Sleepwear”

The Golden Chalice roared with holiday cheer, bros packed shoulder-to-shoulder, music thumping, lights flashing red and green. Then the door opened and Ezan strolled in wearing satin Christmas pajamas printed with golden stags, the fabric so thin it clung to every curve of his chest and the long, thick outline of his half-hard cock swaying lazily with each step. Fluffy slippers completed the look. He yawned, stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up to expose the trail of dark hair leading down to where the pants tented obscenely. Grabbing a pint, he leaned on the bar and laughed at something on his phone, completely unaware that half the pub had gone quiet, cages straining, free cocks dripping pre into jeans at the sight of their Emir looking like the ultimate sleepover fantasy. “What? Thought it was chill night, bros.” Yeah. Chill. Sure.

The Vanishing Underwear Epidemic — “Bro… where are they?”

Locker room glowed soft with holiday strings and snowflake decals on the metal doors. Ezan swung his locker open, empty shelf where ten pairs of briefs should be. He scratched his head, bicep exploding against the golden sleeve, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Bro… didn’t I have, like, ten pairs yesterday?” Behind him, the team bit back grins, eyes locked on the way his shorts, commando now, hugged the heavy sway of his cock and the perfect curve of his ass every time he shifted weight. Pre beaded at his tip, darkening the gold fabric in a growing spot he hadn’t noticed yet. The bros knew exactly where those briefs went, snatched, worshipped, stained. Ezan just shrugged, flexed once for the mirror, and sauntered out free-balling, leaving a trail of desperate, leaking devotion in his wake.

The Shirt That Won’t Fit — “Biceps Too Blessed”

Holiday banquet hall shimmered under golden chandeliers and snowflake projections. Ezan stood in front of the mirror trying to button a crisp white dress shirt with subtle gold trim, except the sleeves refused to close around arms that had grown too massive, too perfect. He tugged, frowned, flexed experimentally. Fabric strained. Seams creaked. One button popped free, revealing a slab of golden pec. “Bro… did this shrink in the wash?” He laughed, deep, dumb, happy, completely unaware that every bro seated at the tables was edging under the cloth napkins, staring at the oblivious titan fighting his own shirt like it was the enemy. Another flex. Another button surrendered. The shirt gave up entirely, splitting down the side to expose the full sweep of his lats and the thick root of his cock pressing against dress trousers that suddenly felt two sizes too small. Ezan just grinned at his reflection, proud and clueless. “Guess I’ll go like this. More festive, right?”

He is too beautiful. Too strong. Too perfectly jock-brained to ever notice the chaos he leaves behind, cages ruined, minds melted, loads spent in silent worship of the Emir who simply… exists.

Thank you, Golden Bros, for loving me even when I’m too dumb to see it. Thank you, team, for letting your Emir stay blissfully unaware.

More gold. More muscle. More accidental worship.