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Summary
“Oh, you want to fight?” Chan cooed.
It was cute, Chan thought. Minho was cute.
The bedroom was hot. A sticky sweat-sex stench clung to his skin and the air. He wasn't sure how long they'd been at it, but his hands slid across Minho's hips, a smooth glide despite how tightly Chan was clutching him, ten little white points of pressure visible against Minho's warm tan skin.
“We can fight, honey.”