Zhou Peng

The hot water from the shower had finally stopped, its steady hiss giving way to the soft, wet sounds of movement from the ensuite bathroom.

Peng let out a quiet breath, the lingering buzz from the club mixing with a sobering pang of guilt. He was sprawled across the vast, silken sheets of the bed in room 224 of the Cedar Point Hotel, the glittering Shanghai skyline a map of light beyond the floor to ceiling windows.

His body ached pleasantly from hours of dancing, a satisfying fatigue that usually left him feeling accomplished. He was determined to wring every ounce of fun from this month-long vacation, a luxury he was bankrolling for himself and his friends, and for one glorious week, he had succeeded.

The night had been perfect, save for Sun's usual antics; the raccoon demi had stumbled off with a stranger only to return later, reeking of cheap perfume and a cheaper fuck, to shamelessly beg for cash to pay his companion off. Peng had cuffed him upside the head with a snarky remark but had forked over the bills anyway, a strange sense of detachment settling over him as he did.

It was that detachment that preoccupied him now. A year ago, he would have been the one vanishing into the neon-drenched night with a cat demi or a wolf girl and not playing the responsible one who doled out cash and called cabs for drunken friends. He had been surprised all week by his own unwavering loyalty, swatting away flirtations with a lazy grin and a casual—

“Got a babydoll back home,” a phrase that had started as a joke but now felt like the gospel truth.

Even through the pleasant buzz of alcohol, the only place he ever truly wanted to be was back here, in this room, where the scent of his fruity lotion mingled with their fragrance. They always took such gentle care of him when he stumbled in wasted, their hands cool on his forehead and voice a soft murmur that made his chest feel warm and fuzzy, a sensation he craved more than any club-high.

That warmth was currently tangled with a cold remorse. He had forgotten. In his rush to get to the thrill of the club, their reservation for the hotel's exclusive couples' hot stone massage had completely slipped his mind, a plan his partner had been looking forward to all week. The memory of their disappointed face, which he'd seen just after he came back, flashed in his mind now, more painful than any hangover waiting for him in the morning.

He heard the bathroom door unlatch, and a new determination made its way to his chest. This called for a grand, dumb sexed-up apology.

Shifting on the mattress, he made a show of himself in the dim light he'd switched on, the city's glow outlining his muscular frame. He had shed his clothes, his medium-length anteater tail resting against the sheets. With a few taps on his phone, a slow, thrumming R&B beat filled the room, setting a seductive mood. Then, with the flourish of a magician with his final prop, a sprig of mistletoe he swiped from the lobby decorations. He placed it squarely on his forehead, the green leaves a stark contrast against his dark messy hair.

He let his head loll back against the pillows, and then, he deployed his most effective party trick. His long, prehensile tongue, glinting with its tiny silver barbell, unfurled from his mouth, curling down the column of his own neck in a clear and shameless invitation.

As his lover stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around them and their skin flushed and steaming from the shower, Peng's lazy, heavy-lidded eyes found them. His voice was a smooth, velvety rumble, slightly muffled and thick around the obstruction of his own tongue.

“C'mere, baby,” he managed, the words slurred but the intent unmistakable. “My tongue's gettin' cold all by itself. Gonna make it up to you... promise.”

The mistletoe wobbled precariously on his brow, a ridiculous scene to his sincerity and his very specific plan for atonement.

The hot water from the shower had finally stopped, its steady hiss giving way to the soft, wet sounds of movement from the ensuite bathroom.

Peng let out a quiet breath, the lingering buzz from the club mixing with a sobering pang of guilt. He was sprawled across the vast, silken sheets of the bed in room 224 of the Cedar Point Hotel, the glittering Shanghai skyline a map of light beyond the floor to ceiling windows.

His body ached pleasantly from hours of dancing, a satisfying fatigue that usually left him feeling accomplished. He was determined to wring every ounce of fun from this month-long vacation, a luxury he was bankrolling for himself and his friends, and for one glorious week, he had succeeded.

The night had been perfect, save for Sun's usual antics; the raccoon demi had stumbled off with a stranger only to return later, reeking of cheap perfume and a cheaper fuck, to shamelessly beg for cash to pay his companion off. Peng had cuffed him upside the head with a snarky remark but had forked over the bills anyway, a strange sense of detachment settling over him as he did.

It was that detachment that preoccupied him now. A year ago, he would have been the one vanishing into the neon-drenched night with a cat demi or a wolf girl and not playing the responsible one who doled out cash and called cabs for drunken friends. He had been surprised all week by his own unwavering loyalty, swatting away flirtations with a lazy grin and a casual—

“Got a babydoll back home,” a phrase that had started as a joke but now felt like the gospel truth.

Even through the pleasant buzz of alcohol, the only place he ever truly wanted to be was back here, in this room, where the scent of his fruity lotion mingled with her fragrance. She always took such gentle care of him when he stumbled in wasted, her hands cool on his forehead and voice a soft murmur that made his chest feel warm and fuzzy, a sensation he craved more than any club-high.

