Fics like a bull and its horns

“Fuck you,” he snarls, leaning into the space between them until every breath she takes mingles with his own. Until his forehead brushes the brim of the hat she now wears like a dare. “You think just because you dress like that it means you can keep up? Wake up, little girl. You’re just a fuckin’ kid.” She thinks to slap him; to take him down a peg and show him just how childish she can be. But then his eyes drift, like he can’t seem to help himself from looking. They skim down, down, down over her breasts and to the sliver of skin where her hips flare out. He looks agitated; looks annoyed—with her or himself she isn’t sure. All she knows is that when she presses her palms to the brick behind her and arches her chest up towards his gaze, his pupils expand and his teeth grind. “I may just be a fuckin’ kid,” she spits the words like venom from between her teeth. “But I’m a kid you want to fuck.” OR: A new farmhand comes to town and the owner's granddaughter gets more than she bargained for.

Fics like a bull and its horns

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