#fertility mot

[ivflondon]

Female Fertility MOT: What It Is & Why It Matters | IVF London

Explore the Female Fertility MOT to assess your fertility health and plan your IVF journey with expert care at IVF London.

[santanaseva]

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[fangswbenefits]

Tracking

𓂅 𓄹 Summary: You find out Miguel has been tracking something that concerns you… and him.

𓂅 𓄹 Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. Breeding kink. Period talk. Miguel going all scientific and keeping track of fertility windows for maximum efficacy. Dry humping. Inspired by this ask.

Miguel was in a bad mood that afternoon. You could see it coming a mile off, because having spent that much time around him over the past years had revealed many warning signs.

The circular platform was lowered all the way down to the floor by the time you walked past the door.

Miguel not turning to acknowledge your presence was warning sign number one.

You strode up to it warily, as if expecting him to explode at any given moment. Trying to lighten the mood, you tip toed to place a sweet kiss to his cheek.

He grumbled in response.

Warning sign number two.

His eyes were fixed on the multiple of screen sprawled in a half-moon in front of him, occasionally tapping and moving them around when needed.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” you teased.

“I’m nearly done here.”

“Hello to you, too, grumpy,” you nudged his arm with a smile.

Miguel merely nodded.

Warning sign number three.

At this point, you figured something was definitely going on.

“What’s up?”

“Hmm?”

You sighed. “You look and sound off.”

He tapped on a screen to his left. “You’re on your period.”

“What?”

Usually, that sort of remark would earn any man a slap at worst or a ‘fuck you’ at best. There was no shortage of men who would use women’s hormones as an easy way to deflect their feelings.

But there was something in Miguel’s tone that resembled… disappointment?

He scowled deeply, turning to face you. “You’re not pregnant.”

You stared at him for a long time, before bursting into laughter. “Is that why you’re all grumpy?”

“Oh, you think this is funny?” Miguel’s eyes narrowed, his scowl deepening.

You stopped at once. “Wait… how would you know that?”

He returned his attention to the hovering screens in front of him. “Know what?”

“That I’m on my period?” you asked, suspicion rising inside you. “And I still haven’t gotten it, by the way.”

And just like that, Miguel’s crimson eyes were on you expectantly. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

You folded your arms while tapping your foot lightly. “No. You answer me first.”

Miguel knew better than to antagonise you, especially now that you had information that interested him.

Dragging his index finger across the panel, you saw a file pop up with your name. That didn’t seem odd at all. Every spider in Nueva York was required to have one that displayed several strategic details as well as bio data that was fed by the dimensional travel watch. Your heart rate was at a steady 67 beats per minute.

“What about it?”

He tapped on a second tab that read ‘Fertility’.

Nothing could have prepared you for the influx of information you were about to be bombarded with.

And what it concerned.

July 4th

Cycle day 1 - low chance of pregnancy

Fertility window - 12 to 18

Ovulation day - 17 (high chances of pregnancy)

“You’re tracking my period?!” you snapped in utter disbelief.

“I’m tracking your fertility window.”

You glared at him. “How is that any different?”

“It’s not. Just nomenclature,” he shrugged casually as if talking about the change of weather outside.

You shot Miguel a death glare, before shoving him to the side, gaining full access to the flickering orange screen. The data collected went back as far as three months ago.

Miguel had been tracking your fertility window for months now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shifted to stand behind you, easily towering with his impressive height. “It’s my responsibility to get you pregnant.”

Your eyes widened partially in disbelief, but mostly at the realisation that this shouldn’t be a shocking revelation.

Miguel had to be in control at all times. It was embedded in his genetic code. A few months ago you had casually joked that you wouldn’t mind having a child soon.

It seemed that it was all the motivation he needed to begin his quest.

Now it made perfect sense why he had been so insistent on always cumming inside you. You just didn’t think he would be this dedicated.

Joke’s on you.

“But it seems the data is wrong,” he said lowly, arms circling around you to have his hands atop yours on the keyboard. “You can edit it,” he whispered, pressing himself fully against you.

The added pressure pushed your lower half gently against the control table, his thumb caressing the back of your hand.

“Are you trying to seduce me, so I ignore all of this?” you whispered, enjoying how the proximity was having a noticeable effect on his cock.

He rolled against you slowly. “Me? Of course not.”

His fingers intertwined with yours, and you watched your heart rate on the screen soar to 78 beats per minutes.

You fought back a whimper, as he was nipping at your neck, fangs lightly poking at sensitive skin. You could feel the hard print of his cock pressed against the curve of your ass, and as you bucked your hips instinctively, you felt his own meet you halfway, setting a slow rhythm.

90 beats per minute.

“Let me get a blood sample so I can test out,” he said, his erection pressed against your ass.

“Someone really wants to be a dad,” you said with a teasing smile.

99 beats per minute.

His other hand came to grip your jaw, tilting your head until you met his eyes. “I need you to get pregnant.”

Your breath was coming out in shallow pants as he kept humping you at a steady and torturous pace.

“You mean… you need to breed me, right?”

109 beats per minute.

His eyeds widened lightly and he thrusted harshly into you, causing a jolt of pleasure to travel all the way down to your clit. “That’s the same thing, cariño.”

You gave him a knowing smile. “Nomenclature and all that.”

Masterlist

[libraryofmoths]

Moth of the Week

African Wild Silk Moth

Gonometa postica

The African wild silk moth is a part of the family Lasiocampidae. It was first described in 1855 by Francis Walker. It is also known as the Brandwurm in its larval stage in Afrikaans, Kweena in its pupal stage in Tshwana, and Molopo moth/mot in English and Afrikaans.

Description The female of this moth is much longer and larger than the male due to having to carry eggs. The male is about half the size of the female and much thinner.

The female has a light brown abdomen with a dark brown thorax and head. The female’s forewings are striped light brown, dark brown, and gray. The hindwings are a yellow-brown with a dark brown edge.

The male has a dark body and wings with a transparent portion of the hindwing.

Female Forewing Range: 35–42 mm (

Male Forewing Range: 21–25 mm (

Diet and Habitat Larva of this species eat Acacia erioloba, A. tortilis, A. melifera, Burkea africana, Brachystegia spp., and Prosopis glandulosa. The larva will feed from the same tree it’s entire life unless there are two many other caterpillars. When there is a large number of caterpillars, they may defoliate the whole tree and the larva must move in order to not starve.

This moth mainly inhabits savannas with many Acacia trees, especially in drier areas. These moths contribute to the Acacia environment by providing food to predators and nutrients to plants through feces. Cocoons are usually found on Acacia tees.

Mating Males detect females’ mating pheromones with their antennae. Males fly to the females because the females are weighed down by the eggs. The female contains about 200 eggs which are laid on the food plant after fertilization. Eggs hatch in about two weeks. Eggs are laid in clumps and the newly hatched caterpillars grow as a group and become more solitary with time.

Predators This moth is preyed on by parasitic wasps and flies. These insects lay their eggs on the caterpillar and feed off of its resources until the moth larva cocoons. The parasites live off the cocoon and grow to adulthood while killing the pupa. Specifically, these larva are subject to parasitism by Diptera and Hymenoptera, the most common parasitoids being Palexorista species from the Tachinidae and Goryphus species from the Ichneumonidae.[6]

To combat external predators and weather, the caterpillars build a tough cocoon. Caterpillars and their cocoons are also covered in stinging hairs to deter predators from touching them. Female cocoons are larger than male cocoons.

Fun Fact In Madagascar, wild silk has been harvested for centuries, and this knowledge has been introduced to southern Africa. The cocoons are harvested commercially in Namibia, Botswana, Kenya and South Africa, and the species also occurs in Zimbabwe and Mozambique. They are difficult to harvest due to the cocoons being covered in calcium oxalate. Oxford University discovered and patented a method known as demineralizing using a warm solution of EDTA (ethylenediaminetetraacetic acid) that soften the cocoons by dissolving the sericin. This lets the silk unravel without weakening it.

- Wild African silk moth cocoons are also used as ankle rattles in southern Africa by San and Bantu tribes. They are filled with materials such as fine gravel, seeds, glass beads, broken sea shells, or pieces of ostrich eggshell.

- Furthermore, the cocoons have long been known to cause the death of cattle, antelope and other ruminants in the Kalahari. During drought periods, the cocoons are eaten, probably because they resemble acacia pods. The silk is indigestible and blocks the rumen of multiple-stomach animals, causing starvation.

- Finally, the protein found in this species’s slik contains many basic amino acids making it a potentially useful biomaterial in cell and tissue culture.

(Source: Wikipedia, SANBI)

[raffaella342utopie]

Les Yeux Fertiles

On ne peut me connaître Mieux que tu me connais Tes yeux dans lesquels nous dormons Tous les deux Ont fait à mes lumières d'homme Un sort meilleur qu'aux nuits du monde Tes yeux dans lesquels je Voyage Ont donné aux gestes des Routes Un sens detaché de la terre Dans tes yeux ceux qui nous révèlent Notre solitude infinie Ne sont plus ce qu'ils croyaient être On ne peut te connaître Mieux que je te connais.

Paul Éluard, 1936

Man Ray: Les Yeux Fertiles

A mon cher Paul - "Les mots de tes poèmes font des lignes de mes wishes" - Man Ray, 1936

[lostinwildflowers]

The Farmer's Daughter

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: You and Jake go way back to his roots in Texas, with things ending in a rough manner. Now, he comes home to the farmer's daughter whose heart he swore he would never ride, or fly, off with.

Word Count: 4.0K

Warnings: Angst, Harsh Language, Hangman was lowkey a jerk, Cowboy!Hangman

A/N: *I will say if you are not a fan of ranch/farm life, this may not be for you!* But, I'm finally back to write something! I'm sorry it has taken so long but I have been so incredibly busy, but I hope this will be a good enough apology! COWBOY HANGMAN!!! -Birch<3

Part 2 - The Aviator's Cowgirl

Wind roars across the grassy plains of the valley, ruffling the dense coats of various colored cattle. Some were red, some were black. Others were red and white, while others were roaned and speckled in color.

The cows were quietly cruising through the glen, making their way down south toward the greener pastures. Spring was finally on its way, with warmer, sunnier days followed by even oranger sunsets.

Many of the calves clung close to their mothers after the spring calving, not wanting to be too far from the herd. Some of the cows were bolder, leaving their calves further away, then having to call and bellow to find their distant young.

It was one of the most beautiful things, living out on a cattle ranch. There was no sign of the city in any direction, and you got to raise the food that would supply you and your family through the seasons. Some may call it cruel, but others would say you were using what God gave you to live on.

Hours spent in the fields were not wasted on you. Plowing the land and fertilizing the dry, cracked soil, were not foreign ideas to you. Sowing seeds into the prepped ground, watering them to give them a chance at survival.

To you, there was no other life than being a rancher.

Being a rancher had its perks- making the best friends a man could have. The dogs, of course. The horses, even more so. And yet, nothing could beat the compassion and care of a friendly neighbor.

Growing up on your homestead, the next closest ranch was a few acres away. They never were close enough to see any of their cattle or pigs, and you had only been to their house as a kid.

Being a kid seemed so long ago.

Now, you spent most days sitting on the back of your palomino mare, Sandy. Days like today were spent watching your herd move down the mountain and into the plains of the valley. You didn't always use to be alone when you pushed the herd.

Occasionally your father would join you, but he had other matters to attend to, and your brothers always seemed to join him. Not that you cared, as riding horses was perhaps your favorite aspect of being a rancher.

You would check fences, push the cows, and ride up to the top of meadows to watch the sunset over your home. To you, there was nothing like the connection you had while riding a horse, and you wouldn't have given her up for anything.

At one point in time, you would have given every possession you had up for a certain cowboy.

Tall and muscular, with blonde hair, and green eyes. The classic, square-jawed look of a cowboy. A sharp tongue paired with an even quicker wit, combined with a charming personality and smile was the death of you.

It didn't help he was always willing to help out. Roping the calves for the brandings, fixing up the four-wheeler that seemed to stall every time you got it out. Even going as far as to bring your mother some of their fresh apples in the fall when your trees gave out.

He was kind-hearted, chivalrous, and down-to-earth. He was the definition of God's cowboy.

Jake Seresin.

The first time you ran into him was when you were at the farmer's market in town. Your mother had given you a specific list of items to get for her homemade chicken casserole, as she was busy picking up your younger sister from her riding lesson.

The stalls at the farmer's market were not unfamiliar to you, as you had tagged along with your mother many times as a child. The sellers were always kind to you and had Texas-sized personalities to go along with the enormous amounts of ingredients and produce they sold.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bell," you call as you walk up to the older lady's stand, looking over her collection of fresh berries and vegetables hand-picked from her garden.

A white head of hair popped out from the back of her tent, a wide grin on the older lady's face as she replies, "Oh, good morning, dear! Help yourself to whatever you need, I'm just having some help unloading my crates."

At that, Mrs. Bell disappears, and you giggle at her antics as you start to bag up a few peppers and tomatoes from her stand. It was a fairly quiet morning, so you took a moment to look around your surroundings.

A few older gentlemen were setting up their meat stand. You could see cuts of chickens, turkeys, and wild geese sitting on ice just as they worked on the larger carcasses of steers and barrows.

Your concentration is broken when you hear rustling at the back of the tent, and you turn around, clenching the bag of veggies close to you.

A boy donning a tan Stetson appears in front of you, his muscular arms holding a large crate of cucumbers as he slid through the folds of the white tent. His green eyes lock onto your own (colored) ones, and in an instant, his boyish charm captivates you in the form of a beautiful smirk.

"Good morning, Miss...?" he asks, a slight drawl to his rich voice as you take him in. He's wearing his cowboy hat, yes, but his hair was shaggy under the hat, a dirty blonde that you knew his friends probably teased him for.

He wore a simple navy t-shirt, as the morning was already warm. You allowed yourself to rest your eyes on the snug Wrangler jeans that hugged his waist, accentuated by the large and shiny belt buckle that finished off his look. You almost could have bet he wore a pair of boots too, but you snapped out of your daze before you could finish thinking about it.

"Y/n," you usher out, warm with embarrassment as he sets the crate down in the open spot in front of you. His green eyes are as sharp as jade when he regains eye contact with you, and his head tilts a little as he repeats, "Y/n...?"

You groan internally as you scold yourself for being so starstruck. You blink once to regain your cool, before shifting your weight and responding, "Y/n L/n. And who are you, cowboy?"

A low whistle slides out from his pink lips before he chuckles out, "Pretty name for an even more gorgeous girl. And as long as I can get your phone number, you can call me anything you want."

Being six feet underground had never sounded better at that moment, as his shameless flirting had your cheeks burning and your will to live dropping. You were thankfully saved from responding when Mrs. Bell popped up next to him and scolded, "Jake, you leave my favorite customer alone!"

You glance back over at him, quirking an eyebrow and you ask, "Jake, is it?" You whistle back at him and say, "Kind of a basic name for a basic cowboy, huh?"

Mrs. Bell folds her arms, watching the two of you with a knowing look in her eye. The cowboy, Jake, lets that wide smirk back onto his face and repeats, "It's a great name, for a great cowboy. I think it'd sound good next to your name too."

You do your best to ignore his flirtatious comments, and you look at Mrs. Bell and show her your bag of veggies. "Just three red peppers and four tomatoes," you say, willing the butterflies out of your stomach.

The older lady gives you a wink as she rings you up, and briefly turns to Jake and says, "Be a dear and go finish getting the rest of my crates, please."

He gives her a respectful nod and catches your gaze again, this time with a softer smile. Jake tips his Stetson towards you and murmurs, "Have a nice day, Miss. L/n."

You swore you were as red in the cheeks as the vegetables your mother was making you buy. Thanks, Mom, I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to look Mrs. Bell in the eye ever again.

The next time you met the blonde-haired cowboy was just at the start of summer, kicked off by the county fair you were always a part of. It was either submitting some of your favorite photographs from the ranch or helping your little sister prep her show steer for her 4-H competition.

And this time, Jake caught you at a shaved ice stand just after 6 o'clock in the evening, with the rays from the sun starting to fade into a mirage of colors across the fairgrounds.

He slid into the line behind you, as you were the only one crazy enough to get shaved ice in the evening as it cooled off. That smirk ended up on his lips again, and he announced himself with an order, "Make that another of whatever Miss. L/n is ordering, please."

You whip around at the drawl to his voice, cash in hand as your eyes widen. No. No. No. This is the worst time for this cute cowboy to be seeing me. My hair certainly has fuzz in it from our steer, my clothes are covered in mud, and I don't have any makeup on. Shit.

And Jake? Looked phenomenal. Wearing his Stetson, of course, with a tight white t-shirt that clung to every single unholy part of his body. The thin material led down to a deep blue pair of Wranglers, along with his buckle and boots.

He looked like a walking model from Ariat or Kimes, and here you were, looking like you had just finished wrestling a lamb from its ewe mother through a bale of straw.

"J-Jake," you stutter out as the attendant goes to make another shaved ice. His grin only widens when he realizes how caught off guard you are and he chuckles, "You miss me or something, sweetheart?"

You can't help the warmth that floods your face, and you know it's not from the sun, especially with the evening cooling off. Sweetheart? He certainly knows how to lay it on thick.

"I didn't realize you came to the fair," you opt to say, trying to ignore his flirty comment. He leans up against the side of the shaved ice stand as his green gaze latches onto your own and states, "Honey, I've been coming to this fair before I could go mutton-busting."

A giggle falls from your lips as you picture a little Jake riding on the back of a sheep, clinging on for dear life. He chuckles at your response to his comment, his gaze flashing up to the cashier as he fishes a $10 from his wallet. You finish giggling right as he passes the cash to the attendant and you frown.

"We're paying sep-" "It's alright, Miss. L/n, I got it," Jake says smoothly, grabbing both cups of the watermelon-flavored shaved ice and handing one to you. He shoots a wink at you as his fingers brush your own, and you once again find yourself fighting pink from your cheeks.

"Y/n," you say once you grabbed your shaved ice and spoon from him. He quirks his eyebrow at you but doesn't say anything. You roll your eyes and repeat with a shrug, "Y/n, you can call me by my first name."

Jake smiles at you, this time very genuine as he nods, "Alright, Y/n," he tests your name out, "Would you care to join me at the tractor pulls tonight? I know where the best seats are."

It's your turn to flash him a wicked grin and say, "Hell yeah, we need to go make fun of my brothers!" At that, you peel off away from him, leading the way toward the pulling lanes with a maniacal giggle. Jake can only smile and shake his head as he follows your figure.

What had he gotten himself into?

It didn't take long after the fair for the two of you to really hit it off. Casual hangouts turned into dinner dates out at the local diner. Short texts turned into long, midnight calls asking each other about how your day was, even if every day was almost the same.

Days turned into weeks, which turns into months as Jake spent time with you. He would spend any chance he could with you when he wasn't working or helping Mrs. Bell. He'd pull into your driveway, picking you up in his red and white '77 Ford truck, the pinstripes of red on it soon became one of your favorite colors.

You would take him out on the trails of your family's farm, trotting through the creeks, loping through the pastures. Jake was a cowboy, yes, and knew how to ride, but nothing made you happier than seeing him get along with Sandy, your mare.

He would even take you down to his family's farm, driving out into the pastures to watch the sunset over his fields of horses. Many nights would lead to the two of you cuddling up on the bed of his truck, surrounded by a blanket and a stray pillow or two.

You never had been more in love than when Jake pulled you into his arms and made you dance under the stars with him to Carried Away by George Strait. It was that very night Jake kissed you for the first time, and you could swear he knew exactly what he was doing when he claimed your heart as his own.

From then on, you were his, and he was yours. Everyone was ecstatic you had found a respectful man, although a bit of a tease, to stand by your side. Jake devoted himself to you and working on his father's farm, promising you a life of happiness.

It was almost expected that you were going to marry Jake someday. He had the same values as you and wanted a nice little family of a few crazy boys and some pretty little girls. He wanted to teach them how to ride, how to rope.

He wanted you to make dinner for him when the days got too long for him to help, and for him to clean the dishes while you put the kids to bed. Jake could picture his future so easily with you, you weren't ever like anyone he'd ever met before.

That's why two years into your relationship with the cowboy, he got you a promise ring for your anniversary. It was a simple silver band, as he knew you worked with your hands every day and would likely abuse a ring with a large stone on it.

Jake held the ring in his right hand, asking for your left one slightly. You couldn't help but cry and laugh at the same time as you nodded, giving him your hand to slide the ring onto.

You wrapped your arms around his neck in a tight hug, his hands landing on your waist before wrapping snugly around your body. His grip was firm and unwavering, a solid constant in your life.

"I want you to think of me when you wear this ring, okay?" Jake whispered softly in your ear, holding you close to him. You sniffle and pull back, giving him a nod with watery eyes.

"I'll always think of you, Jake."

And the next day he was gone.

"Go on, git!" you yell at a loose heifer running away from the herd. You groan as she runs off into the woods, and you push the sorrel gelding you were riding into a trot to go after her. The rest of the herd started grazing as you left them, the wind whipping through the dried grasses around you.

It was a cold day in Texas. Your grey felt cowboy hat did its best to keep the wind off of your face, and even with your warmest jacket and wild rag tied around your neck, you still felt chilled and numb to your core.

It had been a hard few months when Jake disappeared without a trace. Mrs. Bell had no one to help her at her tent in the farmer's market, so you picked up the slack to help her.

Your dad grew sick and couldn't run the farm as readily, so you, your brothers, and your sister had to step in, while your mother took care of him. That meant you spent more time in the saddle, working all the horses and pushing the cows to the hay and silage for the winter.

Your gloved fingers reach for the rope tied to your saddle horn, and as you made your loop, your (colored) eyes found the young heifer again. You slow the gelding you were riding down, Ringo, he was called, as you come up to the small cow.

You could tell she was frightened, so while she didn't run, you gently threw the loop over her head and dallied the rope to your saddle horn. You glance over your shoulder, ensuring the rope was secured around the heifer's neck before dragging her out of the woods and back to the herd.

When the herd comes in sight, confusion floods over you to see Sandy, your palomino mare, being ridden. It wasn't your sister, she had her own bay gelding she liked to ride.

And it wasn't your brothers, as they preferred the four-wheelers. There was only one other person who rode your horse other than you. It was a cowboy. And not just any cowboy.

It was your cowboy.

The silver band on your left ring finger seemed to freeze over with a gust of wind, even though it was covered by your gloves. You can feel tears threatening to burn the edges of your eyes, but you ignore them.

It was him.

Trotting around the edge of the herd, keeping them close together, Jake steered Sandy perfectly, riding her with a practiced ease, like he had never left. You continue to drag the heifer up to the edge of the herd, where he finally catches sight of you.

You can't stand to look at him, and you leave your rope dallied to your horn as you swing your chap-covered leg off of Ringo and onto the ground. Tears stream down your face as you try not to sob, and you walk over to the scared heifer.

You slide the rope off of her neck, and she gets up and runs off to join the herd. You can hear Sandy's footsteps stop next to Ringo, and you hear Jake's feet hit the ground.

Sobs silently wrack your body, and you close your eyes and cover your face as you hear him approach you. He doesn't say anything, but you know he's standing directly behind you, waiting.

A gust of wind blows through, making you gasp for air as it seems to leave your lungs. The tears on your cheeks feel like they freeze to your skin as your vision blurs and a loud cry falls from your lips.

And that's enough for Jake.

He takes two large steps forward, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist from behind. His large frame helps block the wind, yet his touch makes your cries get more violent.

You turn around in his grasp, your gloved fists coming up and punching him in the chest. You're sobbing and thrashing, completely overcome with emotion.

Jake doesn't budge though. He's harder, firmer under your touch than you remember. From the blur in your vision, you can just barely tell that his shaggy locks have been cleaned up into a tight, slicked-back look under his Stetson.

How you had missed that damned straw hat.

"How could you?!" you scream as you lash out at him, a sob leaving your lips at the end of your cry. Jake just holds you tighter, and he takes his chances and pulls you into a close hug, wrapping his arms around your waist to stop your onslaught of attacks.

Your hands get trapped against his chest, yet your whimpers don't end. You can just barely hear Jake shushing you, the sound of his voice blending in with the whisper of the wind floating over you.

"How could you?" you mumble, your voice breaking at the end of your question. Jake pulls you impossibly closer, the felt hat on your head getting bumped off center, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"I never meant to leave you," he states, his voice different than how you remember it. There was no familiar twang to his voice, it was harder, more neutral. He didn't sound like himself. You push off of him, fighting through the new strength he seemed to come back with.

You push your hat back down onto your head, brushing away the tears from your eyes and cheeks with the backside of your gloves. You stand back and take him in. He's wearing the clothes of the man you loved, but he certainly didn't look like the Jake you remember.

He was broader than before. Wider from shoulder to shoulder, no doubt covered in more muscle. He was clean-shaven, with no sign of the stubble or beard you grew to love on him. Even his eyes had harshened, they weren't as sweet or soft as you recalled.

"How could you leave me like that?" you ask quietly again, not happy with his answer. "You left me after that night, Jake. You LEFT me after you gave me this damn ring!" At that, you pulled your left glove off, the silver band immediately catching the cool light from the overcast sun, gleaming as if it were brand new.

You could feel a wave of new, hot tears burning at the edges of your eyes, but you pushed them down and continued, "I waited every day, Jake. For a call, a text, or a letter in the mail. And I got nothing." Your voice dropped deadly quiet on the last word, a lone tear streaming down your cheek.

You couldn't read the emotion on Jake's face, as it was perfectly masked. You huff once to catch your breath and then you yell, "Say something, dammit!"

Another gust of wind blows through, and Jake glances down at his boots before regaining eye contact with you. The jade color of his eyes had dimmed, and when he gazed at you, you didn't know how to feel.

"I never stopped loving you, Y/n. I had to leave, even though I really didn't want to," he starts. He takes a step toward you, but you take another step back, your arms wrapping around yourself protectively.

Jake can feel his heart crack at the way you're looking at him. It was never supposed to be like this. You seem to glare daggers at him and whisper, "You always have a choice." He swallows thickly, averting his gaze, and continues, "Not this time, I didn't."

You groan in frustration and whip around in a circle, heading back for the horses, but Jake catches your free hand in his own. His rough fingers catch your left hand, the feeling of his skin on yours enough to make you stop in your tracks.

"Y/n, please wait," he calls out. You immediately snap back, "I waited 6 damn months, Jake! You just up and disappeared! No one would tell me where you were or what happened to you."

You rip your hand out of his, quickly shoving your gloves into the pocket of your jacket. You pull the promise ring off of your ring finger and looking him in the eye, you slam it up against his chest.

With tears in your eyes you whisper, "I'm tired of thinking about you Jake, because every time I think of you, I think about how you left me with nothing."

He doesn't move as you pull away from him, grabbing the reins of both Ringo and Sandy, you mount the gelding you had been riding. With your rope recoiled and Sandy next to you ready to pony, you look back at him.

"I'm sure you can find your own way out of this damn pasture," you say coldly as you lope off, Sandy trotting next to you as you bypass the herd of cows.

And as you ride off toward your homestead, tears streaming down your cheeks, Jake is left standing in the pasture with snow falling around him, holding the ring that had previously bound him to you.

Tag list: @xxdragonwriterxx @tejxswini @mysterystarz @mortedeveles @vs-redemption @kal0psi-a @gin-no-g @starstruckkittensweets @kitacharm @shirari @animated-moon @mitzwinchester @elitparadox @yumeyooa @angels-main @anlian-aishang @notroosterbradshaw

(If anyone would like to be removed, please just let me know<3)

[israaverse]

Hi! I came across your beautiful art of Canaanite gods, and I wondered if you are making art solely based on the mythology or if you have some story/universe of your own. I hope this question makes sense. Have a nice day.

Hi!!

Most of my art on the Baal Cycle is based directly on the texts that we have access to. HOWEVER! The texts we have access to such as the Baal Cycle and the Epic of Aqhat are fragmentary with large parts missing and unfortunately do not go into much detail in the intact parts. To make it more frustrating there is an academic discourse on different translations of the Ugaritic texts (example: Anat has an epithet that translates to 'virgin', but different translations equate 'virgin' to either 'unmarried' or 'prepubescent/young girl') and depending on which translation you heed you can come away with different ideas (irt previous example: Anat is either an unmarried adult woman connected with sexual fertility or a prepubescent child associated with sexual fertility, which can get real gross (you can guess which translation/iteration i prefer)).

So, long way for me to say: ... kind of both!

It's all very HEAVILY based on the texts, BUT I do have to make up quite a lot as I go, especially physical attributes of various characters, the locations of their palaces/thrones (I made up Mot's palace being a salt pillar in the Dead Sea because it makes thematic sense), relationships between characters (It's debated who exactly Baal's wife is, if he has one wife, if the wife is Astarte or Anat, who Anat's mother is, how many wives El has), etc. etc. etc.

The bones and overarching narrative are taken directly from the mythology, but because of whatever myriad of circumstances the oral traditions and written mythologies haven't survived enough to create a framework for me to actually stick to without skipping over VERY important things, like: How did Baal die? Which is incredibly central. Also, irt the Baal Cycle and the tablets that its written on, we Don't Know which tablets go in which order so I kinda gotta play it by ear with which events go before which.

Sorry for the long explanation! I try my best to note which aspects of the Canaanite myth stuff I do is entirely my own creative liberty or conjecture, mostly because 1. I don't want to misrepresent the texts, and 2. I highly encourage people to read translations of the texts themselves, if they are able (unfortunately it's written in very stilted language, so I completely get why it'd be eye roll inducing for many).

PS: I have a personal vendetta against Illimilku of Ugarit, who was the scribe that wrote down the only written iterations of the Baal Cycle and Epic of Aqhat, that we know of. Why didn't he make more??? I need to know how the EoA ends!!! Here's a shitty meme I made about my frustration.

[ol-files]

etymology of the names

Nora : "Nora" can be traced to the Arabic word "noor" meaning "light", or to the English given name "Honora" meaning "honor.” En japonais, mot nora signifie « animal errant », « chat errant », « chat libre qui n'a pas de maison », « chat de gouttière. »

Shinonome : (東雲) means "dawn". Ena (絵名): E (絵) means "image, drawing, painting" Na (名) name" or "distinguished, good".

Mina : is a derivative of two Germanic terms meaning "heaume" and "will".

Is Mina a Slavic name? Mina (Persian: مینا mīnā) is a female given name in Iran, meaning "azure", "azure sky", "blue (decanter) or glass", "glass bead", or "enamel".

Is an Eastern name popular in China, Iran, Japan and Korea. Mina in the Persian language means a type of flower found in Iran, which is similar to a rose, but smaller. Since it could be derived from Wilhelmina names- its definition could be "protection", "guardian". It also means "Passed" in Slavic countries.

Meena or Mina (Pashto: مینه) means "love" in Pashto, an Eastern Iranian language spoken in Afghanistan and the Pashtun Diaspora of Pakistan, which is the feminine noun for the word "lover”

Yugo : Japanese "brave heart".

Chibi : Japanese ちび , chibi («runt, dwarf »).

Balthazar: comes from the Akkadian Bel-shar-uzur meaning " Bel protects the king.

*

Amalia : is a female given name, particularly common in Spain and Portugal. It has its origin in the Gothic roots, the first element of which is amal, meaning "work", with connotations of "good work" and "fertile work", and the final -ia indicating membership in a Gothic royal family.

Évangéline : Etymology. derived from the word "évangile"/" gospel " From the Latin evangelium (" gospel ") borrowed from ancient Greek εὐαγγέλιον , euangélion. euangélion consists of the prefixe εὐ- / eu- (« right, good») and of ἄγγελος / ángelos (« messenger»)

[dailydemonspotlight]

Baal - Day 5

Race: Deity

Alignment: Light-Law

March 25th, 2024

Today's demon of the day belies himself as a god in the bible, though is truly a forgotten deity in his own right- Baal, Canaanite god of rain and fertility.

Baal, known by his true name of Hadad only to the priests and leadership of the religion, was a leading deity of the ancient Canaanite and Mesopotamian pantheons, given the title of 'Prince of the Earth,' a god commonly worshipped to bring about rains to the arid lands of Mesopotamia. Derived from the god Ishkur from Sumerian myth, Baal's role differed greatly from most storm gods, instead being a savior of sorts, a man who brought rain to dry lands and painted them in fertile grass instead of breaking things apart with storms and thunder.

In his main myth, Baal came into conflict with the god of Death and Sterility in Canaanite myth, Mot, and was locked in eternal conflict for years- each time he would fall, crops would wither away, and each time Mot would fall, they would spring to life. This eternal cycle known as the Baal cycle would become a focal point for Mesopotamian mythology, and Baal was a beloved deity...

Until Christianity attacked.

Unfortunately for Baal, his time in the limelight would soon give way to biblical stories about the Canaanite cults, and as the story would go, Baal was unable to complete the tasks set before him that the Israelite YHWH was able to complete. The prophet Elijah's altar was torn, a mastery over the weather was shown by YHWH, and this oddly spiteful tale that seems to come down to 'oh, my god is cooler than yours' comes to a bloody end as the cultists of Baal are soon brought to a bloody end by the blades of the priesthood.

Due to this, several demons were given epithets derived from Baal, such as Bael or Beelzebub, and Baal fell into a hole of obscurity, as would myths of Canaanite origin in general. In my opinion, a frankly somewhat tragic tale coming down to spite, but aside from that...

Baal's story makes him a perfect fit for a demon, one who rebels against god, mayhaps as a story of revenge for the death of his followers. In gameplay, he's a very powerful magic-focused demon with a specialty in, you guessed it... wind skills. The connection is obvious- he's a god of weather, after all. His design is very, very unique, as there isn't much to go off of for Baal's design in the mythos on account of only a few damaged art pieces surviving.

Baal's headdress remains, though changes to a more webbed design, his outfit resembling a traditional one of a middle-eastern culture, at least stereotypically speaking. He also appears as a... twink. I think? I dunno what he'd really count as. One of my friends referred to him as an otter? Regardless of all this, though, what's most notable with him are the fins adorning so many pieces of his armor, something which I... actually am not sure of the significance of. If anyone is more knowledgeable about this subject, please tell me in the notes! The same goes for the rest of this rundown, as I'm honestly not very familiar with Biblical stories or Canaanite mythology.

[anticbrvtalist]

La mort de John Balance

« Le pouvoir occulte et magnétique de l’Angleterre » ! Où donc ai-je lu ces mots ? » (Léon Bloy)[1]

Nous ne croyons pas à la mort accidentelle de John Balance ; nous pensons seulement qu’il sut prendre congé à temps. Sans doute était-il fatigué de tituber dans un monde qui meurt. Dès la fin du siècle dernier, Londres n’était plus la capitale du Royaume-Uni, mais un cratère foré par l’économie monde, plongeant à pic dans le tiède enfer du non-lieu global. Même Ian Sinclair se lassera – certes, quinze ans plus tard – de longer la M25, le London Overground, d’invoquer les esprits de son occulte psycho géographie, d’exposer aux non-initiés ses cartes imaginaires dont la topographie n’évoquera bientôt plus rien à personne. Nous fûmes victimes d’une illusion d’optique : le capitalisme ne sévit pas à l’état liquide mais gazeux : tout ce dont il a épuisé la valeur d’échange s’évapore, disparaît. Même les ruines.

            John Balance le savait : ce Londres occulte, dont il partageait la fascination avec quelques grand initiés, Allan Moore par exemple, le Londres de Jacques l’éventreur, d’Austin Osman Spare, de William Blake, d’Arthur Machen, de la Golden Dawn, de Thomas de Quincey et sa chère Ann, ce Londres s’était tout entier évanoui ; et bientôt, ferait défaut jusqu’à l’humanité encore accessible à de tels souvenirs. Il aura vu le dôme du « Millenium » émerger, les quais de la Tamise se border de buildings en verre, leur enfilade de docks, de hangars désaffectés, se muer en malls, en galeries polaires, en lofts pour yuppies. Sans doute s’effrayait-il d’y voir son avenir, d’imaginer Coil diffusé dans une quelconque annexe de la Tate Gallery, distraitement écouté par des hordes de touristes asiatiques ou de jeunes cadres apatrides de la City, sujets au burn-out, rompus au binge drinking, tous d’une désespérante tolérance. Il le devinait : jamais plus Londres ne serait « la cité des résurrections »[2]. Cette ville lui était à ce point devenue étrangère qu’il ne pouvait plus suivre à l’instinct les affluents de la Tamise, ces méandres aux propriétés magiques jadis cartographiées par John Dee : la Fleet, la Tyburn, les rivières de Stamford brook et de Walbrook. Désormais incapable de soulever les strates de l’histoire immédiate, mais toujours possédé par son Londres mythique et souterrain, John Balance se sera, à quarante ans, enterré vivant. 

L’un des derniers albums de Coil, Times machines, fut la première tentative musicale de dissoudre le cours du temps. Peut-être Balance avait-il le pressentiment d’une prochaine catastrophe dont il désirait, de toutes ses forces, différer l’avènement. Peut-être devinait-il que Londres, puis l’Angleterre tout entière, allait devenir telle qu’elle figure dans la série Black mirror : le cadre d’un nouveau cauchemar dystopique sur le point d’envahir le globe. D’instinct, en bon britannique, et donc un peu chauvin, il savait que l’Angleterre, depuis le XVIIè, énonce l’ordre du monde, Rule the world. La mission historique d’Albion s’achève, mais reste son imagination, suffisamment fertile pour nourrir les cauchemars du monde entier : « England has a black earth ».[3]

             « Les poètes sont toujours les premiers à s’en aller » remarquait Ian Sinclair. John Balance fut un précurseur : aujourd’hui, c’est le peuple britannique tout entier qui tâtonne vers la sortie, cherche machinalement son âme comme on s’assure de la présence d’un membre fantôme. Le Brexit, bien sûr, ne résoudra rien. Le Royaume-Uni, hier galion corsaire cinglant à l’avant-garde, aujourd’hui vieux rafiot à la remorque des États-Unis, tourné vers l’ailleurs, le grand large, l’Océan Pacifique peut-être, pour une dernière aventure.   

NO SOCIETY 

             John Balance, c’est avant tout l’homme en marge. Il n’eut pas assez de sa courte vie pour apprendre à se défaire du monde. Très jeune, il comprit qu’il est vain de pester contre le « système », de fantasmer un grand soir, aussi n’ayons pas le ridicule d’en faire un nouveau « suicidé de la société » : cette dernière, il sut la tenir à distance, cultivant l’art de la clandestinité, luttant constamment contre toute forme imposée ; et cette lutte lui fut source de bonheur – « Disobediance is the key of joy ». Dans la lignée d’un Pasolini ou d’un Genet, Balance vécut son homosexualité comme une malédiction, un défi, trop orgueilleux qu’il était pour quémander la reconnaissance des foules, de l’État. Pourquoi briguer une impossible normalisation, source certaine d’un supplément de souffrances ? Inutile de se rassembler, d’exiger de nouveaux droits : aujourd’hui comme hier, toute singularité draine la vindicte. Le seul acte militant de Coil, la reprise de Tainted Love assortie d’un clip horrifique, suffit, dès 1984, à écarter tout malentendu : les niais partisans de la cause arc-en-ciel, glacés, passèrent leur chemin.

                  Bien plus qu’un simple pas de côté, la vie de John Balance fut esquive, dérobade radicale. De la société, il se retrancha, mais de biais, faisant sien l’enseignement d’Austin Osman Spare : le monde ne se comprend qu’appréhendé latéralement, surtout les êtres humains, dont on ne peut saisir quelques parcelles d’âme que lorsqu’ils ne vous voient plus, vous ont oublié. Cette approche oblique strictement observée, la politique et le social ne survivent qu’à l’état de souvenir, de vague rumeur ; une rumeur, c’est-à-dire un bruit, un son, que l’on peut prélever, domestiquer, puis torturer à loisir avant de le restituer, méconnaissable, à la société épouvantée.

À force de pratiquer « l’usage agressif de la fantaisie »[4], Coil avait acquis dans certains milieux londoniens une étrange réputation qu’ils cultivaient avec malice. Christopherson, alias « Sleazy », faisait parade d’un sadisme bonhomme et discret, évoquant à mots couverts auprès d’un auditoire choisi certaines chambres de sa maison de Chipswick, une notamment, entièrement peinte en noir, les murs tapissés d’images des 120 jours de Sodome, une autre encore, où il enfermait de jeunes hommes pour les piquer d’aiguilles. Ces étranges inclinations vinrent aux oreilles du cinéaste Clive Barker qui leur offrit de composer la bande-son de son film Hellraiser avant de se rétracter, effrayé. Pourtant, à les voir, rien ne laissait deviner de telles dispositions : quelques photos nous les présentent de noir vêtus, cheveux ras, encapuchonnés dans d’informes sweat shirts, soit la défroque ordinaire de la tourbe des « teufeurs » de l’époque. C’est qu’ils étaient passés maîtres dans l’art de l’infiltration, pour preuve, dès 1991, ils avaient déjà, par les albums Love is a secret domain et The snow, corrompu la techno. Le dancefloor, par eux investi, devint expérience claustrophobique, se changea en caisse à stridences psychiatriques, infernale chambre d’échos balayée de part en part d’un souffle d’outre-tombe.

Un député tory, bien sous tous rapports, les traita de « naufrageurs de la civilisation ». « Les gens comme il faut » sont tels car inaptes à l’introspection ; n’examinant jamais leurs pensées, ils sont bien incapables d’identifier la racine d’une dé-civilisation dont ils déplorent incessamment les effets : cette passion maniaque de l’homogénéité qu’ils possèdent tous en propre. Les membres du Temple of the psychic youth, en dépit d’un mode de vie suicidaire, jalonné d’expérimentations sordides et dangereuses, eurent d’emblée le pressentiment de l’avènement d’un monde unidimensionnel, hostile à toute intériorité. « Nos ennemis sont plats » scandait P-Orridge, faisant inconsciemment écho aux paroles d’un Barrès, qui, à l’apogée de son « culte du moi », au début du XXè  siècle, déclarait : « Les barbares veulent nous fondre en série ».

MAGICK

          Coil, en anglais, signifie rouleau, spirale, nom à la fois banal et le plus occulte qui soit : la spirale est lieu de réversion, premier point d’attache des cycles qui se fondent un instant pour nier le temps ; son centre est aussi point d’infini qui abolit l’espace. Coil fut la quête de ce vide qui est puissance absolue mais aussi sens premier, originel. Effet du hasard ? le symbole de la spirale ornait déjà les couvertures de la revue Le Grand jeu, soixante-dix ans plus tôt. L’histoire révèle à périodes régulières quelques jeunes gens suffisamment mécontents pour oser, par leurs propres moyens, forcer le monde invisible à rendre son secret. John Balance s’identifiait à René Crevel mais ce serait plutôt à Roger Gilbert Lecomte qu’il faudrait le comparer, Gilbert Lecomte, comme lui poète égaré dans son inlassable quête d’« états de stupeur fixe ». (...)

[baalsblade]

So who is Baal?

Baal or Baʻal, was a title and honorific meaning 'owner', 'lord' in the Northwest Semitic languages spoken in the Levant during antiquity.

Baal is a God of fertility, weather, rain, wind, lightning, seasons, war, sailors and so on.

Baal worship is also called Baalism.

Solid cast bronze of a votive figurine representing the god Baal discovered at Tel Megiddo, dating to the mid-2nd millennium BC.

His holy symbols are bull, ram and thunderbolt.

Baal was worshipped in ancient Syria, especially Halab, near, around and at Ugarit, Canaan, North Africa and Middle Kingdom of Egypt.

Baʿal is well-attested in surviving inscriptions and was popular in theophoric names throughout the Levant but he is usually mentioned along with other gods, "his own field of action being seldom defined". Nonetheless, Ugaritic records show him as a weather god, with particular power over lightning, wind, rain, and fertility. The dry summers of the area were explained as Baʿal's time in the underworld and his return in autumn was said to cause the storms which revived the land. Thus, the worship of Baʿal in Canaan—where he eventually supplanted El as the leader of the gods and patron of kingship—was connected to the regions' dependence on rainfall for its agriculture, unlike Egypt and Mesopotamia, which focused on irrigation from their major rivers. Anxiety about the availability of water for crops and trees increased the importance of his cult, which focused attention on his role as a rain god. He was also called upon during battle, showing that he was thought to intervene actively in the world of man, unlike the more aloof El. The Lebanese city of Baalbeck was named after Baal.

The Baʿal of Ugarit was the epithet of Hadad but as the time passed, the epithet became the god's name while Hadad became the epithet. Baʿal was usually said to be the son of Dagan, but appears as one of the sons of El in Ugaritic sources. Both Baʿal and El were associated with the bull in Ugaritic texts, as it symbolized both strength and fertility. He held special enmity against snakes, both on their own and as representatives of Yammu (lit. "Sea"), the Canaanite sea god and river god. He fought the Tannin (Tunnanu), the "Twisted Serpent" (Bṭn ʿqltn), "Lotan the Fugitive Serpent" (Ltn Bṭn Brḥ, the biblical Leviathan), and the "Mighty One with Seven Heads" (Šlyṭ D.šbʿt Rašm). Baʿal's conflict with Yammu is now generally regarded as the prototype of the vision recorded in the 7th chapter of the biblicalBook of Daniel. As vanquisher of the sea, Baʿal was regarded by the Canaanites and Phoenicians as the patron of sailors and sea-going merchants. As vanquisher of Mot, the Canaanite death god, he was known as Baʿal Rāpiʾuma (Bʿl Rpu) and regarded as the leader of the Rephaim (Rpum), the ancestral spirits, particularly those of ruling dynasties.

From Canaan, worship of Baʿal spread to Egypt by the Middle Kingdom and throughout the Mediterranean following the waves of Phoenician colonization in the early 1st millennium BCE. He was described with diverse epithets and, before Ugarit was rediscovered, it was supposed that these referred to distinct local gods. However, as explained by Day, the texts at Ugarit revealed that they were considered "local manifestations of this particular deity, analogous to the local manifestations of the Virgin Mary in the Roman Catholic Church". In those inscriptions, he is frequently described as "Victorious Baʿal" (Aliyn or ẢlỈyn Baʿal), "Mightiest one" (Aliy or ʿAly) or "Mightiest of the Heroes" (Aliy Qrdm), "The Powerful One" (Dmrn), and in his role as patron of the city "Baʿal of Ugarit" (Baʿal Ugarit). As Baʿal Zaphon (Baʿal Ṣapunu), he was particularly associated with his palace atop Jebel Aqra (the ancient Mount Ṣapānu and classical Mons Casius). He is also mentioned as "Winged Baʿal" (Bʿl Knp) and "Baʿal of the Arrows" (Bʿl Ḥẓ). Phoenician and Aramaic inscriptions describe "Baʿal of the Mace" (Bʿl Krntryš), "Baʿal of the Lebanon" (Bʿl Lbnn), "Baʿal of Sidon" (Bʿl Ṣdn), Bʿl Ṣmd, "Baʿal of the Heavens" (Baʿal Shamem or Shamayin), Baʿal ʾAddir (Bʿl ʾdr), Baʿal Hammon (Baʿal Ḥamon), Bʿl Mgnm.

The epithet Hammon is obscure. Most often, it is connected with the NW Semitic ḥammān ("brazier") and associated with a role as a sun god. Renan and Gibson linked it to Hammon (modern Umm el-‘Amed between Tyre in Lebanon and Acre in Israel) and Cross and Lipiński to Haman or Khamōn, the classical Mount Amanus and modern Nur Mountains, which separate northern Syria from southeastern Cilicia.

The major source of our direct knowledge of this Canaanite deity comes from the Ras Shamra tablets, discovered in northern Syria in 1958, which record fragments of a mythological story known to scholars as the Baal Cycle. Here, he earns his position as the champion and ruler of the gods. The fragmentary text seems to indicate a feud between him and his father El as background. El chooses the fearsome sea god Yam to reign as king of the gods. Yam rules harshly, and the other deities cry out to Ashera, called Lady of the Sea, to aid. Ashera offers herself as a sacrifice if Yam will ease his grip on her children. He agrees, but Baal opposes such a scheme and boldly declares he will defeat Yam even though El declares that he must subject himself to Yam.

With the aid of magical weapons given to him by the divine craftsman Kothar-wa-Khasis, Baal defeats Yam and is declared victorious. He then builds a house on Mount Saphon, today known as Jebel al-Aqra. (This mountain, 1780 meters high, stands only 15 km north of the site of Ugarit, clearly visible from the city itself.)

Lo, also it is the time of His rain. Baal sets the season, And gives forth His voice from the clouds. He flashes lightning to the earth. As a house of cedars let Him complete it, Or a house of bricks let Him erect it! Let it be told to Aliyan Baal: 'The mountains will bring Thee much silver. The hills, the choicest of gold; The mines will bring Thee precious stones, And build a house of silver and gold. A house of lapis gems!'

However, the god of the underworld, Mot, soon lures Baal to his death, spelling ruin for the land. His sister Anat retrieves his body and begs Mot to revive him. When her pleas are rebuffed, Anat assaults Mot, ripping him to pieces and scattering his remains like fertilizer over the fields.

El, in the meantime, has had a dream in which fertility returned to the land, suggesting that Baal was not indeed dead. Eventually he is restored. However, Mot too has revived and mounts a new attack against him.

They shake each other like Gemar-beasts, Mavet [Mot] is strong, Baal is strong. They gore each other like buffaloes, Mavet is strong, Baal is strong. They bite like serpents, Mavet is strong, Baal is strong. They kick like racing beasts, Mavet is down. Baal is down.

After this titanic battle, neither side has completely prevailed. Knowing that the other gods now support Baal and fearing El's wrath, Mot finally bows before him, leaving him in possession of the land and the undisputed regent of the gods.

Baal is thus the archetypal fertility deity. His death signals drought and his resurrection, and brings both rain and new life. He is also the vanquisher of death. His role as a maker of rain would be particularly important in the relatively arid area of Palestine, where no mighty river such as the Euphrates or the Nile existed.

[ivflondon]

Fertility Health Checks | Key to IVF Success | Treatment Clinic

Discover the key benefits of fertility wellness checks and what they include for a healthier reproductive journey.

[invivoinsomnium]

You decided to go with IVF in order to have kids, and you find a doctor willing to do it for almost free, so long as you come back to his clinic for all checkups, and to give birth. You rationalize the discount, maybe he's just starting out. After the procedure, you are informed it was a success! Only one of your embryos implanted, but you're just fine with that. You start showing early, and it feels like your skin can't keep up with the growth. At every checkup, he informs you that your baby is healthy, if a little on the chunky side. You can't shake the feeling that something is off though, but the doctor reassures you that all IVF mothers worry. Then when you start to feel movements, it feels almost like popcorn in your belly, and you wonder if that's normal. You're starting to really get huge, and even though you only see one baby on the scans, you swear you can feel more than four limbs and a head pressing against your insides. Finally, the time comes, and your belly looks massive. Your labor feels short but intense, as though your body is more than eager to evict your giant baby. Finally, when your baby slides free at last, you feel exhausted, and relieved. The Dr hands you your baby, and rubs your still huge belly. "Alright, take a quick rest, and then we'll get the rest out." 'the rest'? You're confused, but a dreadfully cold understanding settles on you. Over the next 12 hours, you push out three more babies, but each is carted away as soon as the umbilical is cut. Turns out, the doctor was running a shady surrogacy service under the table, and making a profit on both sides.

I'll be honest here anon, I'm more into the forced pregnancy aspect instead of willingly allowing myself to be artificially inseminated. That being said, this is quite hot. The idea of being turned into an unwilling surrogate, of being tricked by someone I should be able to trust. This definitely ticks a few boxes.

Add in a shady underground clinic, forced articial insemination and some restraints....

I scream and shout, fighting against the leather straps on my wrists as I'm wheelled into the exam room, a nurse gripping my legs tightly as I try to kick her. I was just meant to be going in for a routine exam...an MOT for my body if you will. Now I find myself fighting against doctors and nurses I've never seen before. My trousers and underwear are pulled from my body before my legs are secured into stirrups. I wince at the sharp pain as they're stretched wide. "Yes. She will make an excellent surrogate. I can see many clients bidding for the use of her womb," a male voice remarks as he sits down between my spread legs, as a nurse applies cold gel just beneath my abdomen and another wheels in a tray of instruments. "Of course they're going to have to wait, we've already had a client pay for her." "Pay for me? What the hell are you talking about? What are you going to do to me?!" I demand still trying to struggle. "Hush 7298, it's better if you cease struggling, this isn't a very pleasent procedure as it is. Now take a few deep breaths for me," the male voice orders me, "I'm going to implant a fertilized embryo into your womb. You're going to be helping a very rich couple have an heir of their own. The wife doesn't want her body ruined with pregnancy and has decided you'll be the perfect surrogate," the voice continues, "Of course every client is different, some want their own eggs used, others will want your eggs used, sometimes we'll be implanting other times we'll be fertilizing, it all depends on the buyer." I can barely breath as the truth comes to light. I try to renew my struggles but I'm given something to help my body relax and make me pliable. "Yes, she'll be very popular indeed," the male voice chuckles, "nurse, make a reminder to set 7289 up for an egg retrieval procedure, after the delivery and she's had time to heal," the voice adds. Is this my life? Forced into surrogacy? Forced to bear offspring after offspring despite my desire to never become pregant?

[cosmic--dandelion]

So how did we get from this

To this?

Let's talk about the history of Beelzebub!

Beelzebub is strongly associated and indeed often conflated with Baal, a Hellenistic era pagan god worshipped everywhere from the Canaanite city of Ekron to Greece (where he was known as Belus) to Egypt as far back as 1400 BCE. He is first mentioned in the Books of Kings (2 Kings 1:2–3, 6, 16) as Ba'al-zəbûb, meaning "Lord of the Flies" in Hebrew, a possible corruption of "Lord of the High Place" meant to denigrate the deity after he was appropriated and repurposed as a false god, then a demon. Baal worship was extremely difficult for the early Christians to stamp out, so they basically stole other people's mythology and used it as a free idea bucket to fill out the Bible's rogues gallery.

While it's true that in some Ugaritic texts, Baal is depicted as expelling flies and causing sickness, he was still held in high esteem in ancient Canaan and Phoenicia as a powerful deity who controlled the sun, storms, and fertility and who defeated Mot, the god of death and the underworld. The ancient world could get pretty scatological at times! After all, one of Beelzebub's contemporaries, the Egyptian sun god Ra, was often depicted as a dung beetle, then a prominent symbol of rebirth.

Some scholars think he might have even been the same god! