I see a lot of smut around Amanda being the dominant figure in the bedroom - but hear me out
Youâre gonna tell me THIS woman is ALWAYS ON TOP?!
And look, I agree that she probably takes the controlling role with her into the bedroom with her partner - but I feel like Mandy in love is just something entirely detached from this ideal.
That need for control over a situation comes from her being contantly abused by the figures in her life, whether that be physically or emotionally.
If Mandy finds herself with someone she truly trusts - home girls just working overtime trying to impress.
Cannonly Amanda loves praise; you tell her you like something one time and she will be putting the hours in to make you feel that way again.
Maybe itâs going to take a little while to wear away at all those walls sheâs no doubt put up since her experience with John and just her life in general; but once Amanda is comfortable sheâs consistent, maybe even obsessive.
Yer okay so maybe sheâs on top; but itâs because you are telling her how good she makes you feel.
Sheâs getting off on your getting off, sheâs there to serve.
Only once youâve came a sufficient amount of times will she let you touch her, because although she LOVES you touching her, she wants to make sure youâre absolutely satisfied first.
Donât get me wrong though, the way you touch her is something sheâs dreamed about her whole life and never will feel worthy of.
Mandy has done a lot of bad things, sheâs self aware to the point of self deprication.
She is fully aware that being with you, romantically or sexually, is the closest she will ever get to heaven.
She sure has a hard time accepting any compliment you give her because, quite frankly, she doesnât feel like she has earned it.
But to be loved in such a way is something so obscure and beautiful to Amanda that she will stare at you sometimes with such raw admiration it makes your heart stop.
This is a pining Charles POV based on the song Linger, by the cranberries and has anyone ever asked for this ? No. But I wanted it, itâs fan service for me and me only and I enjoyed every second of writing it so if you want a part two please let me know.
Charles and the reader have been in love for years and they are so oblivious to it that itâs criminal!
Warnings; none really, angsty Charles, smutty themes if you squint
If you, if you could return
Don't let it burn
Donât let it fadeâŠ
Charles had seen a lot in his twenty seven years on this earth - but nothing ever made his heart beat quite as much as that first glimps of you after a long raid or robbery. He had always been happy to bring back his share of loot from jobs; he had became a provider for the gang, known for his loyalty and hard work - he liked it.
He belonged, possibly for the first time in his whole life.
But when you joined the gang, his commitment to coming âhomeâ (wherever that may be and for however temporarily) strengthened tenfold.
your smile, your eyes, your voice - the job was intense, everytime he left he knew there was a high chance he wouldnât be coming back.
He had sat with this fact, weighed up his options - he could live with that.
Until you - he had been completely okay with the fact that he might not see his next sunrise.
But now he was greedy, Charles wanted more.
No longer living just to be alive, he wanted a future.
A future with you.
But the gated paddock with grazing horses and a baby in his arms that had his hair but your eyes, that just wasnât an viable option, as much as he might want it.
And he did, he so desperately wants it.
You had once read him one of your fantasy romance books, a juvenile piece of literature that the girls had passed around and poured over.
And as you dramatically delivered the lines, punctuating sentences with your glorious laugh, he wondered - fleetingly and if just for a moment, if love like that could really exist.
But he knew it was futile. He was not your prince in shining armour - not the man you would imagine when reading those words.
Charles was cold, quiet, lacking in social skills.
And you were you, passionate and stronge, someone who the whole gang loved and doted on as much as you doted upon them.
You chatted to all of them, you had time for everyone, you were everything he could not be; warm, engaging, someone people came to for comfort.
He concluded that fairytales are just that, fiction.
I'm sure I'm not being rude
But it's just your attitude
It's tearing me apart
It's ruining every dayâŠ
It got to him, it really did.
Because as much as he wanted you, Charles just didnât see a reality where he would ever be enough.
In some twisted way, he had to accept both what he wanted and what you deserved.
You had shared with him, one night after far too many beers at a camp celebration, that you dreamed of leaving this life behind one day, settling down, owning a ranch and having a family.
He had lay there the following morning, in his stiff cot and itchy sheets, solem with the realisation that his own past stuck to him like dry straw on honey.
He lost his mother at such a young age, and his dad too, emotionally at least, as a result.
He left any semblance of family behind that day that he fled, a thirteen year old boy with nothing to his name but grief and rejection.
How could he be a father when he had barely had one himself ?
Was he fated to repeat his own sires mistakes ?
Or could he be a good father, a dad even.
Could he raise his sons to be loyal, fierce but soft, teach them to fish and shoot their bow but also how to treat those around them with respect?
Could he raise his daughters to be independent and strong, yet caring and optimistic?
And then he found it all quite laughable; because who would want children with a man like him.
Accepting that he was too wound up to rest, he got out of his cot, made a coffee and started up the fire, waiting until the others woke up.
I swore, I swore I would be true
And honey so did you
So why were you holding her hand?
Charles was so secretive about the feelings he had developed about you that he genuinely believed nobody would ever catch a wiff.
But as Arthur watched his close friends troubled face, and followed his stormy gaze to find it locked on you - laughing with Sean over something he assumed was stupid and down right juvenile - he felt true empathy for his good friend.
Arthur knew Charles well enough to know that under that big bear of an exterior was a heart of gold.
Although a relatively new addition to the gang, in comparison to himself or John, Arthur trusted Charles, a luxury he offered very few.
Because of this, the two often went on excursions together - Arthur managing to learn little bits of trivia Charles would sometimes offer, leaving him to piece together an overall view of his lift before the gang and his character like a jigsaw puzzle.
Charles was by no means big on chat, but Arthur liked to think he had a pretty good perception of him by now.
Additionally, Arthur was not a stranger to the concept of unrequited love.
So he sat there on his bar stool, his friend looking off longingly into the abyss, and weighted up his options.
It surely wasnât smart to poke Charles, the metaphorical bear, he should most certainly leave his observations for another day.
But itâs nearly midnight, heâs a good few whiskyâs deep, and when has Arthur ever chosen the correct decision.
âYouâre real sweet on her, huhâ
Charles wakes out of his trance and multiple emotions drench over his face; the first of which being outright confusion.
The second coming later - but stronger than the first - Anger.
Maybe at his bold accusation, maybe at being caught out, Arthur neither knows or cares.
And then, as he opens his mouth to protest - causing Arthur to hold up his hand in defiance, the final emotion: defeat.
Charles looks into his glass as if searching for the key to Pandoraâs box.
âJust go speak to âerâ Arthur offers, jesturing to you, causing Charles to smack his hand down as if you would suddenly squire the gift of telepathy and know Charles deep dirty secret.
âI canât Arthurâ the words come out in such a crestfallen way Arthur almost wants to bring his friend in for a embrace.
Everything about tone, his choice of words, tells Arthur that this a conversation Charles has already had with himself frequently and his heart hurts for the man.
Arthur knows this thought process all to well, after all, heâs lived it himself. He knows thereâs nothing he can say now, no words of comfort, that can fix Charles sorrow.
So he doesnât say anything, he listens.
He listens as Charles tells him that heâs not good enough for you.
He listens as Charles tells him to how you want a future he canât provide.
And he hears how much itâs pulling the man apart.
He orders himself and Charles another drink, and then listens some more.
Is that the way we stand?
Were you lying all the time?
Was it just a game to you?
The night Sean returned he danced with you.
The stars shone overhead and the fire cracks and whistled, competing with the sound of the gangs laughter and chatting.
Charles looked down to see that you were looking at him, really looking - and it made him feel sick to his stomach.
He could see there was so much behind your eyes, so many thoughts in that miraculous brain of yours, and the fact that he couldnât decipher a single one of them made his insides churn.
Where you looking at his scar, wondering why you were dancing with such an ugly brute of a man?
Or where you simply imagining someone else in his space? Maybe Sean or John or even javier.
But when you speak, your words send him even further down a spiral.
âYouâre so handsome, mr Smithâ
The words, the look in your eyes as you say them, the naughty smirk on your lips - charles wasnât sure if he believed in heaven anymore, and he knew with all certainty that after his actions he would not be allowed entry, but that nice it felt like he transcended up to the pearly gates and shook hands with everyone wholly up there.
But then he realises heâs said nothing, and itâs too late, your face has changed, gone the look of awe, replaced with something resembling embarrassment and possibly even a little rejection.
âSorry, Iâm really drunkâ you laugh off, and maybe if you hadnât looked away from him you would have seen the blush on his cheeks and his mouth open to tell you just how much he loved you, just how much your words meant to him.
Maybe if you hadnât dropped his hands and gone back to the others, he would have kissed you right there by the camp fire, in front of everyone he cared about.
But that wouldnât happen, not that night.
Charles would think your words were the result of your alcohol consumption, nothing else.
And you would think that Charles just didnât feel the same way.
Youâd both wake up the next morning with the memory of that encounter, but youâd both pretend you didnât. It was a game you both played, denying your feelings for eachother while knowing that when you turned in for the night and got into your seperate cots you would both be thinking only of the other.
But I'm in so deep
You know I'm such a fool for you
You got me wrapped around your finger
âCan I braid your hair?â
A pointless question, Charles thought to himself. You could ask the man if he would load his own gun, turn it on himself and shoot and heâd do it without a please, thanking you for the command.
Anything for you.
Charles had injured himself in a raid, a silly mistake leading to him breaking a few fingers, nothing serious in the grand scheme of it all but still causing short term annoyance.
Due to this, his usual braid had admittadly become lose and somewhat of a disaster.
It wasnât the first thing on his mind, but when you offered to help him, and the idea of you scraping your nails against his scalp was birthed into his brain, the chance to fulfil a fantasy was too hard to deny.
Scared of how his voice may come out if he used his words, he grumbled a response and sold it with a nod.
You took to work on his lengths, starting at the bottom and working your way up, a little too gentle for Charles liking if he was honest.
The idea of you pulling his hair had came across his thoughts, often late at night, but it was never accompanied by you both being fully clothed and his fingers being broken.
However when you reached his head and racked your fingers through his hair like a brush, he had to use everything in himself to fight the moans of satisfaction he wanted to release.
You chatted away to him the whole time and he tried to listen, he really did, but the combination of you being so close that he could smell you around him and your touch on his hair was ultimately distracting to say the least.
âAre you even listening to me?â
He wasnât, he didnât hear this, causing you to playfully tug, a little harder than expected by either of you, at his locks.
Charles made a sound he hoped he could pass off as a yelp, but that was really the result of his nightly fantasies of you peaking into reality in the strangest way possible.
âSorryâ you say, and itâs as if his groan did as much for you as your hair tugging did for him, but he couldnât think about that without opening a box he had long decided to close, lock and bury deep.
So he went back to enjoying your touch, knowing that this might be the closest he ever got to you, and being okay with that.
If this was all Charles could have of you, at least heâd had something.
And surely something was better than nothing at all.
Do you have to let it linger?
Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger
Amanda is so isolated, probably mainly due to the fact that she has had nothing but bad interactions for her entire life.
But imagine being that one person who she clicks with; maybe youâre a neighbour or a roommate or just someone she sees often around town.
And I donât even think she would be particularly hard to crack; like that girl is HUNGRY for love and affection. Sheâs never had a close friendship that is just truly none transactional; you are nice to her and want nothing but her niceness in return.
Amanda CLINGS to you - she needs you on a biblical level. If sheâs stressed she goes to you, if sheâs feeling down she goes to you, if sheâs happy - ect. You get the point.
Iâm not saying this doesnât carry its own difficulties - someone who is completely reliant on you for their own happiness can be nothing short of draining. But I also feel like Amanda would respect your boundaries at least outwardly, sheâs probably stalking you behind your back but in her own twisted way she means well by it
And when I say this woman is loyal - like she always in your corner. She supports your wrongdoings too, nothing is imperfect if you do it.
One time when youâre both drunk and partying at your house she tells you she would kill for you; which Iâm sure you wouldnât take literally. But if some of your exes who didnât treat you well start showing up on milk cartons; no doubt Amanda has them in a trap somewhere.
Amanda is not used to positive physical touch; she probably flinches the first time you reach in for a hug. But I donât think it would take her long to start loving those little moments of skin to skin contact, no matter how platonic. They mean a lot to her, sheâs never been able to be close to someone like that with such safety before and she wonât take it for granted.
I feel like if you two are roommates, on bad nights she might end up crawling into your bed with you. Youâre a heavy enough sleeper for this not to wake you up, and although itâs a shock the first time, if you assure her itâs okay then she will be back regularly. She sleeps best in your bed
Iâm part of the Amanda Young defense team, if it wasnât clear.
You are kidnapped by the villain regularly, but youâre starting to look forward to it. You know they wonât hurt you, and are simply being dramatic. It also doesnât help that you are the only person they ever kidnap. This time, the hero doesnât bother trying to save you.
