MAVERICK

hi, my name’s MAVERICK— i’m 25 years old and write primarily for ATEEZ and enhypen, but i’ll branch out from time to time. i write fanfiction in hopes that it’ll make me brave enough to write and submit an actual manuscript someday after lots of practice. i’ll probably share some random blips and writings (journal entries, poetry, confessions) ambient sounds i record, and non-fanfiction based content on here as well. i think my existence is a fair balance between a chaotic, depraved, and primordial evil— and silent melancholia. some random facts about me, down below. (MDNI, this is an 18+ page.)

•i write A LOT. on the rougher weeks for my insomnia, i tend to write more to get the time going. it’s my comfort hobby.

•my favorite genres to write are suspense, horror, or supernatural-fantasy. oh! and especially tragedies.

•i like beautiful things.

•i’m a “somewhat” polyglot— a rather lame one. i have commitment issues, and i can’t seem to care enough about anything to finish it sometimes—but i’m at an intermediate level in several languages. (korean, japanese, mongolian, spanish, etc.)

•i’m filipino, spanish, and native (central) american.

•i write a list of inanimate objects and concepts i relate to on a daily basis. i also enjoy recording ambient sounds of places i frequent.

•my current read is a fiction novel called “the ten loves of mr. nishino” by hiromi kawakami. i’ve been doing lots of reading, as of late. i can get through three (albeit, 12 point large font) books in a day.

•i go by any pronouns— literally here to exist.

•i like fancy canned fish and cold tomatoes—but i hate marinara and cooked tomatoes. unsure why, really.

•my go-to cigarette brand is capris and i stick to the indigo 120’s. i hate non-menthols because they taste like kissing an ugly man, and menthols remind me of the time i kissed a girl and she spat her gum in my mouth. i liked that. therefore, i only smoke menthols. haha

•i write fanfiction as writing practice, and since i love ateez—character building comes easily, because it feels like i already have a template. eventually, i’d like to write my own stories, once i get comfortable developing my own characters from scratch.

•erotica’s cool and i like the human body— from the perspective of an artist.

Siren’s fic recs

siren’s ateez fic recs: first edition

To be released:

jeong yunho x reader

siren’s cinema, now playing:

a series of oneshot’s so i could crossover my love of film and fanfiction. including the craft, chungking express, the mummy, and more!

series masterlist: pt i, pt ii

☢︎ｒａｄｉｕｍ: 𝘻𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘦-𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳, 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭, 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯, 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 (𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵), 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵

☢︎ｐａｉｒｉｎｇ: 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯! 𝘴𝘢𝘯 𝘹 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘰𝘳! 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

☢︎—Ｓｙｎｏｐｓｉｓ: 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘚𝘢𝘯— 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲: art heist, haunted art gallery, enemies to lovers, slow burn, suspense, extremely suggestive but not quite smut

pairings: thief! jung wooyoung x thief! reader, allusions to san x reader and mingi x reader, ot8! ateez

—synopsis: A groundbreaking discovery shakes the art world when a hidden painting by a revolutionary artist is unearthed from a secret storage unit after two centuries. Enter Jung Wooyoung—your long time enemy, always ready to grab at what remotely interests you. But he merely approaches with a warning: neither of you are the only ones eyeing the prize. Nine of the world’s most skilled escape artists, thieves, and art connoisseurs have gathered, each desperate to claim the infamous painting. But as the night unfolds, a deadly game begins—one by one, competitors fall victim to mysterious murders. The security around the artwork is tighter than anyone imagined, for reasons far beyond physical protection.

Because this isn’t just any painting. It’s a haunted masterpiece, out for vengeance, and no one will walk away unscathed.

As these are many of my own ideas, a multitude of what I post may become personal manuscripts after I work on my own original characters. (Non-fanfiction based storylines.) Due to this, I’m providing a disclaimer just in case. 💗

All rights reserved. These stories, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced or copied for posting on any other platform in any form without permission. These are works of fiction.

QUICK IMPORTANT TERMS:

KAGEMA: Young male performers associated with Kabuki and Noh theater who often engaged in sex work. At night, some patrons visited kagema-jaya for entertainment and pleasure. Many kagema provided sexual services to male patrons and, in some cases, to elite women.

KAGEMA-JAYA: Specialized teahouses frequented by patrons of Kabuki and Noh theater. These establishments provided entertainment and were also associated with sex work. They were especially prevalent during the Edo period (1603–1867).

˖᯽ ݁˖

Yixiang had never known reverence like this.

He'd bedded innumerable bodies in his short life—charm meant survival, and each tumble bought him another morning's meal. Even after popularity rendered wealth unnecessary, finding heat in strangers' arms remained second nature.

But then his breathing stills as your kimono slips to your waist, your bare back exposed beneath dim lantern light. Shadows stretch across rice-paper dividers, painting your skin in deep reds, chrysanthemum yellows, and gold.

You kneel with your back to him, heart catching in your throat.

You shouldn't be here—not like this, not sharing a bed with the greatest threat to the throne you'd sworn loyalty to since childhood.

The house is quiet now.

The other patrons have loved themselves to exhaustion, sinking into opium-sweet dreams.

And you're terrified at the thought of him being able to hear your heartbeat in some impossible way.

Yixiang gazes at your back with longing and something older. His hand reaches forward—shaking, tentative—to trace the raised scar spanning from your left shoulder blade to your right hip.

He was wrong.

As a boy, he'd idolized you. You were the only clean thing in his eternally dirty world, a crumb of sanctuary he eventually stopped reaching for because it seemed too unrealistic to hold.

You weren't unblemished—you simply hid your scars well.

Goosebumps rise as his feather-light touch trails downward. You flinch under the chilled temperature of his hand.

There’s a slow shuffle, and a lip quivers in the silence.

He untangles your hair until it falls from its ornate style, draping it to one side to expose your neck. His arms encircle you, broad and warm, trailing up your bare skin.

With a shaky breath, he descends—lips catching your throat from behind, tongue tracing the nape of your neck.

You gasp, arching into his palms as they stroke upward, finding your nipples, your chest.

He kisses your neck with a want that seems to double by the second.

Yixiang grabs your jaw, tilting your head back until everything becomes clashing teeth— it’s wet. It’s desperate and almost…confused.

He still tastes camellia on your tongue. The more he leans into it, the more he searches for it. He pulls back to kiss your cheek, flattening his palm against your stomach.

"Yixiang..." You sigh into his hold, cheeks flushed.

"Let me," he murmurs into your hair, breath hot against your temple with not a request, but a plea. "Let me take care of you."

His long hair fans over your shoulder. A strand catches onto your mouth.

The obi falls. His kimono slides open, baring his body as he scoots closer. The hard plane of his chest warms your scar and molds you against his shape.

Your head's spinning. Incense wafts under the light, the smoky tendrils almost look like the shape of a dragon.

It reminds you of why you shouldn't be here.

But then his hair, perfumed with camelia oil and anise, overwhelms all else. You feel his cock slide lower, seating itself comfortably between you.

His hand glides between your thighs, holding you against his chest, and he chokes on a gasp at the slick softness he finds there

"Just relax," he lies, voice wrecked, and his finger slides through your folds with familiarized precision. "I've got you."

The wet sound betrays you and so does the way you grind back into his palm, seeking to find refuge in the hand you were supposed to lean away from.

"More—" You curl an arm around his neck and push your mouth against his. He parts immediately, seeking, and his tongue tangles with yours. The smooth, slick muscles move against each other frantically.

it's so terribly warm.

He only continues to deepen the kiss when you almost pull away, chasing you, swallowing your gasp once his finger finally traces the entrance of your cunt, circling where you're wettest.

Something slick slides down your thighs and onto the fabric beneath you—you don't know what's his and yours anymore.

He pushes a thick finger in, pausing at the first ridge before sliding it down to his knuckle,

And then another.

The hands you often found yourself gazing at so often: while they cut fruit, served tea, or brushed against his lips whenever he had to think—they were inside of you now.

Pale as alabaster. Thick, veiny.

You never wanted to admit that imagining a moment like this is why you wanted to look in the first place.

The thought of that parallel alone dizzies you.

You don't register the fact you're still panting against his open mouth or that he's rubbing himself against your folds, wetting the veiny ridges of his cock.

Three fingers stretch you full, pressing deep until your slick dribbles down to his wrist. You yelp when he pushes you both onto all fours, his body still molded to yours, heat seeping everywhere you touch.

You arch your back, pushing your ass up to fuck back onto his fingers as he halts all movement to watch in amusement.

"Yixiang—it feels good," you stutter out, the words foreign in your mouth.

Pleasure has always been a stranger to you. On strange nights, you'd explored your body shyly before shame made you stop. But in Yixiang's hands, you're falling into something bottomless.

Then, he cups your pussy, three fingers sliding rhythmically before his thumb finds your clit. You jolt, thighs squeezing together involuntarily.

When he pulls his hand free, webs of slick catch between his fingers, trailing in thin strands that fall in wet ropes against your thigh.

You turn to look behind you—and choke.

Yixiang stands unashamed, ethereal in the dim light. His long blonde hair gleams like spun gold. He wraps his hand around his cock, jerking softly, using your slick to coat himself until he glistens. A moan tumbles from his mouth, his whole body flinching at the sensation.

He crawls back to you, kissing the crease of your ass, giving you a quick grope before hushing you with his breath against your skin.

"W-what are you doing?"

It's your first time seeing a naked man. Everything feels too new, too sharp. All your life, the king sheltered you; when he didn't, you were only his eyes. So, you can't help but whisper-yell when Yixiang slides himself between your thighs, tucking himself there like he belongs.

The room fills with rhythmic, wet sounds as he fucks between your slick folds, sighing at the softness of your thighs. He gazes down your spine, watching his cock disappear between them. His cheeks flush. That arrogant half smile returns.

"I'm showing you a new world."

He presses his chest to your back—then plap, the sound of flesh striking flesh as he sends one sharp and deliberate thrust. Your ass jiggles from the singular brutal force.

Yixiang curls a bicep around your throat, arching your back until you're forced to tilt your head impossibly back and meet his eyes—staying in place. He thrusts again, and this time he doesn't stop. Relentless, loud, shameless—no care for sleeping patrons, Yudai's need to wake up early in the morning, or anything but this.

“See what I’m doing?” He smiles softly. Playfully.

“I’m fucking your thighs. If I were inside you,” He reaches around your stomach, before resting it above your navel. “I’d be right here.”

You squeeze around nothing. Yixiang explains it with a naturally sweet and patient tone, but just under the surface…there was a teasing lilt to it.

With each word, you start to imagine it; the heat between your legs pumping into you—stretching you to the point of initial discomfort while Yixiang comforted you softly, but never stopped until your body realized how good it felt. And when it did, he’d grin like you’d just caught onto something he knew long before you.

"Don't close your eyes," he commands. "Look at me and feel it." Yixiang peers down at you.

Your vision blurs from the effort of keeping them open. Tears bead at your lash line as the head of his cock smacks your clit unforgivingly, again and again.

Those striking eyes: sharp as a blade, bright as cosmos and every natural wonder in this world. Yixiang looked so horridly beautiful he reflects every crime you're willing to commit to be here.

Something coils tight in your stomach, confusing and urgent. You lean into it, helpless. Yixiang squeezes the bicep wrapped your throat, restricting more of the airflow.

"Yixiang, something feels—" You push out the words.

He grins, pounding harder. You clamp your thighs together and feel every ridge, every vein. He hisses, eyes never leaving yours, watching your tits jostle with each impact.

"You're doing so good," he placates, brushing sweaty hair from your face. "Keep your eyes open."

He kisses your temple. The wave crashes over you suddenly, pulling you back against his chest, legs flailing open as you lose control and sprawl yourself on his lap.

"Just like that." He mumbles into your ear, soft lips brushing against their shell. Yixiang presses his cheek to yours as he looks down over your shoulder—between you two.

His hand descends, spanking your pussy once, sharp.

"Wait—Yixiang, I feel like I'm gonna pee—"

You grab his wrist, shaking on the edge. He kisses your shoulder, then grabs his cock and smacks it against your clit until you break.

You clench around nothing. Everything whites out as something wet and hot trickles onto the silk sheets, falling out from you in small pulses.

He pumps himself with a grin.

“That's not pee, my lady."

Softly, he raises you, puts you back on all fours. His firm hand between your shoulder blades arches you deeper, presenting you wrecked and open.

A small slap on your cheek snaps you back.

"Nu-uh. No sleeping. We're not done."

‘Fuck.’ Your eye twitches in horror. It’s almost comical were it not for the fact that you were as scared as you were turned on.

‘He's not a flower,’ you think to yourself. ‘He's a demon.