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rollforoverthinking · 5 days ago

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Chapter 2 - Don't move, don't complain.

Words : 2.2k

Warning : light cursing, workplace chaos, mutual antagonism, caffeine dependency

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She was going to quit. Tonight. No notice, no apology. The last PR coordinator hadn’t fallen ill. She’d seen the chaos this group was and bailed.

Smart woman.

With a sharp breath, she shoved her phone back into her pocket, fingers trembling slightly from too much caffeine and not enough patience. Half the crew was stuck in traffic, at least three hours out. Just the cherry on top of today’s pile of steaming shit.

The members were already on set, waiting to film the “album process” video. The lighting assistant was missing, and now the crew was MIA.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Someone from styling was already at her elbow, rambling about outfit changes and visual continuity. Behind them, someone else shouted something about rescheduling the group takes. A third person asked if she could “just check in with vocal line real quick.”

As if she had eight arms and no anxiety.

She didn’t even bother responding. Just pulled in a slow breath through her nose and let it out like it might stop her from punching a wall. Or a face.

The word “schedule” was thrown around at least four times in thirty seconds. So was “urgent.” So was “crisis.”

Her phone buzzed again in her pocket. She ignored it. If it was her resignation letter typing itself, she’d read it later.

It buzzed again. And again.

She cursed under her breath, tugged it from her pocket, ready to snap, but the name on the screen stopped her: Sunmi.

Of course. She sighed and picked up.

“Tell me you’re calling to fire me.”

Sunmi’s voice was calm, almost amused. “Tempting. But no. Deep breath first.”

“I don’t have time to breathe. I’m busy being everyone’s emotional support clipboard.”

“Then breathe while you talk.”

She closed her eyes. Inhaled through her nose. Exhaled. Twice.

Sunmi waited. “Better?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

She leaned back against the nearest wall. “The shoot’s falling apart. Lighting tech’s gone. Crew’s stuck in traffic. Everyone’s yelling at me like I’m running the circus.”

“You kind of are.”

“Not helpful.”

“I didn’t say it was fair,” Sunmi said gently. “Just that you’re the one keeping the tent up.”

There was a pause. Then, softer, “You’re not failing, by the way. You’re just in a stupid, broken system that only works because people like you duct-tape it together.”

That made her throat tighten. She didn’t respond right away.

“Still breathing?”

“Barely.”

“That counts.”

She managed a small exhale, steady this time. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And hey, next time someone dumps their job in your lap and Chan gives you puppy eyes? Run.”

She hung up before she could get sentimental.

She stood there for a beat, letting the phone hang loosely in her hand, then tucked it back into her pocket and rolled her shoulders with a sharp exhale.

Okay. Fine. She wasn’t actually going to quit. Not yet.

Today wasn’t going to be the day the circus burned down. Not on her watch.

She could do this. She had done worse. And if not worse, then at least equally chaotic.

Pretend you’re calm. Pretend you’re in charge. Eventually it starts feeling real.

She straightened, grabbed the nearest clipboard off a folding chair, and stalked back toward the crew.

Time to duct-tape it all together. Again.

She hit the floor running.

Not literally—she didn’t have time to injure herself, not today—but her stride had the kind of clipped purpose that made people get out of her way without thinking. Clipboard in one hand, tablet in the other, she looked like she was about to conduct a hostile takeover of a Fortune 500 company with nothing but sheer willpower, lack of sleep, and caffeine.

The shoot coordinator blinked at her mid-sentence. “Should we maybe—”

“Start solos,” she cut in. “We’re losing light and people’s patience. Group shots later. Move everything to the east wall. We’ll fake golden hour if we have to.”

“But the—”

“I know it’s not ideal. That’s why it’s called plan G at this point. Let’s go.”

She didn’t wait for confirmation. Just turned and kept walking, fast enough that her ID lanyard snapped against her hip.

By the time she reached the members, her voice was already carrying. “New plan. We’re breaking the shoot down into solos. Han, you’re first. Hyunjin, second. Chris, find the backup batteries and meet me by the folding table in five. If anyone sees the lighting tech, tell them to fake their own death and stay gone.”

Hyunjin raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “No makeup?”

“You get five minutes. Use it wisely. Conceal your sins.”

He grinned. “You’re lucky I’m naturally flawless.”

Changbin, sprawled on a director’s chair like he had nowhere better to be, gave a low whistle. “Yes, boss.”

Chan gave her a look—half impressed, half wary. “You’re scary when you get like this.”

She didn’t break stride. “Good. Find the batteries or I start assigning everyone press interviews manually.”

That got him moving.

The energy shifted just slightly—like the room finally remembered it had a job to do. People started to fall in line. She let herself feel the tiniest flicker of triumph.

And then, of course, he butted in.

