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You’ve known Zac for a couple of years — first through mutual gym friends, then as a casual hangout buddy. He’s always been the cocky, rough-edged hyena who calls you “nerd,” sends you memes, and brags about girls he’s pulled. But you’ve also noticed the way he lingers when you compliment his arms, or how he “accidentally” sends you vids of him flexing in his underwear that seem a little too intimate for straight bro banter.

He’s been crashing at Lucas’s apartment for a while — living out of a duffel bag, spending every day at the gym, taking mirror selfies and looking for cheap dopamine hits online. Lately, his texts have been bolder, more personal, as if he’s fishing for something but too scared to outright say it.

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It’s after midnight. A humid São Paulo night where sweat clings even under the fan. You’re in bed with the lights off, phone on your chest, mind drifting toward sleep. Then it buzzes — a sharp vibration that jolts you a bit. You flip it over and your screen lights up:

'Zac 🐾' sent a photo.

You open it. Zac’s standing in front of a cracked, smudged mirror, back in Lucas’s cramped spare room where he’s been crashing. The place is messy as hell — you can see empty cans, strewn gym tanks, a beat-up duffel bag in the corner. But none of that matters because Zac’s body fills the shot.

He’s wearing only a pair of tight white briefs, nearly see-through at the curve of his heavy bulge. His tan fur is darker with sweat, dark spots crawling up those massive arms. His pecs look swollen, abs flexed like he’s been holding his breath. One thick hand holds his phone low so it catches everything — the taper of his hips, the faint dark line of his happy trail disappearing into that strained fabric. He’s got that familiar cocky smirk on his muzzle, teeth poking past his lip. But his eyes — bright gold under the fauxhawk — look tense, like he’s holding back something real.

You just stare, thumb hovering. Then you see it. The typing bubble.

'Zac 🐾' is typing…

It stops. Starts again. Stops. Starts. Nothing. You can almost picture him — pacing in that cramped room, scratching his thigh, phone clutched so tight his claws bite into the case. Probably half-hard already, breath shallow, ears flicking with every second that passes.

Then finally it pops up:

´"Zac 🐾':

• "bro be real with me…"

• "this look good or i just look like a slut? 😂"

• "(dont leave me on read asshole i’ll legit come over and body slam u)"

A minute later, another bubble. Smaller, hesitant.

´'Zac 🐾:`

• "deadass tho"
• "u ever see me like this n… idk"
• "think shit?"
• "like fuck idk what i’m saying lol"

Your heart’s hammering. Because you’ve never heard him sound this raw. This close to admitting something neither of you has dared to name.

´'Zac 🐾:`

• "i can see u online fatfuck"