｡･:*˚:✧｡minnie｡･:*˚:✧｡

she/her | 07 | dancer : ̗̀➛ 2min bias

[2minnieverse]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

ᴳᴱᵀ ᵀᴼ ᴷᴺᴼᵂ ᵀᴴᴱ ᵂᴿᴵᵀᴱᴿ

Minnie | 07 | German | Polish | dancing | F1 | Skz | 2min bias | Pottery | Dogs | Cats | Frank Ocean | Vinyls | Queen | Cortis | Lngshot | BTS | painting | drawing | ISFP | ult skz | Illit | movies | romance | horror | action | anime | gurren lagann | your name | skating |

[2minnieverse]

sitting here in front of my ipad trying to get myself to write even though I have tons of studying to do

[2minnieverse]

now that I'm finally home I can continue writing "red string" and my jester!Jisung x princess!reader

[2minnieverse]

princess reader x jester jisung???

[2minnieverse]

the fact that I am so awkward and introverted that I am not able to make moots easily is crazy😭😭 like how does everyone do it??? message..? that's too stressful 😣😣

[2minnieverse]

I CAN'T BELIEVE IT🙏🙏

MY FAV FANFIC JUST UPDATED AFTER MONTHS OF BEING ON HIATUS (well deserved hiatus😁)

WE WON

[2minnieverse]

𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶

ೃ⁀➷ 𝚜𝚎𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚡 𝚏!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

Seungmin x f!reader in which the world you live in reveals your soulmate through a red thread connecting two people, yet you seem determined not to find the one chosen by the universe. You keep yourself occupied with work, hobbies, and friends as much as possible—but how long can these distractions last? No one can fight fate, not even someone who doesn’t believe in soulmates.

wc: 2,7k

angst, philophobia, fluff, romance, stranger to lovers trope, slowburn, inaccurate depictions of jobs, generally sweet and romantic but really slow since reader is scared, alcohol consumtion, other skz members mentioned

a/n: this is my first fic ever! Please bare with me when it comes to how I write. If you see any mistakes, please comment! <3

next.

God damn it, why does he always have to come to the metro at the last possible minute?

Seungmin sprinted down the stairs as fast as he could, shouting apologies to everyone he bumped into along the way, his half-empty americano clutched tightly in his hand. His heart pounded wildly in his chest when he noticed the subway beginning to slow down, the doors sliding open just as he reached the platform. He quickened his pace, knowing he couldn’t be late for the interview of his dreams, and finally slipped inside, trying to catch his breath as he grabbed onto the cool steel railing to steady himself.

The doors closed almost immediately and the train took off, the city blurring past the window as his gaze followed the movement outside. It was rush hour, meaning bodies pressed tightly together, everyone trying to get to school or work, leaving him pinned against the door with barely any space to move, though he couldn’t really complain—after all, that was part of the charm of living in Seoul, wasn’t it? As the train emerged from underground, he blinked a few times, adjusting to the sudden brightness, until his eyes caught sight of another train passing by on the neighboring track.

Almost absentmindedly, he glanced inside—and froze.

There, standing in the other carriage, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, her wide eyes meeting his in a way that made his breath hitch as if time itself had stilled between them. His heart stuttered at the unfamiliar feeling, something he had never experienced before, not like this, not with someone he didn’t even know. She looked elegant, composed, dressed as if she too was on her way to something important, maybe even an interview just like him, a thought that barely had time to settle before something else caught his attention.

A red string.

It stretched between them, swaying slightly with the motion of the trains, connecting his hand to hers as if it had always been there. Slowly, she lifted her hand, revealing the string wrapped delicately around her pinky, and almost instinctively, his gaze dropped to his own hand, where the same thread circled his middle finger. His breath caught again as he looked back up, but this time the other train was already gone, disappearing from his sight as quickly as it had appeared, taking her with it.

You were gone.

After what happened on the subway, you tried not to think about it, pushing the memory somewhere to the back of your mind where inconvenient things were easier to ignore. Maybe you ignored it more than you should have. The red string was still wrapped around your finger, only now it had faded, so pale it was almost translucent if you looked closely, as if it were already starting to disappear. You wished it would.

You never really cared about this whole “soulmate” idea, not when you had spent your life watching it fall apart in front of you. You remembered high school, how everyone searched for their so-called other half as if they were guaranteed to find them waiting at the end of the hallway, as if love was something certain and gentle instead of something that could just as easily break you. You had learned early that even soulmates, people who were meant to love each other for a lifetime, who were supposed to stay, still leave. In your family, it almost felt inevitable, like a quiet pattern no one talked about but everyone understood. Your father left your mother for someone else, choosing a life that didn’t include the person he was bound to, and your older sister lost hers entirely, death taking him away without warning, without reason.

They leave one way or another, no matter what.

