Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

MJ’a sister and Park had been sitting on the floor for nearly half an hour now, and somehow the whole thing had become increasingly insane instead of less.

Park’s hand barely stopped moving. He asked CJ to speak, laugh, whisper, stretch vowels, jump between notes, make herself sound angry, then bored, then cruel, then ridiculously happy. Whenever CJ got something wrong in a funny way, Park laughed at her. Whenever Park’s instructions sounded completely stupid, CJ insulted him. At some point he had told her to "sound like someone just stole your boyfriend but you’re too hot to chase him," and CJ had laughed so hard she had fallen sideways onto one hand.

Then Park sang what he meant.

{...Keep the boy, I kept my heartbeat,

tell him I look better free...}

CJ stopped laughing.

MJ’s mouth actually opened.

Park pointed at CJ as though the line had proven his entire argument. "See? That’s the face. Sing with that face."

"You’re insane."

"Probably. Again."

Everything sounded stupid until it came out of Park’s mouth as music. Then the ridiculous direction about stolen boyfriends and not caring became a sharp little pop hook that MJ could already imagine being screamed back by twenty thousand women in an arena.

MJ had watched songwriters work before. She had watched producers build demos, seen artists struggle over choruses for days, watched people spend an afternoon arguing over whether one syllable should land before or after a beat.

Park was not doing any of that.

He was studying CJ.

And every answer she gave him seemed to unlock another piece of music.

The duet they had already sung still sat open a few pages back, its central hook practically burned into MJ’s head after hearing it only twice.

And later, when CJ’s lighter voice had answered Park’s beneath the chorus, the two of them had landed on the line together:

{...Maybe in another life, you’ll make it home to me, um..}

MJ hated that one.

Not because it was bad.

Because the bastard had written a sentence specifically designed to make emotionally unstable people stare out of car windows in the rain. Then there was the sky song CJ had earned after two tries, still sitting farther into the notebook with its slow cruel chorus:

CJ had sung that one once properly and then gone quiet for almost an entire minute.

Now Park was casually making more.

By the time thirty minutes had passed, there were two completely new songs sitting across several notebook pages.

Two.

MJ checked the time again because surely she had lost an hour somewhere.

No.

Thirty-two minutes.

’Did I introduce a fucking monster to my sister?’

Park was still scribbling when CJ leaned forward to read the newest line over his hand. Their heads came close enough that a strand of her dark hair almost brushed his cheek, and CJ did not seem to notice.

Or maybe she did.

MJ absolutely noticed... Park finally stopped writing, drew one line beneath the final chorus, then leaned back and flexed his fingers.

"Okay."

CJ looked at the pages as if he had just finished printing money in front of her.

"That one’s done?"

"Mostly. Production will change things, but the song itself is done."

"And the other one?"

"Done too."

CJ stared.

Park stared back.

"What?"

"You made two songs."

"Yes."

"In half an hour."

"Thirty-five minutes."

"That does not make it less insane."

Park considered that. "Fair."

CJ looked down again, reading the newest chorus silently while something almost hungry returned to her eyes.

Park watched her for a moment and made the decision.

"CJ."

She looked up.

"Would you like to be my partner?"

MJ’s head snapped toward them.

CJ went completely still before Park realized exactly how that sounded about half a second too late... "Wait. Not girlfriend partner."

CJ’s lips twitched.

"Although..."

MJ made another noise from the couch.

Park glanced toward her. "I said although. I didn’t finish."

"You were going to."

"That is slander."

CJ laughed, and Park turned back toward her before the conversation somehow ended with MJ throwing something at his head.

"What I mean is music. Long-term. Very long-term, actually."

CJ’s amusement faded into curiosity.

Park tapped the notebook between them. "I write. We create together when we need to. You sing. If I make something for you, it’s yours to release. You don’t tell NX Arc I’m writing them, and as far as the agency is concerned, they’re your originals."

Both sisters stared at him:

Park continued before either could interrupt. "I’m not asking for songwriter credit from them. I’m not asking you to split whatever they pay you with me. I don’t want some manager showing up every time I have an idea and turning the whole thing into twelve meetings and a copyright seminar. I just want these things out of my damn head and alive somewhere."

CJ looked down at the notebook.

Park smiled slightly. "And you have the voice for it."

Silence held for a moment.

As far as he could tell, CJ was not morally constipated and Park liked that about her almost immediately.

There was no horrified little speech about honesty, no sudden concern that accepting songs secretly would somehow offend the sacred spirit of the entertainment industry. CJ knew exactly what this business was. Credits were negotiated, songs were bought and ghostwriters existed while producers created entire careers from behind curtains while stars smiled under the lights.

Was secretly presenting Park’s songs as hers morally perfect?

Probably not.

Was CJ going to throw away what might be the opportunity of her life because a theoretical stranger on the internet might someday clutch pearls about artistic purity?

’Fuck no!’

She had been frightened all morning because she knew exactly how fragile a singer’s future could become once the songs dried up. She knew she could sing, knew it better than anybody, but being a great singer in an industry overflowing with great singers meant embarrassingly little if you had nothing worth singing.

NX Arc had changed its requirements because it was already drowning in artists waiting for material.

Another agency might still take her, yes, but then what? Depend on whatever writers they assigned her? Wait months between songs? Pay enormous percentages for good material? Build an entire career around hoping somebody else’s best work reached her desk instead of a bigger artist’s?

And audiences could be cruel about it too.

There was nothing technically wrong with an artist who did not write his/her own songs. Some of the greatest voices in history had sung music written by other people. Yet fans loved authenticity until authenticity became another weapon. One bad interview, one leaked songwriting credit, and suddenly half the internet was calling you manufactured, talentless, fake, a pretty microphone with somebody else’s words stuffed into your mouth.

CJ hated that.

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