The name Death’s head Hawkmoth refers to any of the three Asian moth species of the genus Acherontia. The one represented in the picture is called Acherontia Atropos. The other two species (A. Lachesis and A. Styx) are not much different, since the three are fairly similar in size, coloration and life circle.
These moths are easily distinguishable by the beautiful human skull-shaped pattern of markings on the thorax.
Name a more iconic duo than me and this baby lamb… You cant
+ a bonus goat
(He / Him for me She / Her for the lamb and mama goat)
[image desc: 5 photos of me (1) me bottle feeding a lamb (2) me kissing the lambs head (3) me bottle feeding the lamb with goats from a wide angle with surrounding my wheelchair (4) me with a goat next to me (5) me looking down at the lamb while feeding it and smiling]
In the pictures : 1st Acherontia atropos (Death’s-head Hawk moth - Two views of same specimen, sex : male, place of discovery Mussidan, Dordogne, France) 2nd Acherontia lachesis (Two views of same specimen, sex : female, place of discovery : Nilgiri mountains, India) and 3rd Acherontia styx (Two views of same specimen, sex : female. place of discovery : Chiang Mai, Thailand). edit
The name Death’s-head Hawkmoth refers to any one of the three moth species of the genus Acherontia (Acherontia atropos, Acherontia styx and Acherontia lachesis). The former species is found primarily in Europe, the latter two are Asian; most uses of the common name refer to the European species. These moths are easily distinguishable by the vaguely human skull-shaped pattern of markings on the thorax. All three species are fairly similar in size, coloration, and life cycle. These moths have several unusual features. All three species have the ability to emit a loud squeak if irritated. The sound is produced by expelling air from the pharynx, often accompanied by flashing of the brightly colored abdomen in a further attempt to deter predators. All three species are commonly observed raiding beehives of different species of honey bee for honey; A. atropos only attacks colonies of the well-known Western honey bee, Apis mellifera. They can move about in hives without being disturbed because they mimic the scent of the bees.
The species names atropos, lachesis and styx are all from Greek myth and related to death. The first refers to the member of the three Moirai who cuts the threads of life of all beings; the second to the Moira who allots the correct amount of life to a being; and the last refers to the river of the dead. In addition the genus name Acherontia is derived from Acheron, a river of Greek myth that was said to be a branch of the river Styx.
The skull-like pattern and its fanciful associations with the supernatural and evil have fostered superstitious fears of Acherontia species, particularly Acherontia atropos, perhaps because it is the most widely known. The moths’ sharp, mouse-like squeaking intensify the effect. Nor is this a new attitude: during the mid 19th century entomologist Edward Newman, having earlier mentioned the mark on the thorax wrote: “However, let the cause of the noise be what it may, the effect is to produce the most superstitious feelings among the uneducated, by whom it is always regarded with feelings of awe and terror.” These moths have been featured often in art such as by German artist Sulamith Wülfing, and movies such as Un Chien Andalou (by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí) and The Silence of the Lambs (in the film’s source novel, a different moth species is used; the Black Witch), and in the artwork of the Japanese metal band Sigh’s album Hail Horror Hail. They are also mentioned in Chapter 21 of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, where Dracula has been sending moths for Renfield to consume. According to legend, the species was first seen in Britain at the time of the execution of King Charles I, but it is more likely to have simply become more common by that time, having arrived with the first transportation of potatoes some centuries earlier. Though rarer, it is still occasionally sighted in the country to this day. Edgar Allan Poe’s short story The Sphinx describes a close encounter with a death’s-headed sphinx moth, describing it as “the genus Sphinx, of the family Crepuscularia of the order Lepidoptera.”
request: not technically a request but kind of a request? @imagineham was one of the winners of my 3k fic giveaway (over a month ago, because i am TRASH GARBAGE) and she requested an oak one-night-stand fic. so this is that.
summary: some unfortunate dude is hitting on reader, oak steps in and pretends to be reader’s boyfriend to make him go away. he is rewarded for his good behavior.
warnings: swearing (probably), bondage, D/s, praise kink, dirty talk, body worship, one night stand with someone who’s name you don’t know
word count: 1,743 (gasp can u even believe i know how to shut up)
a/n: i haven’t posted in over a month (because i’m trash garbage) and i haven’t posted either of my contest winner fics yet (BECAUSE I’M, REPEAT AFTER ME KIDS, TRASH GARBAGE). this is one of those!!! ok hope u like it byeeeee
“Come on, baby, don’t be like that,” the man slurs, moving closer to you. Waves of his scotch-laced breath crash into your face as you shift away.