When youâre jigsaws apprentice there is little time left over for a love life or dating, especially when you are as emotionally tourtured as Amanda - but sometimes a one night stand becomes a two night stand and so on & so on.
Amanda Young x fem reader
Warnings: sexual themes, talk of gore, mention of tinder (which is scary to some of us, but this is the only modern AU aspect, everything else is pretty canon)
Tinder is a cesspit of humanity, truely. Modern dating, as simple as it may be, is actually quite the task. You spend hours scrolling through unsuitable or outright unattractive suitors, accieneltly swiping the rare good prospect because you have such a swipe left muscle memory. When you do successfully match with someone who is at best your type, often just bareable - itâs a 50/50 if they match with you. And then if it IS a match, itâs a rush to form a date or be forgotten forever.
Amanda doesnt have the luxury of spare time. Working for John isnât exactly shift work; she works on a task that he gives her until it is finished to his standard - which is impeccably high.
And thatâs never been an issue for Amanda; before John she had nothing but an absent family and a drug problem. John didnât just give her purpose, he gave her a reason to live.
Amanda often felt her only reason to be on this earth was to help further Johns work; but a girl has needs all the same.
Amanda first downloaded tinder when she had too much alcohol after a particularly nasty day in the meat factory. Since being âsoberâ, Amanda only drank when she knew she wouldnât be under the watchful, perceptive eye of John. So after one long, partially bloody day she decided what better to do with her time but too look at what the city had to offer.
Amanda found that not only was it incredibly easy for her to find a match, but it boosted her ego to meet up with these people who wanted her enough to take her home and have sex with her without her even so much as giving them a crumb of information about herself.
That was fine by Amanda; why fill anyone in on the terrible backstory when she could get her leg over and move on.
It wasnât complicated, it wasnât tiresome, and most importantly - it didnât distract from her work.
She humoured all genders; after all, Amanda didnât exactly stick around to worry about how well she connected with these people. A few tried to stay in contact but Amanda made it brutally clear that she wanted one thing and one thing only, once that was over and she was travelling back to her flat alone she would not have to think about that person again. Not ever.
Until, you.
It was a typical Saturday night, after a long week of crafting and plotting, Amanda needed a physical outlet. She had been talking with this one girl on tinder for a few days and arranged to meet tonight to let off some steam. The girl had picked a partially seedy bar in the sketchy side of town; which told Amanda all she needed to know about this girls intentions.
However, as she checked the grubby clock hung behind the bar, the sure set plan of booze induced sex with a stranger seemed to be derailing slowly. Her match was now half an hour late, which wasnât a concerning amount of time, but Amanda was impatient.
Swilling her spirit around the glass, she surveyed the room for her date. A group of trucker looking men sneered over a group of girls in a booth, pretending to play pool instead of preforming borderline harassment. One of the girls was catching back to the men, and Amanda looked away as she stood up, making her way to the bar with one of the older men in tow.
The bar tender took her order, Amanda didnât care to listen, checking her phone for what could be upwards of the twentieth time since noticing her date was late.
âAnd he will get whatever sheâs having tooâ
Amanda looked up, three sets of eyes on her. The girl had snaked an arm over her shoulder, which would normally be a move Amanda would have met with a stern glare and a hard shrug, but this girls perfume was filling her nostrils and, blaming her distinct level of horniness and lack of company, Amanda wasnât exactly opposed to the physical touch.
âThatâs okay isnât it, youâll buy my friend a drink tooâ
Amanda looked blankly at the older man, his expression mirroring hers. However he twigged on before Amanda, his brain in his pants helping the one in his head get up too speed.
âSure sweet cheeks, anything for a pretty girl like youâ
Amanda internally curled up and died at the level of disgusting this man radiated. She may have thrown a dig, a snap comment that would disarm his confidence; but the mystery girls arm was still around her shoulders and its warmth was radiating through her leather jacket. The girl twirled Amandaâs hair absently with her outstretched hand, such a foreign feeling to Amanda, but one she found herself enjoying one the less.
âGo on thenâ
Amanda was sprung back into the moment when the girl turned to her, tugging her hair in the process. Her eyes were framed by a thick lash, her makeup slightly worn to show her blushed cheeks underneath. Amanda murmured her order, never taking her eyes off the face staring back at her.
