[petitperrie]

conveyance | perrie & hank

Perrie didn’t even bother to roll her eyes at the clipped, tough-guy edge in his voice. “Lucky for you he did.” She slung her bag on a rickety table that was jumbled with tools. A flashlight crashed to the floor and rolled toward Hank’s feet. “Sorry if I kept you from your busy schedule of doing nothing and jacking off.” She threw in a suggestively-raised eyebrow for good measure. The mention of anything remotely sexual usually added a few dollars to her tip. Reaching into the bag, she stacked two plastic sandwich bags on the table, each bulging with clumps of dried marijuana leaves. “That’s 300 you owe me.”

[hankfoxxx]

Charming women didn't come naturally to him. Even Cordelia had been a challenge, and he had succeeded solely out of necessity. Hank picked up the flashlight and returned it to the table, sliding closer to the gangly girl who couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen, though the solemn sadness of maturity darkened her celestial eyes. She was underdressed for the unexpected cool weather, and Hank could make out the rigid points of her nipples through the translucent fabric of her T-shirt. "I have two. I'm gonna need another week to get the other hundred. Is that alright?" He gave her a polite grin and hoped the paltry amount of boyish charm retained by his middle-aged face convinced her to agree with him. 

[spinning-bird-kick]

[kardiotissa-deactivated20211126]

[petitperrie]

conveyance | perrie & hank

She wore her shortest shorts on delivery days. When she didn’t, the shady, backdoor businessmen she visited were less inclined to add a few extra dollars to their payment amount, and she relied on their sleazy tips to put food on the table. The paltry forty bucks her uncle gave her to make the deliveries barely paid for her travel expenses. Perrie hurried down the sidewalk as the wind picked up, blasting her tan legs with an icy chill, as she passed rows of neat and elegant antebellum homes, protected from the grimy New Orleans streets by tall, iron fences. When she reached a massive house with a huge porch, and majestic white columns, Perrie checked to make sure no one was watching and hustled along the fence toward the backyard.

She always met him at the shed, never the big house, as he called it. He told her he didn’t want any of the staff or students to know what he was up to, but Perrie knew the true reason for covertness. He didn’t want to tell his wife why a skinny river rat with stringy hair and a sunken chest showed up once a month with a tattered, secondhand messenger bag tossed over one shoulder. Perrie reckoned he kept many other secrets from his wife; she got the impression that their marriage wasn’t a happy one, or, at best, a hollow one. Wedging one dingy sneaker between the iron rails, Perrie hoisted herself up and over the fence, carefully avoiding the massive spikes at the top. Her feet hit the soft dirt with a slap, sending a stinging sensation up the length of her legs. Perrie winced and, after dusting off the bottom of her messenger bag, continued down the length of the fence. Hank leaned against the door of the shed, waiting for her, and gave her a nod before opening the door and stepping inside.

[hankfoxxx]

He was rarely attracted to skinny girls. Something about their knobby joints and the starved glint in their eyes that illuminated their gaunt cheeks evoked a twinge of disgust in his stomach. But Perrie wasn't fashionably thin. Hank knew she lived on a dilapidated houseboat with her brother and deadbeat uncle, who spent most of his disability checks on Bud Light and Oxycontin. She attained her sunken shoulders and leathery skin not from fad diets and spray tan, but from impoverished hunger and manual labor, and he could respect her beauty in that sense. 

He spotted her swiftly padding down the property line, the wind ruffling her shabby T-shirt and tousling the curtain of dirty brown hair that flowed almost to her waist. He attempted to politely glance away as she climbed the fence, but his eyes fixated on her naked legs and the dimple where the top of her thigh ended and the bottom of her ass began. His eyes closed, briefly entertaining sexual fantasies, until he heard her footsteps. Hank didn't speak to her until they were both in the shed. "You're like an hour late. Lucky for you Cordelia's not here right now. Did D.L. double my order, like I asked?"

[butterflycaps]

[chloedeckersmorningstar-deactiv]

[ahsconfessions]

[witchofthekorcari]

This kind of magic it’s… dark. It’s about life and death, and I don’t want to play God

[ahsfans-deactivated20181214]

[cassjomo]

[levana-grey]

[hankfoxxx]

germination | hank

She allotted him less that four feet of space in the greenhouse for his plants, a shabby corner concealed by a cardboard partition. Every year at least one girl was brave enough to seek him out to inquire about the sour, piney aroma that sometimes lingered in the room. They only asked for small amounts, never more than half an ounce, and Hank obliged. He enjoyed the extra income almost as much as he enjoyed the revolving door of beautiful young women, their brief interactions a highlight of his otherwise tedious weekends in the shadows of whatever Cordelia, her mother, the coven deemed important at the moment. He enjoyed any sort of attention, especially from the students with their full lips, sparkling with some fruit, adolescent lip gloss or stained a deep burgundy, and their bony thighs, exposed in skirts and micro shorts and sheer leggings with little cartoon hearts on the knees.

It wasn't that Cordelia didn't meet his needs. She was his soul mate, a creature of perfection in his eyes, but she often regarded him with the same flat, unaffected disposition that she gave her students or, even worse, her plants. She only touched him when she as ovulating, a clinical gesture that might result in the fruition of her dream to conceive a child. 

Footsteps broke Hank's introspection, soft and hurried claps across the wooden floor. Squinting at the door, he waited for someone to enter, but the steps grew faint until it was silent. He poured a small amount of water into the Styrofoam cups on the table, carefully avoiding the sprigs of green sprouting from the center. After watering the adult plants, he checked the seeds. They were on a red paper plate tucked between moist tissues and concealed from the light with another plate. His brows furrowed as he peeled back the tissue, his thin lips pressed into a worried line. Most of them looked the same, but the one in the top corner had cracked open, a tiny stalk protruding from the slit. One seed had germinated, and a dozen more that would soon birth their own stalks and grow into trees with fragrant, spindly leaves.

The seeds made it seem easy, as if any idiot who wanted to be a proud member of his or her species should be able to procreate without any trouble. He and Cordelia had tried for months, seen more doctors than his paychecks could afford, and the fact that it might be impossible was beginning to seem likely. Cordelia hesitated to use any kind of magic, a trait he found grating and progressively obnoxious over the course of their marriage. He wished she possessed more of her mother's shrewd assertiveness, but that was the only trait of Fiona's he admired and longed to see in his wife, who somehow managed to be aggressive and feeble at the same time.

[waterloowhynot]

[cannabis-vibes]

[butterflycaps]

[superscreencaps]

[eximago-blog]