“I fucking said no, jackass,” you huff. Your chest suddenly feels very exposed in your lace-up top, so you cross your arms to cover it as inconspicuously as possible.
The man’s face contorts in anger, redness starting at his receding hairline and creeping down his neck. He points a finger, shoving it incredibly close to your face. “Listen, bitch-”
“Something happening, babe?” Another man sidles up to you, arm looping delicately over your shoulder.
I received another wonderful prompt from romancoin the other day! She seriously has the best ideas. If y’all need prompts, ask her. But, anyway, she sent me this completely developed story and hinted she might try her hand at writing fanfic someday… so I strayed a bit from her premise in hopes that I’d annoy her enough to make her want to write it her own way. Ha! I love you romancoin, don’t hate me.
Here’s the premise that she pitched to me: Lonely Modern-Day-Claire (an engineer, to stir things up a bit) goes to Craig na Dunn not knowing it’s hidden powers. Something vanishes thru the cleft in the stone, prompting her to send other things thru. Jamie finds them and sends them back. Love letters ensue and one travels thru the stones to the other.
Day One - July 10th, 2016; Cairngorms National Park, Scotland.
Uncle Lamb and I had relocated to Oxford from Cairo about five years ago. He had taken a teaching position there, while I attempted to graduate early from upper school and begin taking university courses of my own in London. This set me at a complete disadvantage in the friends department, yet managed to earn me a certain measure of unwanted attention in the biochemical engineering department.
I took this summer off from internships, classes, and labs and instead followed my uncle to the Scottish Highlands. It was a breath of fresh air, literally and figuratively, to be back in the field with him.
This location wasn’t really within Uncle Lamb’s usual scope of historical exploration, he was an expert on the intermediate Egyptian dynasties with several books published on the more specific topic of New Kingdom hieroglyphics, but he had lost a bet with a favorite professor friend of his and, so, here we were.
Tipping my head back, I peered up the steep slope of the hill. Hiking was never far out of the realm of possibility with my uncle and I thanked my lucky stars I had worn my boots today. “It’s at the top?” I asked, rather unnecessarily.
Of course, it was at the top. It was always at the top. Except when it was at the very bottom, but, even then, you had to climb back to the top.
“Yep!” Dr Joe Abernathy, an American who specialized Scottish folklore, replied eagerly.
I trailed behind Uncle Lamb and Dr Joe as we hiked the path up to the top of Craigh na Dunn, listening absently to the two of them discuss the myths surrounding the site. They were two peas in a pod, although Dr Joe was significantly younger than my uncle, and were both in a titter about recently found artifacts or some such.
“And you say they just appear at the base?” My uncle asked skeptically.
Dr Joe nodded, “Dead as door nails.”
The thought of poor, dead birds randomly materializing on the ground in the middle of a henge made me shudder.
What on earth had I agreed to?
Day Three - July 13th, 2016.
I sat on the ground between two of the outer stones and chewed on the end of my pencil as I tried to get the cleft in the center stone right. It was quickly frustrating me, being almost geometrically proportional but off just enough to make it irritatingly irregular.
Tearing the page out of my sketchbook, I crumpled it up into a tight ball and threw it at the offending rock. It arched perfectly, looking like it was going to pass right thru the divide. I silently congratulated myself as I waited to see if it would land my uncle, who was working on the other side.
A startled shriek escaped my lips as the paper vanished into thin air.
“Are you alright, Claire?” Uncle Lamb stuck his head around the side of the stone.
Pointing above his head, I gaped, “Where the hell did it go?”
“Where did what go?” Dr Joe asked, coming towards me.
“My paper,” I stood as I answered. “I threw it at the stone and it disappeared.”
Dr Joe laughed and patted me on the head patronizingly, “Sure you did, kid.”
“I’m eighteen and I know what I saw!” I informed him.
Day Four - July 14th, 2016.
One of my favorite things to do when I was in the field with Uncle Lamb was to go for morning hikes. We were both early risers, but, as he need an entire pot of coffee before he was ready to do anything productive, I used it as my own private, quiet time.
I got to the top of the hill just as the sun was beginning to hit the standing stones. The sunrise painted the already eerie monoliths in an almost otherworldly light and I took out my phone to quickly capture the moment. Something white caught my eye in the corner of the image, prompting me to move closer to the center stone to investigate.
It was my paper.
Mouth open in astonishment, I scooped it up. It was slightly damp from the dew, but very obviously the paper I had thrown the afternoon before. It certainly hadn’t been there before we left, I had scoured the site looking for it to no avail.
I uncrumpled it and dropped the sheet of paper like it was a hot coal.
Someone had finished my sketch, signing their work with five neat letters in the bottom left hand corner.
R.I.P. the great Jonathan Demme, one of the finest American directors of all time. His work meticulously eclipsed the borders of experimental, mainstream, and documentary cinema. Thank you for The Silence Of The Lambs, Stop Making Sense, Swimming to Cambodia, Something Wild, and so much more.
“Of course. It’s the music that plays in my head when I watch you sleep. I needed the world to hear it.” I laughed, knocking his shoulder with mine. “The world? I am the only one here,” I joked. “Precisely,” Achilles responded, looking at me through his eyelashes, and my breath hitched.
I feel my breath catch in my throat when he reaches a hand out, tentative, and wraps loose fingers around my ankle where it rests near his head. A sharp shock of recognition runs through me, and my skin feels electric with it. I’ve known these hands before, I’m sure of it. According to Greek mythology, five rivers run through the Underworld: Styx (the river of hatred), Acheron (the river of sorrow), Cocytus (the river of lamentation), Phlegethon (the river of fire), and Lethe (the river of forgetfulness). Those who wish to live again may be reincarnated, but not before they drink from the water of Lethe, erasing all traces of their past lives and selves. Reincarnation AU
It’s not that Patroclus somehow has not noticed that his new favorite coffee shop seemed to only hire possible models, but, well. There’s a thin line between noticing and admiring a person’s looks and being fucking creepy about it. (aka the very, very cliche coffee shop au.)
He follows the voice on instinct. He knows that voice better than his own, knows it deep in the darkest crevasses of himself, in the space where nothing else exists. He would follow that voice into Hell itself. Perhaps he is already there.
He had always been told he was the fastest boy in the world, but never before had he so desperately needed this to be the truth as he did then, thin branches whipping his face as he ran through the trees, clutching Patroclus tight to his chest.
“It’s 42 degrees, Pat. 42 degrees.” He hisses, when Patroclus comes him from his shift at the hospital to find Achilles wrapped up in an unbelievably large jumper, a blanket, his hat, scarf, and gloves. With the thermostat turned right the way up. “You’re ridiculous,” Pat tells him, pressing a kiss to Achilles’ forehead.
The first time I fell in love with him, both of us were destined for death. I fell because I made the mistake of testing the Gods. He fell because he was enraged at my death; he was blood thirsty. The second time, I never met him. I wish I was able to say that third time was the charm. But it wasn’t; he was in love with someone else. An attractive boy, better than I ever was. Though, whenever I did see the two together, he never looked happy. The fourth time, I knew him, he didn’t know me. The fifth time is right now.
It is times like these that you are not sure whether you admire him or whether you are repulsed by him. The incident that leads to the whole Achilles/Pat relationship. All from my twisted, absent mind.
Achilles knew his truest triumphs would never be strung together in verse to be sung at campfires, knew that no poet or aoidos would ever know his greatest success. No, these conquests – the huff of Patroclus’ laughter against his throat, the sharp, sea-salt taste of Patroclus’ skin after a swim, the way Patroclus’ eyelids fluttered after every kiss – those were Achilles’ alone to cherish. Or: Four times Achilles and Patroclus were truly happy.