The bar tender made the drinks up and the trucker paid, looking to the mystery girl expectantly.
âCome on then, sweet thingâ
The girl turned back round to face him, not before rolling her eyes for Amanda to see.
âThanks for the drinks, Iâll be over for that game of pool in a secondâ
The man looked dejectedly at the pair and then scuffled off, most likely realising he had just been used for his wallet.
âSorry about that, I didnt want to get stuck with him aloneâ Amanda felt disappointed as the girl removed her arm from her.
The girl flipped her hair, thanking the bar man for her drink and giving Amanda one last smile before turning to leave.
âIâm Amanda by the wayâ
The words had left her mouth before her brain had chance to catch up.
And when Amanda thinks back now, thatâs when it started. She still wasnât sure what âitâ was, but it was something different.
Just like everyone else sheâd been out with, she drank with you, but she was actually listening to what you had to say, not just pretending to get you to come home with her. She was interested in you, she wanted to know more.
Something was different, and it made Amanda feel physically sick. Normally when someone touched her she felt nothing, if not a little threatened, but when you touched her she felt nervous. Those butterflies that she hadnât felt since she was a young teen, before her life went to shit, came back from the dead. And every time you looked up at her from under your lashes, or laughed at her jokes, or touched her leg, they fluttered round her stomach.
She should have left then and there, fled that bar and never looked back. In her head she excused herself, went too the bathroom and climbed out a window for gods sake. If thatâs what it took.
But she came home with you, and she felt like that taxi drive was the equivalent to picking a plot, digging and then jumping into her own grave.
Because sex with you wasnât like how sex was with everyone else. And there had been many, men, women, all those inbetween. Some had been poor, some had been mediocre and some had been pretty good. Amanda had came, sometimes multiple times if she was lucky.
But it was never like this.
Touching you was enough for her to be soaking. She felt your pleasure with her own; and god did she try to give you pleasure. Amanda had never cared if she made the person she had sex with feel good, call it selfish if you want, but she knew she would never see them again and could not bring herself to care enough about what they would remember of her.
But with you, she wanted you to come so many times that her name would be forever branded on your soul.
And maybe yours would be on hers, but that was just too vile for her to comprehend.
Amanda didnât like people. She didnât care for their opinions, thoughts or feelings. But with you, she wanted you to see only her good. She felt tense when your hands brushed over her scars on her thighs, she was embarrassed, she didnât want you knowing she had to do that too deal with her pain. Some of the scars were relatively fresh, which made her feel even more sick about it. What must you think?
When you took the time to kiss your way over those scars, Amanda thought she might pass away there and then. From shock and maybe something else.
Sex had never been tender for Amanda, it was a rough battle of wills, and one that she quite enjoyed. She had never been touched how you touched her. And sore she probably never would be again.
So in the morning,she left before you woke. She couldnât face seeing you in daylight, not after what you shared
She left to never see you again, never hear your name, never feel those feelings again.
But it was a lie, because before she left she couldnât resist leaving her number on a note on your bedside table.
And as she scurried back to her day to day, her rat race of trap making and information gathering, she put you too the back of her mind.
It was easy to focus when she had her hands busy, she only thought of you when she saw the colour of your eyes in her tools.
Or when she felt the wind tug her hair how your hands had.
Or when she got on the bus and smelt your perfume on another passenger.
But it didnât matter, you were a fabrication of her mind - nothing but a fantasy.
She moved on, kept herself focused how she knew best.
She went on more dates, slept with other people. Nobody like you, but sometimes when they touched her she closed her eyes and pretended it was you. Sometimes she would taste their lips and be disappointed they werenât yours.
And when she lay in bed alone, when her little flat was still and the world felt like it was slumbering outside her window, she would always think of you.
Until, her phone vibrated under her pillow. And she moved embarrassingly fast to see that screen lit up with a unsaved number, Amanda was smiling before she knew how to stop herself.
Because as much as she knew you would be the death of her, she simply wouldnât want to die at the hands of any other.
Amanda imagine but itâs like a serial one night stands/slow burn/ friends with benefits to cursed lovers trope ?? Anyone wanna read that?? Might write it
No but imagine AUAbby and AUEllie being tattoo artists in the same studio and they both fight over who gets to do your tats when you come in. They are all busy trying to one up eachother on the best design for you and youâre just loving the attention
