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[journal-of-an-entomologist]

Chance Meeting

(warning for asa fantasizing about being nasty to elena, implied gross stuff, elena is an adult)

--

He sees her when he is fixing up his midday coffee.

He happens to glance over at the young woman sitting by herself in the corner of the cafeteria, her designer handbag on the table and a book in her hands. 

He stops what he is doing, and watches her for a moment.

The young woman is Elena.

Oh yes it is Elena.

She’s been letting her hair grow out. He’ll have to fix that. He preferred it short. It made her appear much more in high-spirits.

Some coincidence then. Enjoying our day trip? Figured you might have been turned off museums for a little bit longer than that.

Or maybe we’ve come prowling.

He carries on fixing his coffee. Selecting a seat at a table with a view of both exits, he sits down with his back turned away from her, so as not to startle her if she is looking.

If that is the case, as he deeply suspects it is, best not let her know he’s caught on.

He sips his coffee, takes out his phone, and pretends to be doing work. Occasionally, he looks at her reflection in the glass doors in front of him, watching her read.

Or imitate doing so.

Quite the predicament we find ourselves in Miss Peters. Getting nervous? Sure seems like it. We’ve been reading the same page for two minutes. Do we stay or do we go?

Ah, there. She’s turned it.

He weighs the possibility that she smuggled a gun in past security. She could put a bullet through his head at this distance, if she were a good enough shot, but he doubts she is. If it had been the other one, that case would have been open and shut. He would not be sitting here. But just the girl. That’s harder.

Knocking back his coffee, he scans the room slowly.

It is indeed just the girl, for now. He’ll keep an eye on things.

If anything is about to go down, they’ve picked a terrible venue for it. Broad daylight. Witnesses. Absolutely nothing to connect him to any of it, or there would have already been a knock on his door. And here, like the hotel, he knows this building inside and out.

He plays a game of patience and waits for her to move first.

Fifteen minutes pass before Elena gets out of her seat.

Over the murmur in the cafeteria he thinks he hears her ask the girl who works the coffee stand a question.

He watches her very closely, in the corner of his eye, as she walks past him, not four tables away, and goes out the door at an even pace without so much as a backwards glance.

She did not appear to know who she was sharing the room with.

He stops pretending to do work and crosses his hands on the table to watch her weave her way through the crowd. He lets her walk to the base of the Sauropod skeleton, a significant gap, before getting up himself and following her out, until he sees her disappear into the bathroom on the other side of the grand hall.

He rubs his fingers together at his sides. Difficult to tell.

Going to the top of the staircase, he continues on the second level until he stands directly over the bathrooms, and waits where she can’t see him for her to come out.

Elena seems in no rush when she goes into the gift shop.

He checks his watch.

My dear, you could not have possibly picked a worse time for it. Shipment’s in at twelve.

He can linger five minutes more, and then he’ll have to get back to it. 

Elena seems very intent on browsing though, and takes her sweet time doing so.

A chance meeting then. Or a very good act of one.

He’ll have to check his cameras as soon as he gets home.

He isn’t going to follow her home, because he doesn’t need to. He did his research months ago and already found out where she moved to following their pleasant evening together. So although it pains him to do so, and he’d like nothing more than to stay and watch this all unfold, he goes back to his office, finishes his coffee, and lets the girl go.

They'll be seeing each other soon enough.

Though initially he manages to hold the encounter at the outskirts of his thoughts, it proves an intense source of distraction to him for the majority of the day. He sits tapping away with his pen at his desk, thinking about how it would be to have her again. About her elegant pale face and how it might look contorting and bawling when she realizes that he still intends to do something about her.

Some things are still up in the air, such as how much he’s going to take off of her, and how long she is going to be kept breathing. Other things are a given. Like how this time he’s going to shatter her from the outset. Put her in her place and have her watch it back until she gets acquainted with it. Leave her some painful stitches to think about then split them open a few times as they heal. He might start to be gentle with her, after a point. Fear and anticipation do the heavy lifting for him when he is being gentle. She’ll be crying just the same, expecting the hurt. It’s the sort of fear that destroys identity. He’s orchestrated such a thing many times. Not to worry. They’re going to build her a new one together.

By the end of his shift he has, mostly jokingly, twice entertained the idea of sending her a card. There are butterfly-themed ones in the gift shop that would fit perfectly.

“Hope you enjoyed the sights. Flutter on back soon.”

–The Collection

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

Excuse me professor Emory, I have a question.

Excellent question. I’d say two, but as there doesn’t appear to be a flap in the rear for the spinneret (silk dispensing organ,) I’ll have to go with three.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

Awww Professor Emory, fret not. Just look at it from a different angle, while you might (but probably not) harmed your reputation and employability in your current field, you might also have opened up new opportunities. Isn't that great? One door closes, the other one opens, this is due to the fact that it is a revolving door and all of us are stuck in this endless hamster wheel of pain and suffering called life :)

Lovely.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

What insect's ovipositer/genitals would you compare your penis to?

I claim reasonable suspicion that you all have an agenda to get me fired.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

A'ight tits on the table, it's time for the truth. Have you ever been proposed with money for sexual favours? For full clarity again, Not you paying but you getting paid. If so, how many a times has it happened?

Yes.

Setting is important for context. To mitigate the risk of this turning into a crushing blow to my professional reputation I’m going to elect to be vague. Here is my obligatory statement that what I do on my own time does not, in any shape or form, reflect the values of my employer.

I enjoy working with rope. Occasionally, I attend events for adults where I demonstrate how to use rope. The proposals usually happen after that. I haven’t been counting.

I get it most often from audience members directly following the demonstration. The highest amount I can recall being offered was from a volunteer from a previous lesson. A very sweet girl, regular face at the venue. She stopped me on my way out the door and tried to sell me on $200 for a private demonstration.

I did not take the money. We talked for awhile, and we did end up going somewhere private after that. Decline to comment further, as I’ve already done enough damage to my employability for one night.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

Memory: Highschool

(’tis a scene yanked from the fic I’m writing that I had to remove for flow reasons so I’ll post it here lel)

(tw for one instance of the f-slur, teenaged boys being homophobic, and asa exploring his burgeoning sadism in weird ways)

--

He tends to file his fascination for human suffering away in the same folder as the rest of those persistent, all-consuming curiosities that have stuck around with him since childhood, like his passion for insects; nothing ever came along to flip the switch off, and so his preoccupations only compounded.

In high-school, durning his freshman and sophomore years, he would sit in at the library during lunch all by himself and read for the whole forty five minutes. There had been one book, Medieval Methods of Punishment, which he checked out eight or nine times over the course of a single semester, much to the perturbation of the librarian assistant who had to sign him off before he could take it home with him. He knew it was odd, and that he was odd, but he didn’t care, so he always gave her a smile—his foster mother told him he had a charming smile when he actually meant it as opposed to faking it, so he tried to mean it as much as he could in that instance—and went on his way to the school bathroom where he would ogle pictures of the most gruesome apparatuses while heatedly rubbing one out into the toilet bowl.

He was already tall by freshman year, but more in a gangly way, and his shoulders had always been broad, but at the time that fit him about as good as a suit jacket two sizes too big. There had been three junior boys on the wrestling team that always had it out for him because although he was a loner he was difficult to pick on, as he had a reputation for being a massive smartass who words seemed to bounce off like a penny off a brick wall. None of the rumors anyone started about him seemed to get under his skin, of which there were many.

Until, probably by reading in the local paper that death row prisoner Arthur Emory’s sentence had been carried out, and that he was survived by a son, one of the boys learned what his father had done.

He’d been reading Medieval Methods of Punishment out in the open at one of the low tables in the library when they found him and asked what he had his nose buried in this time.

He immediately flipped to the front cover, flashing one of his more blatantly not-so-genuine smiles, unashamed to let them see it.

“You’re a scrawny little god-damn freak, Emory.”

Said the biggest boy, pulling out the chair opposite the table from him and sitting down.

Although he himself was a sophomore and these boys were juniors he was taller than all but one of them, but individually they had him beat by mass alone, so if it came down to a fight, he figured he would lose to any one of them. But this was the library, so he knew they wouldn’t try anything foolish like that. They were only here to wind him up.

“It could be worse.”

He said, staring decidedly across the table at the yellow and green varsity wrestling patch on the junior’s jacket. “At least I don’t get down on the ground with other guys and let them choke me out.”

The two off to the side snorted and the bigger boy’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his head.

“Did you just call me a homo?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

There was a moment of stalemate where both boys stared at each other, and the other boy seemed to have smoke coming out his ears, and he figured it might be time to get up and take his book somewhere else.

Then, the bigger boy relaxed a bit back into his chair, and seemed to give a knowing smile.

“Hey, lemme see that book—“

The boy lunged and swiped it away before he could stop him.

“Give it back.” He said. The bigger boy began thumbing carelessly through page after page, until he found a depiction of a man wearing a ghastly expression while being stretched on the rack.

“What the-- haa!” The boy chortled. “Get a load of this! Is this what you look at instead of pornos?” 

It was a wisecrack, a total shot in the dark. But for once, it hit home.

The other boy must have seen his smile falter, because he slapped the table, busting out laughing. “Oh, shit! No way! Oh shit! Now it all makes sense!”