So far, Patroclus has learned the following about Achilles: - He doesn’t get along with either of his parents, but - he lives with his dad when he’s not at school, and - his dad pays for college and - the frat house he lives in was named by his dad - (but really, does Achilles want to follow in his dad’s footsteps?) - (honestly, he’s not sure he does, but) - (what would he do instead?) Patroclus suggests being a male model and Achilles laughs so hard he snorts soda out of his nose. It’s humanizing, which is both awesome – after their runs, Patroclus was half-convinced Achilles was secretly a god – and terrible – god, if he’s human, he’s touchable, now isn’t he?
The day the two lives converge is dull, clouds covering the sun and rain on the horizon. Patroclus has changed schools, again, another incident forcing him to run, and he feels drawn to the music room, the tune drifting from a window so very familiar.
Patroclus didn’t need to ask who “he” was, he knew full well. He’d been living for this day for eight years now, some twisted cocktail of hope and dread seeping through his body every time he thought of it, which was often. He was back. He was back.
They lie on Achilles bed, entwined. It’s a nice feeling, tangled lambs and Achilles’ head on his chest, the steady thump thump thump of Achilles’ heart against his body. Patroclus runs his fingers through thick blonde curls, and he hears the boy they belong to hum in contentment. Achilles looks up, resting his chin on Patroclus’ chest. It’s a funny angle, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He meets Patroclus’ honey brown gaze, and he smiles. “There’s a word for you, you know. Philtatos. It means beloved. That’s you.”
“You have to go.” Achilles says, and his hands are on Patroclus’ chest, but they aren’t pushing. No- he’s doing a lot of things, but he’s not pushing. He’s memorising the feeling of smooth skin beneath his hands, and he’s counting the pulse that thuds beneath the right, committing that to memory too. He’s feeling the rise and fall of his best friend’s chest - best friend, boyfriend, lover, whatever; they all feel like synonyms now - and he’s meeting those dark brown eyes with his own. “If my mother catches you here she’ll kill you.” “I know.” Patroclus murmurs, but he makes no move to go.
“Did you enjoy talking with Mrs. McNeil? She has two centuries of stories and ties to these mountains and before that, she said her family is of Scottish origin! Can you imagine?” Lamb shook his head in delight. “Scotland isn’t so unlike these Carolinian mountains. I bet her ancestors felt very much at home here. And the stories she was able to tell! Did you hear her recount the story of when this entire ridge went to war for one woman? The legend is that the woman still lives in the cave we’re headed to! How fascinating it is! I do hope we are able to find something left of importance from the original settlers here. And I think—”
Uncle Lamb rambled on as we trudged the two miles up into the mountains to the cave he was set on finding. The entire journey, the knife seemed to burn in my pocket. I couldn’t stop from touching the handle or patting my side to feel it there, safe and sound.
“Here we are! Look at this Claire! It seems this could have once been a storage area.” Lamb flitted from side to side, buzzing with the excitement of a child at play.
“Yes! Yes! Oh my dear Claire! I found something, truly! Yes!”
Rolling my eyes with a smile, I followed back to where he was in the cave. “What is it, Uncle?”
“A cask of, what I believe to be, whiskey! This looks like it has survived the centuries. There’s no tell tale smell of a distillery for miles. We’ve found part of Mrs. McNeil’s legend! Seems the witch did live here or somewhere abouts. Perhaps her husband was a whiskey maker.”
Rolling the barrel carefully out into the light, Uncle Lamb examined everything from the lack of rotting on the barrel rungs to the style in which it was sealed and crafted.
“I thought the old woman said that she wasn’t a witch, but a healer who lived here?”
“Is that what she told you?” Lamb questioned, not looking up from his journal. “My dear, a female healer in those days was almost always considered a witch! The fact there isn’t a prominent story of a witch burning on this mountain is incredibly rare.”
“I just don’t think the woman was a witch.” My thumb stroked the handle of the knife as I said this.
Uncle Lamb twisted the barrel for a different angle in his sketches and unearthed a carving.