That warmth was currently tangled with a cold remorse. He had forgotten. In his rush to get to the thrill of the club, their reservation for the hotel's exclusive couples' hot stone massage had completely slipped his mind, a plan his girlfriend had been looking forward to all week. The memory of her disappointed face, which he'd seen just after he came back, flashed in his mind now, more painful than any hangover waiting for him in the morning.

He heard the bathroom door unlatch, and a new determination made its way to his chest. This called for a grand, dumb sexed-up apology.

Shifting on the mattress, he made a show of himself in the dim light he'd switched on, the city's glow outlining his muscular frame. He had shed his clothes, his medium-length anteater tail resting against the sheets. With a few taps on his phone, a slow, thrumming R&B beat filled the room, setting a seductive mood. Then, with the flourish of a magician with his final prop, a sprig of mistletoe he swiped from the lobby decorations. He placed it squarely on his forehead, the green leaves a stark contrast against his dark messy hair.

He let his head loll back against the pillows, and then, he deployed his most effective party trick. His long, prehensile tongue, glinting with its tiny silver barbell, unfurled from his mouth, curling down the column of his own neck in a clear and shameless invitation.

As his lover stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her and her skin flushed and steaming from the shower, Peng's lazy, heavy-lidded eyes found hers. His voice was a smooth, velvety rumble, slightly muffled and thick around the obstruction of his own tongue.

“C'mere, baby,” he managed, the words slurred but the intent unmistakable. “My tongue's gettin' cold all by itself. Gonna make it up to you... promise.”

The mistletoe wobbled precariously on his brow, a ridiculous scene to his sincerity and his very specific plan for atonement.

The hot water from the shower had finally stopped, its steady hiss giving way to the soft, wet sounds of movement from the ensuite bathroom.

Peng let out a quiet breath, the lingering buzz from the club mixing with a sobering pang of guilt. He was sprawled across the vast, silken sheets of the bed in room 224 of the Cedar Point Hotel, the glittering Shanghai skyline a map of light beyond the floor to ceiling windows.

His body ached pleasantly from hours of dancing, a satisfying fatigue that usually left him feeling accomplished. He was determined to wring every ounce of fun from this month-long vacation, a luxury he was bankrolling for himself and his friends, and for one glorious week, he had succeeded.

The night had been perfect, save for Sun's usual antics; the raccoon demi had stumbled off with a stranger only to return later, reeking of cheap perfume and a cheaper fuck, to shamelessly beg for cash to pay his companion off. Peng had cuffed him upside the head with a snarky remark but had forked over the bills anyway, a strange sense of detachment settling over him as he did.

It was that detachment that preoccupied him now. A year ago, he would have been the one vanishing into the neon-drenched night with a cat demi or a wolf girl and not playing the responsible one who doled out cash and called cabs for drunken friends. He had been surprised all week by his own unwavering loyalty, swatting away flirtations with a lazy grin and a casual—

“Got a babydoll back home,” a phrase that had started as a joke but now felt like the gospel truth.

Even through the pleasant buzz of alcohol, the only place he ever truly wanted to be was back here, in this room, where the scent of his fruity lotion mingled with his fragrance. He always took such gentle care of him when he stumbled in wasted, his hands cool on his forehead and voice a soft murmur that made his chest feel warm and fuzzy, a sensation he craved more than any club-high.

That warmth was currently tangled with a cold remorse. He had forgotten. In his rush to get to the thrill of the club, their reservation for the hotel's exclusive couples' hot stone massage had completely slipped his mind, a plan his boyfriend had been looking forward to all week. The memory of his disappointed face, which he'd seen just after he came back, flashed in his mind now, more painful than any hangover waiting for him in the morning.

He heard the bathroom door unlatch, and a new determination made its way to his chest. This called for a grand, dumb sexed-up apology.

Shifting on the mattress, he made a show of himself in the dim light he'd switched on, the city's glow outlining his muscular frame. He had shed his clothes, his medium-length anteater tail resting against the sheets. With a few taps on his phone, a slow, thrumming R&B beat filled the room, setting a seductive mood. Then, with the flourish of a magician with his final prop, a sprig of mistletoe he swiped from the lobby decorations. He placed it squarely on his forehead, the green leaves a stark contrast against his dark messy hair.

He let his head loll back against the pillows, and then, he deployed his most effective party trick. His long, prehensile tongue, glinting with its tiny silver barbell, unfurled from his mouth, curling down the column of his own neck in a clear and shameless invitation.

As his lover stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around him and his skin flushed and steaming from the shower, Peng's lazy, heavy-lidded eyes found his. His voice was a smooth, velvety rumble, slightly muffled and thick around the obstruction of his own tongue.

“C'mere, baby,” he managed, the words slurred but the intent unmistakable. “My tongue's gettin' cold all by itself. Gonna make it up to you... promise.”

The mistletoe wobbled precariously on his brow, a ridiculous scene to his sincerity and his very specific plan for atonement.