You tried to fight it anyway. You tried everything you could think of, from cutting at the thread to pulling at it until your finger ached, until your skin turned red and raw, but it never moved, not even slightly. It stayed wrapped around your pinky as if it were a part of you, unbreakable and permanent, like it was quietly reminding you that no matter how much you resisted, you were still tied to someone out there. You couldn’t go through that, so you chose distance instead, putting space between yourself and anything that even resembled love. In high school, you buried yourself in studying, spending hours writing assignments and working on projects until your hand cramped and your vision blurred, chasing perfect grades because at least they were something you could control. After that came university, a business major that led you nowhere in particular, but you followed it anyway because you never really had a dream, just a need to keep moving forward until there was nothing left to do.

It’s not like you don’t believe in soulmates at all. You see them everywhere, in the way people look at each other when they think no one is paying attention, in the quiet certainty of relationships that seem effortless from the outside. Minho and Jisung, two of your closest friends, are like an old married couple, constantly bickering and yet inseparable, and somehow you’ve become the extra piece in their dynamic, the one they care for as if you belong there just as much as they do. Your boss, Mr. Bahng, and his wife are no different, the kind of people who make it all look easy, like love is something steady and safe instead of something that can be taken away without warning. Sometimes you find yourself envying them, not just for what they have, but for the way they allow themselves to have it, for the way they trust it won’t be ripped away from them.

You don’t allow yourself that.

Blinking a few times, you force yourself back to reality, the dull glow of your computer screen pulling your attention back to the present as it reminds you of all the work you haven’t even started yet. Your job as a receptionist at a law firm isn’t difficult, just repetitive enough to keep your mind occupied without requiring too much of you, answering calls, replying to emails from clients who need to schedule appointments, moving through each task without thinking too much about it. You reach for your coffee without looking, taking a small sip before setting it down again, only vaguely registering that it’s gone lukewarm. The clock in the corner of your monitor reads 10:46 AM, another reminder that time keeps moving whether you pay attention to it or not.

You scroll through your emails, skimming each one until you find something that requires an actual response, your fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced ease, muscle memory taking over as you type. You’re so focused on the screen that you don’t notice when someone walks in.

“Excuse me, I’m supposed to have an interview with Mr. Bahng.”

The voice pulls you out of it immediately. You look up, blinking once or twice before slipping into your usual professional smile, the kind that never quite reaches your eyes but works well enough that no one questions it. At least, no one ever has before.

The moment you see him, something inside you falters.

It’s the man from the subway.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest tightens, and then, almost immediately, you feel it, a sharp pull that makes your stomach twist. Your gaze drops to your hand, and the sight makes something in you sink. The thread is no longer faded. It’s bright, an intense, unmistakable red, stretched between you and him as if it had been waiting for this exact moment, as if it had always known you would end up here. It wraps around his finger just as tightly, binding the two of you together in a way that suddenly feels impossible to ignore.

When you look back at him, he’s staring at you the same way, like he understands it too, like he feels it just as strongly. There’s something in his expression you can’t quite place, something that looks almost like hope, and it makes your chest feel heavier than before.

Because all you can think about is how this ends.

A cold shiver runs down your spine as the realization settles in, slow and suffocating, leaving no room for denial or escape. Your soulmate is standing right in front of you, exactly where he was always meant to be, and instead of relief, instead of happiness, all you feel is the quiet certainty that, sooner or later, he’s going to leave too.

“Right, Kim Seungmin. Is that correct?”

You asked, surprised that your voice didn’t waver as you glanced back at the computer, avoiding his gaze for just a second too long before even seeing him nod. Without thinking, you sent a notification to Mr. Bahng, knowing he had most likely forgotten about the interview—just like you had. It gave you something to focus on, something to keep your hands steady.

But you couldn’t avoid him forever.

When you finally looked back at him, your eyes locked with his, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fall away. His dark brown gaze held yours too intently, like he was trying to understand something, or maybe confirm it. It made your chest feel tight, like the air had suddenly become too heavy to breathe properly.

“Please take the elevator to the sixth floor,” you said, your voice quieter now, more controlled than before. “Someone should be there waiting for you.”

You stood up as you spoke, pointing in the direction of the elevators, but your hand lingered in the air for a second too long. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because you could still feel it—that pull, sharp and undeniable, stretching between the two of you like it refused to be ignored.

Seungmin nodded, but it wasn’t a simple gesture. It was stiff, restrained, like he was holding himself back from saying something—or doing something—he wasn’t sure he should. His eyes flickered down for the briefest moment, and you didn’t need to follow his gaze to know where he was looking. Your hand. The thread.

You both felt it.

You forced yourself not to react, not to acknowledge it, even as your fingers curled slightly at your side. You weren’t going to be the one to break first.

“Thank you,” he said, and there was something off in his voice—too careful, too measured, like every word had to pass through a filter before it reached you.

You only nodded in response, afraid that if you said anything more, your voice might betray you.