“Uncle!” I gasped, pulling the knife from my pocket and holding it up to the side of the barrel. “Look! Look!” I pointed frantically between the knife’s carved initials and the letters carved on the side of the whiskey cask.
Mde by: Jms. AMM Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge, Smer Btch 1778
His eyes went wide, going back and forth from the knife in my hand to the rung with the carved signature. The closer we began to examine the cask the more indentations were found all over the bottom section of the barrel, each scratched out when the barrel was obviously reused.
Jms. Fraser had the most, followed by a CE Fraser, F.Fraser, M. Fraser, R.Mac, B.Mac, and a GermJem FraMac dating back as far as the 1760s. I wanted to know who these people were. What were their actual names instead of just the partial names and initials.
“Uncle, I bet this Jms. Fraser is the one who made this knife for the CE Fraser! Are there records we can find to find out who these people are and where they came from?” I asked, more enthusiastically than expected.
Laughing, Uncle Lamb put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never seen you so excited before my dear! Yes, yes I’m sure we can find some records and if these are the original settlers we may even find something leading us back to Scotland!”
“Uncle,” I laughed. “You’re probably one of the only Englishmen who finds it exciting and wants to go to Scotland!”
The local library was open the following day and I was bouncing with excitement. I couldn’t wait to search and look for the Fraser’s who created the knife—which was a heavy weight in my pocket—and what happened to them.
“Come on, Uncle!” I cried as Lamb slowly meandered around the coffee shop around the corner from the library.
“Patience, my dear!” he chuckled, before finally settling on a chair with his newspaper. “It’ll be good for you to wait and enjoy the satisfaction of finding your answers.”
I groaned, flopping down into the chair beside him. “But I want to go now! I need to know what happened to them. I just… I have to know!”
Uncle Lamb quirked an eyebrow at me and grinned.
“Let’s go then,” he said, tucking the paper under his arm and placing his pipe back into his satchel.
The resources were minimal and dusty.
My heart sank as I saw the menial books containing records.
“Fraser, you said?” the clerk asked, lazily.
“Yes!” I bounced, hoping she’d pull a volume or two out for us to see.
“This way then.” She pointed towards a door I hadn’t noticed before. “The Fraser’s were one of the founding families of this area. We don’t have quite the extensive research that the state would have or even city hall, but we do have ledgers and sanctions tucked away. Be sure to put anything you touch back the way you found it.” She eyed us from behind her coke-bottle glasses. “We take pride in our collections and do not wish to lose anything.”
“You’ll have no problem from us, my dear,” Lamb reassured her, ushering me inside.
I spun in a circle taking it all in. It was a small room, no bigger than the bathroom at the hotel, but from ceiling to floor were bookshelves covered in old leather bound books. The one spot that wasn’t covered was a small window on the northern wall, just enough light to illuminate the room without direct exposure to the precious books inside.
“Well love, have at it! Let’s find your Fraser’s!”
The books all had some descendant or mention of a Fraser family, but was it my Fraser family? I didn’t know. An hour into our search, I finally found a James Fraser.
“Uncle!” I called. “Look here! James MacKenzie Fraser,” I read aloud, “Do you think this is him? The man who made the knife and the whisky cask?”
“I do believe it may very well be. Let’s see what else we can find on him, yes?” Uncle Lamb’s eyes twinkled in excitement as he pulled another musty ledger forward intent on the search.
This is one thing about Uncle Lamb and his hair-brained adventures that I love; when he’s found something interesting, he never gives up on discovering the person or item’s full history. The library in rural North Carolina, did not do much to help us find more of Mr. Fraser’s past. It lead us on a chase through the entire state and up the eastern seaboard of the United States. James Fraser was mentioned countless times as a man working for the state and as a wanted man. Army enlistments, battles fought at, and even public hearings where he made himself enemies, but not one ledger or book recounted where his tale originated, or that of his wife. At least that was until we found an old recounting from Lord Tyron.
‘...On the 12th Day of August, I granted a man pardon and land in the wilds of the western most part of the colony. Mr. James MacKenzie Fraser and wife Claire of Broch Morda, Scotland, will be in the King’s Service and hereby exempt of taxes laid on the land while in the service.’