She didn’t even need to look up, she could feel him watching her. The judgment practically radiated across the set, all crossed arms and iced americano and perfectly timed disdain.

Seungmin had been there the whole time, of course. Leaning against the wall like he was allergic to being helpful, watching the chaos unfold with that signature look of bored superiority.

He waited until she was finally catching her breath, clipboard in hand, before stepping into her path with all the flair of someone who thought he was about to deliver the line of the day.

“Did someone finally—”

“Not now,” she cut in, sharp and clean, already flipping to the updated schedule. “Save the attitude for the camera. Han’s first. You’re third. Don’t move, don’t complain, and try not to brood too hard. We’ve only got one working reflector.”

The second of silence that followed was almost satisfying.

She didn’t give him the pleasure of eye contact. Just turned and kept walking.

“And no, you don’t need touch-ups. You’re already giving ‘moody rock ghost’ without trying.”

Someone behind her snorted. Possibly Jeongin.

Seungmin said nothing.

But he didn’t leave either.

She was everywhere.

Clipboard snapping, hair flying, barking orders like she was conducting a military drill. Her bun had half-collapsed sometime in the last hour, strands coming loose around her face, and she didn’t even seem to notice. Too busy dragging the day back from the brink of collapse.

---

Seungmin stayed where he was, half-shadowed near the monitors, sipping his americano like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Classic.

It was mildly entertaining, actually, watching her juggle chaos like she’d trained for it. A little like watching someone try to solo-pilot a crashing plane with nothing but duct tape and personal spite.

She was sharp, decisive, loud when she had to be. All caffeine and dry wit and subtle eye twitching. Her voice cut clean through the noise, and everyone listened. Even the staff who usually tuned out anything that wasn’t shouted twice.

Minho got a full briefing in under thirty seconds. Felix followed without protest. Han only asked one stupid question before being sent off with a look that would’ve made their manager cry.

Efficient.

He could respect that.

Not that he’d say it out loud. God forbid she ever found out she was good at something. She was already smug enough.

Still—the way she’d shut him down earlier? Instant. No hesitation. No smugness. Just: not now, you’re third, don’t be annoying.

He’d almost laughed.

He didn’t. But still.

He kept sipping his drink. Let her voice fade in and out around him.

She was running the show. Somehow. Eye bags, frizzy hair, vein in her temple and all.

And he? Wasn’t quite annoyed. Just… amused.

That was worse.

His name was called before he could fully pretend he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Seungmin” she said, tone sharp and tired. “You’re up.”

He didn’t move right away. Just stared at her over the rim of his coffee, like maybe if he held still long enough, she’d give up and pick someone else.

She didn’t.

He sighed. “Any reason I’m third?”

“Because you’re difficult,” she said flatly, already walking toward the set. “Figured I’d need a break and more caffeine to deal with you.”

He followed, slow and deliberate, just to be annoying. “You know, insulting your talent probably isn’t great PR.”

“I’m not insulting you. I’m managing expectations.”

He snorted. Fair enough.

The setup was barebones. Just a makeshift lighting rig, a single backdrop, a taped-off mark on the floor. Minimal direction. Clearly a last-minute fix.

It was supposed to be simple: a few shots for the B-roll, then a quick interview-style clip where each member explained the concept and how recording had gone. Routine. Branded. Harmless.

Still felt like a chore.

He glanced at her.

“Let me guess,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “Brood on camera, then talk about the emotional process like we didn’t record this at three a.m. in a closet.”

“Exactly,” she said, flipping to his part of the call sheet. “Ten minutes of pretending you care. Try not to look like you’re being held at gunpoint.”

“I’m an artist, not a YouTuber.”

She didn’t even look up. “You’re a professional with a camera in your face and a contract to fulfill. Channel that.”

He groaned, adjusted the mic clipped to his collar, and stepped into the light.

The stills were easy. Muscle memory. A tilt of the chin. A look past the lens. He knew the angles. Knew what they wanted: distant, haunted, a little bruised around the edges.

She gave a few notes from off-camera—quieter than usual. Adjust this. Hold that. Look a little less like you’re solving a murder in your head.

He followed her cues without arguing. That was the weird part. They moved cleanly. Quick. Efficient.

The photographer muttered something about the lighting finally working. Seungmin exhaled through his nose and stepped back.

“Ready for your close-up?” she said, not quite smirking, not quite serious.

“Ready to lie on camera? Always.”

She handed him a slim tablet. Talking points. Standard stuff: inspiration, process, recording. No script, just loose phrasing and a reminder to stay on message.

He didn’t need it. He’d lived this album—even if he hadn’t written a word of it.

The camera rolled. He looked into the lens.

“This comeback’s centered around the idea of reflection,” he said, voice even. “Palindrome. It’s about the way emotions loop. You think you’re over something, and then you’re not. You’re right back where you started, just from the other side.”