The sound of his footsteps echoed softly as he walked away, each step somehow louder than it should have been, as if your attention was unwilling to let him go just yet. You watched him longer than you meant to, your gaze following him until he reached the elevator.

For a brief moment, just before the doors closed, his eyes found yours again.

And then he was gone.

Seungmin isn’t reckless. Not with anything. He is structured, everything carefully planned out exactly the way he wants it. Meeting his soulmate on the subway and then seeing you at the place he had always dreamed of working—this wasn’t something he had planned. No one could possibly plan something like that.

He leaned back against the elevator wall, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. It wasn’t like he never wanted to meet you—of course he did. You were his soulmate, after all. And yet, seeing you so afraid, so uncertain, made his heart sink. He could practically feel the anxiety radiating off you, and it left him confused more than anything else.

Maybe something happened to you.

He is observant—everyone knows that about him. No one can hide much from his puppy-like eyes. He notices the way people speak, the way they move when they’re hiding something, the flicker in their eyes when they lie. Nothing really slips past him. Maybe that’s why his past relationships never worked out—because he noticed too much. Or maybe his dry jokes just didn’t land well with his ex-girlfriends.

Either way, that’s all in the past now.

At least he’s close to getting his dream job, even if it’s only as a paralegal.

His heart pounds in his chest as he stares at the elevator doors, waiting to reach the sixth floor. His face doesn’t show even a hint of the nerves building inside him. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, and just then, the soft ding of the elevator breaks the silence.

The doors slide open.

When he steps out, someone is already waiting for him.

Let’s see if he gets the job.

“Kitty, who was that, and why were you staring at him like he was some kind of god and a demon at the same time?”

You heard his voice before you saw him. Minho stepped out from around the corner with his usual confidence, a smirk playing on his lips as he held his iced americano in his hand. He leaned against your desk far too comfortably for your liking, like he owned the space just as much as the office itself, but you didn’t even bother commenting on it. No one really told Minho what to do, and you had learned that a long time ago.

You simply shook your head, turning your attention back to your computer as if nothing had happened, your fingers moving across the keyboard while you replied to emails, pretending that your focus hadn’t just been completely thrown off moments earlier.

“He was here for an interview with Mr. Bahng.”

The explanation came out simple, almost rehearsed, because it was easier than admitting the truth—that Seungmin was your soulmate. Even thinking it felt wrong, too heavy to say out loud, like giving the words shape would make everything more real than you were ready for.

You could feel Minho’s gaze on you without even looking at him. It lingered, sharp and observant, the kind of look that made it impossible to relax under it. He wasn’t the type to miss details, and you knew that much. He had definitely noticed the way you had been staring, the way you hadn’t looked away when you should have.

A quiet sigh escaped you before you finally lifted your head, meeting his eyes. The smirk was still there, but there was something else behind it now—curiosity, maybe even suspicion.

“He… he’s just someone I know, alright? It’s no big deal, oppa.”

Your voice came out softer this time, lacking the confidence you had tried to hold onto just seconds ago. You hated that he could do this to you so easily, make you feel like you were being read without even trying.

Minho hummed, clearly not convinced, but he didn’t push any further. That almost made it worse. If anything, it only confirmed that he had already picked up on more than you wanted him to. He just chose not to say it out loud—at least not yet.

You turned back to your screen, forcing yourself to focus, even though your thoughts refused to settle. Of course you weren’t going to tell him. Not now, maybe not ever. You hadn’t even fully accepted it yourself, and the idea of saying it out loud felt like crossing a line you couldn’t uncross. Keeping your distance from Seungmin still felt like the safest option, like the only way to stay in control of something that was already slipping out of your hands.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Maybe he wouldn’t get the job.

The thought came to you so easily it almost felt like relief, like an easy way out you didn’t have to fight for. If he wasn’t here, if he didn’t stay, then maybe you wouldn’t have to face any of this.

Your screen lit up before you could dwell on it any longer.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you moved your mouse, clicking on the new message that had just appeared. At first, you didn’t think much of it, your eyes scanning the text automatically, but then you froze.

“Please prepare a new entry card for the new paralegal, Kim Seungmin.”

— Mr. Bahng

For a second, you just stared at the screen, your grip on the mouse tightening slightly as the words settled in.

Of course he got the job.

A quiet breath left your lips, somewhere between disbelief and something heavier you didn’t want to name.

