The Secrets to Wooing Thomas, by Minho No-Surname

Minho glared playfully. "Such a shame that is, too." He was sure Thomas was going to reply with a lame comeback and he was ready for it.
But no. He was not ready for the look that followed. Thomas gasped, widening his eyes and pouting. His big brown eyes were wide and watery and the brown and (very) long eyelashes were not helping, neither were the small, plump rosy-strawberry pink lips that jutted out slightly. Thomas' master pout. Oh, no.
Minho had been first subjected to this pout in the first week of paradise. Thomas had wanted Minho's last orange and Minho refused to give it to him. The next second, Thomas had pulled his look and Minho had discovered that his hand was obediently handing the precious orange to Thomas, who stopped his pout immediately and ate the orange.
Minho had stared, dumbfounded, at the cute boy who had juice smeared all over his face. Minho was weak for Thomas, apparently. He questioned why Thomas didn't just use that look on Alby when he wanted to become a runner. It couldn't just be Minho who succumbed to Thomas' spell...or was it?

In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the quoteonlyprompts collection.
Prompt:
"I don't need a wand/weapon to knock you into next week."
This fic was also inspired by this imagine by imagine-thominho. "Imagine Minho bringing flowers to Thomas every day, because they never had flowers in the Glade."