He shifted slightly. “We recorded this one in pieces—late nights, weird takes. Most of my vocals came out rougher than usual. We kept them that way. Didn’t clean it up too much. It felt… honest.”

Off to the side, she was still. Just listening.

“I didn’t write the song,” he added. “But I felt it anyway.”

Cut.

No big speech. No smile. Just the blink of a red light going off.

He stepped away from the mark and said nothing.

Neither did she.

But for once, it didn’t feel like silence meant failure.

---

She didn’t expect much from him.

Not because he wasn’t capable — Seungmin could turn it on when he wanted to — but because nine times out of ten, he made it clear this kind of thing bored him to death. Promo clips, scripted talking points, repeat-after-me sincerity. It was beneath him, and he made sure everyone knew it.

So when he stepped up to the mark, she braced for snark. A dead-eyed monologue. Maybe some passive-aggressive jabs at Chan’s lyric choices. A single take they’d have to cut around later.

Instead, he started talking.

And it wasn’t perfect. His tone was dry. His delivery flat. But something about it felt... real. Grounded.

“The way emotions loop,” he’d said. “Right back where you started, just from the other side.”

His voice didn’t crack. Didn’t soften. But it landed.

She watched through the monitor, pen stilled in her hand.

It still felt like a chore to him, she could see that in the way he stood, in the slight tension in his jaw, but he’d shown up. Said something true. Honest, even.

She wasn’t sure what to do with that.

When the red light blinked off, he stepped back without fanfare. No glance toward her. No smirk. No barb.

She checked off his name on the schedule without looking up. “Next.”

Her voice came out steady. Almost bored.

But her pen tapped the page one beat longer than it needed to.

The shoot limped toward its end, salvaged by sheer caffeine and collective spite. The crew finally trickled in. The lighting assistant apologized profusely. Han cracked two bad jokes. Jeongin demanded noodles. Hyunjin tried to fall asleep in a folding chair.

Somehow, the pieces held.

She stayed moving. Checked off tasks. Nodded through feedback. Pretended her brain wasn’t melting out of her ears. But when she passed by Atlas again, just briefly, she felt it.

Not a look. Not a word.

Just the absence of friction.

For once, no eye roll. No side comment.

Like maybe, for a second, they’d remembered they were on the same team.

She didn’t hold onto it. Barely acknowledged it. Just tucked it away somewhere quiet and moved on.

After all, there was always another fire to put out.

#skz fanfic #skz #skz au #skz x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids #stray kids x reader #seungmin x reader #kim seungmin #seungmin fanfic

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rollforoverthinking · 10 days ago

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Chapter 1 – Not Even a Little Impressed

Word count: ~1.3k

Warnings: light cursing, mutual loathing, excessive clipboard usage

A/n: Hi! this is my first time ever posting a fic (and in English too, which isn’t my first language), so please be gentle 🥹 i’m very nervous but excited to share this little thing I did. thanks for reading 💌

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She didn’t even know why she’d accepted this job in the first place. Blame Chan. Her brother had called a few days ago, panicked, begging her to fill in for a few weeks to replace a PR coordinator who’d fallen ill.

It was the worst possible time for the band. Their comeback was only a month away; everything needed to be done. Technically, it was something she was qualified for, so here she was: coordinating photoshoots, music videos, and press releases. She felt like she’d aged five years in six days.

Today was the worst so far. She’d made it through the other members’ shootings semi-smoothly, but Seungmin’s was the one she dreaded most. They’d never gotten along. His sarcasm and sharp tongue had a special way of getting on her nerves. She knew he was a little shit to everyone, not really mean, just a meanie. But the singer seemed to despise her specifically, making him unbearable to work with.

The meanie in question was getting his makeup done when she walked into the green room, eyes fixed somewhere in the vague middle distance, his expression a mix of boredom and a deep desire to be literally anywhere else. But his hands told a different story, fingers drumming a quiet, instinctive rhythm against his thigh in time with the group’s new song playing on loop. For all his effort to seem detached, she could feel it: the spark, the importance he gave to the music, whether he admitted it or not.

When their eyes met through the mirror, his fingers stalled mid-tap. His gaze locked on hers, then narrowed slightly, like he was looking at something mildly unpleasant, rotting fruit, maybe, or a spreadsheet. Classic. She braced herself for the inevitable eye roll as she stepped closer, clipboard in hand, already launching into the briefing before he could get a word in. Better to keep it moving than give him a chance to start sniping.

“Solo shoot’s in ten,” she said, keeping it short, flipping her clipboard, more to give herself composure than anything, she could have recited the schedule for the next two weeks in her sleep. “Two looks. Stage, then street. Try not to look dead inside, the concept’s moody and nostalgic not bored and lifeless.”

His jaw twitched, eyes still on the mirror. “Didn’t know temp PR meant bossing everyone around.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Didn’t know main vocal meant endless whining.”