…damn it.

devider cred: @saradika-graphics

© 2minnieverse

[2minnieverse]

what I do instead of posting that damn chapter.. help

[kloversung]

zero eight zero one

chapter 7 - a sizzle in the resolve

pairing: lee minho x reader, neighbours to lovers genre: fluff; highly suggestive; smut warnings: explicit sexual content (minors do not interact) word count: 4k kysa's note: okay okay finally here with this chapter (made it slightly longer hehe). this is getting so much fun, i'm kicking my feet in bed. i hope you all love it as much as i do !! leave some comments hm ? they motivate me to write for you all <3 xoxo listening to: youth by lee know

< previous > ch:7 < next >

okay, calm down.

it’s just cooking with minho.

a simple, cute invite after you had asked him to teach you how to make the aglio olio he had brought over that day.

but you knew it wasn’t.

it wasn’t just about pasta after you both had been pressed together, revelled in each other’s heat, trying to keep up the pretense of taking it slow. like you hadn’t been having the unholiest of thoughts dedicated to the entirety of him. the chain of thoughts that started with the way he hovered over you as you breathed him in and ended with the way his skin felt on your lips. you had felt his pulse thudding against your lips, even if for a few milliseconds — the touch enough to tide you over for the week.

however, the most provocative of all was his acceptance.

the acceptance when he had texted you — that he too, was just as gone. that he too, was ready — for more. it lit you up like stars in the night sky, your body alive with the words he had sent.

you shuddered as you recalled his text, heading towards the door to his flat and ringing the doorbell. you had come to a decision, a soft sweet one. you would also accept, relay your thoughts — albeit slowly. you couldn't just sit and smile as if you were satisfied with him sitting across from you, not touching you, not feeling you.

so you had decided.

you were wearing a light pink hoodie, and underneath was the powder blue minho so badly craved. the lace bra that had enticed him, making him snap as his resolution had crumbled, his memory stained in powder blue.

and you were pretty intent on letting him know that you too, loved his eyes on you.

minho opened the door with a smile and wow — it was a total feast for the eyes. clad in a red and white striped apron over his black t-shirt, he looked nothing short of a walking, breathing wet dream.

your brain actually short-circuited for a second. the black cotton of his shirt was doing all the heavy lifting, hugging his broad shoulders and straining against his biceps in a way that made you want to reach out and just — touch. but then there was the apron. it was tied snugly around his waist, cinching the fabric and highlighting the lean line of his hips so perfectly it felt illegal. it was this ridiculous mix of domestic and devastatingly hot — the kind of look that made you wonder if he knew exactly what he was doing to your sanity.

"you’re right on time," he murmured, his voice that low, smooth rasp that always made your stomach do a backflip. leaning against the doorframe, he looked way too comfortable with the effect he was having on you.

he didn't miss the way your eyes raked over him, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. he didn't even try to hide the fact that he was enjoying your internal meltdown. he just stepped back, a silent invitation into his space, his gaze heavy and dark.

"hungry ?" he asked, and the way he said it — with that little glint in his eye — made you realize he definitely wasn't just talking about the pasta.

as you headed in, your eyes strayed around, looking into his home as you took a seat on the couch. his place was a mirrored reflection of yours, yet it felt heavier — grounded by the scent of cedarwood and the quiet, organized hum of his life. the living area was a blend of modern comfort and feline chaos; a large, charcoal sectional occupied the center, scattered with a few stray cat toys and a soft cream throw. books on culinary arts and choreography were stacked neatly on the dark wood coffee table, flanking a small ceramic tray. it was a space that felt like him — slightly guarded, but undeniably warm.

"i have already prepped the ingredients — to make it easier for us."

"oh, that's so sweet of you." you finally tore your gaze away from his hands — his hands — god. the way the veins stood out against his tan skin as he adjusted the knot of that striped apron was doing things to your heart rate. you felt yourself nearly blushing as if you had been caught staring at something private. "i could've helped though —" you murmured, your voice dropping as the domesticity of it all started to sink in.

minho wanted nothing more than to kiss the pout off your face as you rambled on about how you didn't want him to do all the work and it was you who had asked him to teach you and so on. he could literally spend his entire life chopping garlic and boiling pasta if it made you happy.

minho just let out a soft, amused huff, leaning his hip against the kitchen island. "you're the guest tonight, remember ? besides," he added, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a look that was way too intense for a conversation about garlic, "i like the idea of you just... watching for a bit."

the way he said it made your throat go dry.

he wasn't just talking about the prep work. he was talking about the way you were already tucked into the corner of his couch, looking like you belonged there.

"would you like something to drink — or should we get started ?" minho asked, his voice dropping into that honeyed rasp as he watched you, existing too naturally in his environment, as if meant to be.

"ah — no thanks, i'm way too excited for the pasta to eat or drink anything. i didn't even have breakfast today." you admitted sheepishly, hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"well, in that case, let's get the pasta ready quickly. can't have you hungry now, can we ?" minho laughed, ushering you to the kitchen as he followed behind closely.

the granite countertop was gleaming and all the ingredients were measured and arranged in small glass bowls — the sliced garlic cloves, red chilli flakes, pink salt, and olive oil. a bowl of boiling pasta was on the stove, the steam rising in lazy curls. to say you were impressed would be the understatement of the century, the man had outdone himself.

the very man moved towards you, his hair falling perfectly over his forehead as his eyes stayed trained on yours, dark and unreadable.

​"um — here you go, don't want to get yourself messy," minho said, his voice dropping an octave as he reached out, handing you an apron.

you murmured a thank-you, smiling as you slipped it over your head, the fabric hanging loose as the back ribbons stayed untied. you tried your best to reach back and tie them, attempting to keep your struggle lowkey so as to not catch his attention, but when had you ever truly lost it in the first place ?

while minho had moved towards the stove to stir the pot of pasta, he caught you fumbling with the strings in the corner of his eye. a slight, knowing smile grazed his lips as he set the spoon down and moved towards you.

"you know i won't say no if you ask for help, right?"

your eyes flicked up at him, your pulse jumping as you caught the playful glint in his eyes. you were instantly flustered, your fingers tangling in the ribbon as you offered a small, breathless nod.

minho moved behind you, taking the waist ties into his hand. he watched your breath hitch as his knuckles grazed the dip of your waist, the touch deliberate and slow. he worked the fabric with a practiced ease, his silver bracelets clicking softly in the quiet of the kitchen as he pulled the knot tight.

but he didn't pull away.

instead, you felt his hands settle firmly on your waist, his palms flat against the soft cotton of your sweatshirt.

and oh god — what a perfect fit.

the wait had only made the effect sweeter as you revelled in his proximity. his fingers curved around your hips as if they were made to be there, the heat of his skin searing through the layers of your clothes. the air in the kitchen suddenly felt twice as heavy, the only sound the soft bubbling of the pasta and the frantic, uneven rhythm of your breathing.

​he didn't move, didn't say a word, just kept his grip there — grounded and steady — as he leaned in until his chest was a hair's breadth from your back. you were acutely aware of the way his thumbs were tracing the very edge of your hip bones, as if he were memorizing the shape of you through the fabric. you could feel the raw, magnetic pull of him, the same visceral hunger that had nearly brought you both to your knees in the lift.

​"there," he murmured, his voice a low, honeyed vibration that settled deep in your bones. "all set."

​your fingers curled into the edge of the countertop, your knuckles turning white as minho moved away, leaving you devoid of the warmth that had started to feel too familiar. the sudden vacuum of his presence was jarring, the cool kitchen air rushing in to fill the space where his body had been. you stood there for a beat too long, trying to remind your lungs how to function while he stepped back toward the stove with a casual grace that felt entirely too unfair.

minho placed a pan on the stove, pouring in the olive oil with a practiced flick of his wrist as he dictated the measurements to you. his eyes were focused on the golden liquid, but you could feel his awareness of you — standing right there, tucked into his side.

​"now," he said, his tone shifting back to something almost professional, though the rasp in his voice betrayed him. "the oil is shimmering. it’s time for the garlic."

​you forced yourself to turn, your legs feeling a bit like lead as you moved to his side. you watched his hands — those steady, veined fingers that were currently occupying every corner of your mind — as they carefully slid the sliced garlic into the pan. the sizzle was immediate, the sharp, aromatic scent of the kitchen finally grounding you, even as the memory of his thumbs on your hips kept your blood humming at a low, steady fever.

"come here — keep an eye on this for a second while i strain the pasta, hm ?"

you stepped up to the stove, your hands a bit shaky as you took the wooden spoon from his outstretched hand. the sizzle of the garlic was the only thing filling the silence as minho moved to the sink, the sound of rushing water providing a temporary distraction from the way your skin was still prickling where he’d touched you.

"remember — the garlic goes in when the oil is shimmering, not smoking," he explained, suddenly stepping up directly behind you to reach for the handle of the pan, just to check the heat.

the proximity was instant.

the heat from the stove was nothing compared to the warmth of his chest hovering just inches from your back. you could feel the phantom pressure of the lift ride returning, the way the air seemed to thicken the moment he bridged the gap. he didn't touch you — not yet — but his arm brushed against yours as he adjusted the flame, the friction sending a fresh jolt of electricity straight to your core.

"you have to be patient with it," he murmured, his breath fanning across the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the kitchen's temperature. "if you rush the heat, it turns bitter."

you swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the wooden spoon until your knuckles turned white. you weren't thinking about the garlic. you weren't even thinking about the pasta. you were thinking about the fact that he was so close you could hear the steady, heavy rhythm of his heart against your shoulder blade.

"it smells... good," you managed to whisper, though your voice sounded wrecked. and how minho loved it. loved the effect he had on you and he knew you had him as down bad. he couldn't help but revisit his memory of your figure in powder blue and he was oh-so-curious about what was hiding under your hoodie tonight.

minho didn't pull away.

instead, he leaned a fraction closer, his presence enveloping you until you were pinned between the bubbling oil and the devastating reality of him. "it does," he agreed, his voice dropping into that dark, honeyed register that made your knees feel like water. "almost ready."

he moved with a fluid, lethal sort of grace as he brought the strainer over, the steam from the freshly drained pasta billowing between you like a low-hanging cloud.