The librarian with big circular glasses shot the group an angry look from behind her desk and yell-whispered at them that they needed to quiet down and mind their language, or they would have to leave.

“I think I get you now, Emory. Oh yeah.” The boy across from him continued in a hushed voice.

He could already feel himself growing furious, his face beginning to glow with the anger mounting in him like steam in a kettle, but what the other said next blew the kettle lid clean off.

“You know what I think?” The bigger boy leaned forward in his seat, dropping his voice down even lower. “I’d bet fifty bucks you’re the exact same kinda fucked-in-the-head fag as your daddy was.”

He had never thrown a punch at a person before in his life. He’d punched trees when he was in a rage about something or sometimes when he was just plain frustrated and bloodied his knuckles down to the meat doing so. The punch he threw at the bigger boy broke the other’s nose and sent blood flinging out to stain the pages of Medieval Methods of Punishment. Then he was clambering over the low desk on his hands and knees like a frothing animal, lunging at the bigger boy and grabbing his jacket collar, which sent both boys sprawling backwards out of the chair.

He was not stronger than the other boy but he was faster and his opponent was so dazed that he was able to land one, two more punches directly to his face before the others in the group joined in and pulled him off, aiming kicks to his ribs on the ground.

The librarian, who had only seen three bigger boys beating up a leaner one, ran over screaming and shouting at them to get off of him, which they did, but not before the bigger boy, who had shaken off his daze, landed just one punch that knocked him back to the ground and shattered his glasses. The broken glass sliced his cheek down to the fat. He needed several stitches.

The other boys claimed that he started it, that he had gone crazy out of nowhere and started throwing punches like a total maniac, but nobody believed them, because they had a reputation for picking fights, and he had a reputation for sitting calmly by himself and reading; so they got suspended, and he didn’t.

He started working out over winter break. He did it in his foster parent’s old tool shed, where nobody would see him, doing whatever made his chest and arms and legs burn. Muscle felt and looked good on him, and he discovered that he could put it on easily when adhering to a strict training regimen. By the start of his junior year, he wasn’t so scrawny anymore.

He turned sixteen in June, standing now an inch over six feet tall, and his shoulders had filled out to match his frame, and there was power behind his punches like there had never been before. He still did the things he had done the years prior, like reading strange books in the quiet and solitude of the library, but this time around, and for his senior year too, everyone left him blissfully alone.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

pov: his disappointment in you is immeasurable, you have ruined his day

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

(warning for vomit mention)

Mr Emory, random unrelated question, but maybe you can answer. do people actually throw up when they’re in bad pain? why?

Sure,

It's adrenaline. Acute stress and pain result in adrenaline flooding the bloodstream, which then triggers other stress responses. When every pain receptor in your body is firing, a "purge everything" stress response lights up. Meaning that you throw up.

Think of it as your body trying to get you ready to escape a bad situation. The body is hardwired to protect itself. Removing everything from your stomach might, in theory, help you run away better.

Yes they do. Often.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

Mr. Emory, put a price. I want something you don't even need but I know you can easily get. I can buy almost anything in the world so money is not an issue. (-@therubywidow 🍷)

Intriguing proposal. I'd like to talk specifics before I talk price. Share what's on your mind.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

watcha playin mr emory

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

“Check-up”

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

sir your whole dick is out (;ŏ﹏ŏ)

That’s not a particularly uncommon occurrence.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

Hey Bro, Nice Dick 👍

He’ll keep this simple. Why don’t you tell him honestly where and how you found it and save him the vial of hawk wasp venom.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

Dr. Emory! My favorite professor! Good to see you. It's been a while. If you're accepting questions, I have one of my own. How do you pronounce your first name? I've always been curious. ~ 🌱

You and ninety percent of my former students. Seems to be a common matter of contention. I’ll gladly put this one to rest.

The first “A” is long. Think the “a” in “take”. Ay-suh.

I won’t hold you accountable for it if you get it wrong the first try. Get it wrong twice and you’ll strictly be referring to me as “Dr. Emory” for the remainder of your existence within my workspace.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

who's a good boy? who's a good boy??? not you. you're very bad.

Yes, no pearly gates in his future, he’s acutely aware. Are you waiting for him to care? Well that’s unfortunate. Make yourself comfortable, it’s going to be awhile before he can fit penitence into his schedule.

[journal-of-an-entomologist]

I have many problems with your wet specimens as literally none of them are stored correctly and its very upsetting because they are so pretty.

Nonsense. He stores his fixed bone sculptures in sterile phosphate buffered saline at exactly 4°C and changes the solution weekly. Never had an incident where the integrity of the tissue was compromised. Maybe you’d prefer a demonstration of his methods first-hand. He’ll gladly oblige.