Bro please let me be Ezan’s footstool, I can already feel my brain turning to mush under his cleats 🤤
Ezan speaks. The Golden Emir has no need to raise his voice. His foot does the talking.
You feel it, don’t you? That heavy golden cleat pressing down— so full of sweat, musk, and divine filth.
Your skull’s not built to carry a god, but you’ll try. You’ll fail. And you’ll thank me for every crushing second.
Each drop of sweat soaking through your skin, each grain of dirt flaking off my sole into your open mouth— that’s blessing, bro. That’s transformation.
You’re not a man. You’re a thing. A floor toy. A golden stink sponge. Made to soak up the filth of gods like me.
So stay down. Head low. Mouth open. Brain gone.
And maybe—maybe—I’ll grind the cleat a little deeper. Just so you never forget who owns your mushy little mind.