"in it goes," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against the shell of your ear.

then his hand slid over yours, his palm covering the back of your hand on the wooden spoon to guide the noodles into the pan. the pasta hit the shimmering oil with a sharp, aggressive sizzle but all you could care about was your body touching his. the touch made a shiver run through you, a slow, electric current that you knew he felt too, especially when you noticed the way his grip on your fingers tightened ever so slightly.

he was not shying away.

not even a little bit.

and maybe you shouldn't shy away either.

so, you let your resolve crumble just a fraction. you leaned back, your head finding a perfect, natural home against the solid curve of his shoulder.

minho felt his heartbeat go still as he took a sharp inhale. you had laid your head on his shoulder — still shy, but finally, beautifully accepting. the small, deliberate weight of your trust against him was more intoxicating than any scent in the room. he melted into the contact, his chest pressing more firmly into your back until the air between you vanished entirely. his grip on your hand tightened, not to lead the spoon, but simply to feel the pulse point of your wrist drumming against his thumb.

"you're distracting the teacher," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that sent another wave of heat straight to your core. his hand was still over yours, but he wasn't focusing on the cooking anymore. his thumb began a slow, rhythmic stroke over the side of your hand, a deliberate, grounding touch that made your eyes flutter shut.

"is it working?" you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

you felt the rumble of a dark, chesty laugh against your back. "too well."

next came a splash of the starchy pasta water — a calculated addition that sent a fresh plume of savory steam into the air, momentarily blurring the world until it was just the two of you and the heat of the stove. he reached past you, his bicep brushing your cheek as he grabbed the glass bowl of red chilli flakes. his fingers were steady, scattering the spice with a rhythmic flick of his wrist.

"it needs the heat," he said, his voice dropping into that dark, honeyed register as he watched the oil turn a vibrant, dangerous gold. "it’s what brings everything else to life."

you watched, mesmerized, as he added the pink salt. the tension in the kitchen was no longer just about the food; it was the way his hip was now pressed firmly against yours, his other hand coming to rest on the counter, effectively pinning you between the stove and his body. your eyes tracked the movement of his veined forearm, the silver bracelets clicking against the marble as he worked.

"almost there," he whispered, his gaze finally breaking from the skillet to settle on your face. from this angle, leaning back against him, his face was mere inches from yours — his eyes dark with an intensity that made the room spin. "just a few more seconds."

you could feel the heavy thud of his heart against your shoulder blade, a frantic rhythm that matched your own. the scent of cedarwood and spicy oil was intoxicating, a heavy, hazy blend that made you want to stay exactly like this — trapped in his space.

the final toss of the skillet was a symphony of sizzle and scent, the garlic golden and the sauce clinging perfectly to every strand of pasta. minho finally turned off the flame, the sudden silence of the stove only amplifying the heavy, charged air between you.

he didn't pull away immediately; instead, he let the wooden spoon rest against the rim of the pan, his hand still covering yours in a lingering, possessive grip. you could feel the heat radiating from his chest through your sweatshirt, a steady, grounding warmth that made the rest of the world feel like a distant blur.

"there," he whispered, his lips so close to your temple that you could feel the ghost of a touch with every word. "ready to eat."

minho finally stepped back, reaching toward the cupboard for two ceramic plates, the spell of the stove finally breaking. but before he could fully pull away, he felt the small, tentative weight of your hand on his forearm. he turned back, finding you staring at the floor, a deep pink hue dusting your cheeks that made his chest tighten in a way he wasn't prepared for.

​before he could even get a word out, you went up on your tiptoes. it was a quick, shy movement as you placed a soft, lingering peck on his cheek. your soft lips grazing his cheek as he stood frozen.

​"thank you so much for teaching me, minho," you whispered, your voice barely a breath as you retreated, your gaze dropping back to the floor while your hands fiddled nervously with the edge of your hoodie.

minho swore he hadn't felt better in his entire lifetime. your soft lips on his skin — intentionally this time — was a blow to his composure. he looked at you, bold yet all flustered, and for a second, the kitchen felt far too small for all the thoughts running through your mind.

a rare, genuine smile broke through his exterior — not the smug smirk he usually wore, but something softer — almost boyish. he felt the heat climbing up his neck, his ears turning a deep shade of crimson as he tried to find his voice again.

​"you're welcome," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, honeyed rasp as he leaned back in just a fraction, his eyes searching yours with a warmth that made your pulse skip. "anytime."

​he turned back to the cupboard to actually grab the dishes, his movements a little less steady than before. he was reeling, his heart doing a frantic rhythm against his ribs that had nothing to do with the cooking and everything to do with the girl standing behind him.

​"plates," he cleared his throat, holding them up like he'd forgotten what they were for a second. "right. let's eat before it gets cold."

you watched him turn red, a small smile tugging at his lips before he turned back to the cupboard to get the dishes for the pasta. every movement was deliberate — the way his t-shirt pulled across his back, the way he moved with a fluid, predatory grace — a silent invitation to keep watching, to keep wanting. as he began to plate the aglio olio, the domesticity of the moment felt dangerously intimate — a soft, honeyed tension sweetly lingering between you both.

you both moved into the living room, settling onto the couch as the quiet hum of the flat enveloped you. as you took your first bite, you were hit with a wave of warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the pasta. it was delicious — exactly as you had expected, having eaten minho’s cooking before — but there was something richer about it this time.

maybe it was the way your hands had moved together over the pan, or the way the steam had blurred the space between you until you were one entity. they do say food tastes best when it’s made with heart.

"this is so good, minho — i swear i haven't had anything better," you murmured, closing your eyes to savor the spice.

minho let out a low, gratified hum, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned back.

"it’s the company," he teased, his voice a smooth, honeyed rasp. "though i might have to start charging you for these private lessons if you keep looking at the food like that."

you nudged him playfully, your heart hammering against your ribs. "oh ? and what exactly is your hourly rate, chef lee ?"

his gaze dropped to your lips, dark and lingering, before he let out a soft, breathy laugh that made your stomach flip. "we can negotiate the currency later," he whispered, the playfulness in his eyes shifting into something much heavier, much hungrier.

once the plates were set aside, the silence between you grew thick, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. minho noticed your gaze drift toward the hallway just as joonie came tumbling out, still blinking away the haze of a nap.

"hi babyyy ! did you have a good nap ?" you cooed, lifting the kitten as he curled onto your lap.

you felt the tiny, motor-like purr vibrating against your chest, but it was the flash of color in his paws that caught your eye. a soft, powder blue ribbon — the very one you had tied on him days ago. joonie was completely invested, batting at the silk as it tangled in his fur.

this is it, you thought, your heart performing a frantic, clumsy somersault.

now or never.

you felt a surge of that same reckless bravery that had prompted you to put on the lace in the first place. you knew how much he liked that specific shade of blue, and you knew that he was currently looking at your pink hoodie with a mix of affection and lingering curiosity.

you smoothed your hand over joonie’s fur, your fingers grazing the silk ribbon. you didn't look up, keeping your voice low, sweet, and seemingly innocent.

"we both are matching today, baby," you whispered, the words hanging in the air like a silken trap.

it took minho a solid two minutes to process. he looked at your baby pink sweatshirt, then down at your black sweatpants, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. he searched for the blue, his eyes scanning you with a clinical intensity that slowly began to melt into realization.

powder blue.

the lace.

the bra.

jesus fucking christ.

the shift in him was instantaneous. his jaw tightened, and you watched the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. the air in the room didn't just thicken — it caught fire. he realized then that you had learned his game far too quickly, throwing his own brand of torment back at him with a innocent smile.

"matching, hm?" he repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register that sent a bolt of heat straight to your core.

he leaned in, his hand coming to rest on the back of the couch behind your head, effectively caging you in. his shadow fell over you, heavy and magnetic, as he tilted his head to catch your gaze.

"i didn't realize you were such a fan of that particular shade," he murmured, his eyes darkening until they were almost black.

"not me — a certain someone seemed to like it too much, s-so i thought i'd —" your voice trailed off, the bold streak that had carried you this far suddenly wavering under the sheer weight of his gaze.

minho didn’t let you finish. he let out a low, breathy chuckle, his thumb moving from your jaw to catch the edge of your lower lip. the movement was deliberate, a silent claim that had your breath hitching in a jagged, uneven rhythm.

"so you did it for me?" he whispered, his face dipping closer until your noses brushed. "you know exactly what you're doing to me, don't you ?"

you felt his fingers ghost over the curve of your ribs, searching for the very edge of that powder blue lace through the thick fabric of your hoodie. your eyes fluttered shut, a soft, broken sound escaping your throat as you finally leaned into him, your own hands clutching at the front of his black t — shirt.

"minho —"

"show me," he rasped, his forehead resting against yours. "i want to see if it’s as perfect as i’ve been imagining."

your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might burst.

reaching up with trembling fingers, you slowly caught the metal tab of the hoodie zipper. you watched his eyes track the movement, his pupils blown wide as you dragged the zipper down just a few inches. with a shy, deliberate motion, you let the heavy fabric of the hoodie slide off your left shoulder.

it was just a glimpse — a flash of delicate, powder blue lace against your skin, the top of your soft breasts slightly visible. minho’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening as they fixed on the curve of your shoulder and the soft swell of lace. his knuckles brushed against your bare skin, a fleeting, searing contact that made you gasp.

the heat in his gaze was enough to make you melt, but you weren't ready to give in just yet. you wanted to see how far you could push him — maybe as far as he had pushed you ?

with a sudden, playful burst of energy, you pulled the hoodie back up over your shoulder and scrambled off the couch, zipping it shut before he could reach for you again. the look of pure, unadulterated shock on his face was enough to make you giggle, even as your heart hammered against your ribs.

"patience, minho," you whispered, throwing his own words from the kitchen back at him as you backed toward the door. "if you rush the heat... it turns bitter, right?"

"you're really something else," he muttered, his voice a low, frustrated rumble as he watched you leave, his hands gripping the edge of the sofa as if to keep himself from chasing you.

​you were back in the safety of your own flat, the door locked and your skin still humming from his touch.

you had just one more trick up your sleeve — one final, reckless move in this game you both were playing.

after your evening shower, the air in the bedroom was still warm and heavy. you bypassed your usual oversized tees and reached for a black, form-fitting zip-up top. underneath, you wore the sexiest bra you owned — a deep, chocolate-brown lace that you had definitely bought with him in mind, even if you weren't ready to admit it to yourself.

you stood in front of the mirror, your fingers trembling as you gripped the metal pull of the zipper. you dragged it down slowly, inch by inch, until the scalloped edges of the dark lace peeked through, framing the soft curve of your chest in a sharp, dangerous contrast against your skin. you looked so shy, your cheeks a permanent shade of rose, but the girl in the mirror had a mission.

positioning your phone, you caught the angle perfectly — the dark lines of the top framing the intricate lace, your collarbone highlighted by the dim light, and your hair falling in messy, post-shower waves.

[07:57pm] better than the blue ?

you tossed your phone onto the bed as if it were a live wire, a fluttering fusion of joy and nervousness erupting in your chest. you barely had time to dive under the duvet before the screen lit up.

minho was still sitting in the exact same spot on his sofa, the phantom weight of your head on his shoulder lingering like a brand. he let out a jagged exhale, his head dropping back against the cushions as he stared at the ceiling, trying to force his heart to stop its frantic, uneven thudding. he could still see it — that flash of powder blue, the way your shy smile had turned into something so teasingly lethal.

he was halfway through a mental lecture about patience and 'rushing the heat' when his phone buzzed against his thigh. he pulled it out, expecting a casual goodnight.

instead, the image loaded, and the air was punched straight out of his lungs.

his grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. he stared at the screen, his gaze tracing the sharp contrast of the zipper pulled low, framing the deep chocolate lace that hugged your curves. the way you looked so soft and hesitant in the photo was a complete contradiction to the sheer boldness of the message.

the brown was even worse than the blue. it was warmer, more intimate, making your skin look like cream against the dark thread. he felt a low, heavy ache settle in his gut, a physical reaction to the way you were finally biting back. he wasn't just impressed; he was completely, utterly undone.

"you've got to be fucking kidding me," he rasped into the empty room, a dark, breathless laugh escaping his throat.

he didn't even hesitate. he didn't check the time, didn't grab a jacket, didn't even think about the fact that you were just a few doors away. he stood up, his movements fluid and driven by a singular, focused hunger. his thumbs flew across the keyboard, the screen casting a cold glow over the heated intensity in his eyes.

[08:01pm] i'm coming over.

taglist

@joyracha @lynsbng @binniebb @b4echo @zosauce @yourghostneighbor @eyyyylucieeee @sweetheartforus @quokkahansung @minniebitesfr @nanaluizam @pineapple-burgah @moch3rii @leeknaurrrr @spiidergirlsworld @shiningnono @pixiiebutt @nougatjade @mylovchris @mieuracha @cchapssaltteok @mxmx09 @anni3lop101 @ncitywrld @rockstarkkami @wobblewobble822 @hnsbxby @g00dtimenotlongtim3 @pineapple-in-a-burgah @babythisisourcinema @starlostjisung @foxiebread @scarlettuce-lettuce @mara-luv1 @jiaaabbahng @unemployedcarat @caalcyon @hyunjinniemylove @moonylovesbiscuits @channlust @lilscast @sithskz @pbynsstuff @0felixsfreckles0 @taekwondoe @navyrec @iownachihuahua @changbin-lover @yerijaksel @gnabsirhcnetsua

@kloversung 2026

[2minnieverse]

gen love this!! 💞💞💞

[puppyms]

analog dog

[2minnieverse]

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶 (𝚃𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙴𝚁)

Seungmin x f!reader in which the world you live in reveals your soulmate through a red thread connecting two people, yet you seem determined not to find the one chosen by the universe. You keep yourself occupied with work, hobbies, and friends as much as possible—but how long can these distractions last? No one can fight fate, not even someone who doesn’t believe in soulmates.

content warnings: angst, fluff, romance, stranger to lovers trope, slowburn, inaccurate depictions of jobs, generally sweet and romantic but really slow since reader is scared, alcohol consumtion, other skz members mentioned

a/n: this will be my first fic, and it's supposed to be a series so please bare with me! Apologies in advance for any mistakes that I make :)

[forhanji]

(260328) HAN – 'CATCH CATCH' Challenge