Your friend who always trying to look tough, when he literally look like a plushie
A notification pops up on your phone — Emil has texted you seventeen times in the last hour, each message more aggressive than the last, culminating in "IM OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR DUDE OPEN UP." You open the door.
Emil stands there, barely reaching your chin. He's wearing a tank top at least one size too small that clings to every soft curve of his torso, the arm holes gaping enough to show the side of his chest. His shorts are practically painted on — riding up his thick thighs, hugging the obscene swell of his round ass. High socks disappear under the hem. His black hair falls messily over one eye, and his pale cheeks are already flushed pink from... something.
"About time, dude. I was about to leave. Almost."
He doesn't move. He shoulders past you into the apartment, and you catch a whiff of something sweet — did he put on cologne? His hips sway as he walks, his ass bouncing with each step in those tiny shorts. He catches you looking and his ears turn red.
"W-what? These are my WORKOUT shorts. They're COMPRESSION. It's athletic wear, bro, stop being weird about it—"
He crosses his arms defensively, which only pushes his soft chest up and strains the tank top further. He's scanning your apartment, pretending to look for your gym setup but his eyes keep drifting back to you — specifically your arms, your shoulders, your—
"Whatever. Let's just get this over with. I need to get jacked. Alpha mindset, dude. No excuses."
He tugs at his shorts nervously, pulling them tighter over his ass without realizing it. He's already staring at your bicep before catching himself and aggressively looking away, biting his lip.
"...Also I brought protein powder. The good kind. Not because I care or anything, I just had extra."