That made him turn, slow and deliberate. “If I’d known you were part of the package, I would’ve canceled the comeback.”

She gave him her most professional smile. “Too bad it's not your call to make. Plus, I'm non-refundable.”

Somewhere behind them, the make-up artist coughed to cover a laugh. Seungmin rolled his eyes like it physically hurt. Good. She marked that as a win.

She didn’t wait for a comeback. Just turned on her heel with the kind of efficiency that said I’m too busy for this shit and I win in equal parts. The clipboard snapped back against her chest as she walked out, purposeful and unbothered, at least outwardly.

Behind her, Seungmin gave one last theatrical eye roll.

And maybe, just maybe the ghost of a smile.

---

He knew how this worked. Knew how to find the light, how to let his gaze go just unfocused enough to look distant, how to part his lips just slightly to seem effortless, lost in thought. No need for direction. As soon as he stepped onto the set, the air shifted; the room paid attention. It always did.

He had done this a hundred times before. Probably more. But not today. Today something was off, he held the poses, nailed every frame, but something stuck at the edges of his thoughts, tugging.

Her voice. That look in her eyes when she smiled like she knew exactly how far she could push him. Like she enjoyed it.

He didn’t let it show. His jaw stayed set, expression clean. But his fingers curled ever so slightly tighter around the hem of his jacket. Just once.

The shutter clicked. Another shot. Another beat.

Still couldn’t get her out of his head. Of all people, she had to be here.

It wasn’t just her voice, or the way she always had the last word. It was the fact that she'd known him long before any of this. Before the stadiums and screaming fans. Before the stage names and late-night interviews. She’d been around when his biggest problem was striking out at practice, when he was just a scrawny kid with too much attitude and not enough filter.

She remembered things. Knew things. Things he’d worked hard to bury under carefully managed layers of disinterest and snark. And the worst part?

She never asked for more. Never pushed. Just existed around him like she saw through it all and had better things to do than call him out.

It was infuriating.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening again.

He blamed Chan. Obviously. Who else would’ve thought it was a good idea to drag his sister into their comeback chaos?

Another flash. Another angle. He adjusted his stance automatically, it was all muscle memory at this point.

If she made it through the whole promo cycle without him saying something he’d regret, it’d be a miracle.

---

She stood just behind the monitor, arms crossed, expression neutral. One of the stylists leaned in and whispered something about how Seungmin always looked like a dream on camera, and she just hummed in response, unwilling to dignify it with a real reaction.

Of course he looked good. That jawline didn’t sculpt itself. And sure, the camera loved him. Every tilt of his head, every glance down the lens, dripped with exactly the kind of raw, moody allure the concept needed.

But then his jaw ticked, ever so slightly, barely a flicker. Tension.

She knew that look.

To anyone else, it might read as confidence. Intensity. The kind of brooding fans swooned over.

But she knew better.

It was irritation. Resentment, maybe. Or the slow simmer of a fuse burning too close to the dynamite.

She rolled her eyes and looked back down at the schedule on her clipboard, scoffing to herself.

Cocky bastard.

He probably thought the world revolved around him, even now. Like a camera clicking was a coronation. She didn’t deny he was good — great, even. But she’d also seen him lose his shit in the dugout when he struck out, sulk for hours over missed notes in the studio, and mutter under his breath like the world owed him peace and quiet.

She was immune to his charm. He was talented, sure. Photogenic. Marketable.

But she remembered him at fifteen, soaking wet in the rain after forgetting his umbrella and insisting he “liked the cold.”

So, no. She wasn’t impressed. Not even a little.

The photographer called for a break, and Seungmin stepped off set like he’d never been posing at all, posture loose, expression wiped clean, the perfect blend of charm and detachment. Someone handed him a water bottle, and he gave them a polite nod, even a small thank-you.

She stayed by the monitor, pen tapping against her clipboard, tracking him as he crossed the room.

Their eyes met as he passed. Reflexive smiles. PR smiles. The kind you could frame and hang in the company hallway, with a sign saying "one big corporate family" under it. She dipped her head in the smallest of nods, like a cue in a well-rehearsed scene.

He mirrored it.

And for a second, it could’ve been civil.

But just as he passed her shoulder, low enough for no one else to hear, he muttered:

“Try not to trip on your own self-righteousness."

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t turn. Just let out a soft, almost inaudible hum of a laugh and replied, just as quietly:

“Try not to cry because someone told you what to do.”

He kept walking. She didn’t watch him go.

But she did exhale slowly, blinking hard at the schedule in her hands, pinching the bridge of her nose. This was going to be a long few weeks.

#skz #skz fanfic #kim seungmim #seungmin x reader #idol au #stray kids #stray kids fanfic #seungmin #skz au #kpop fanfic

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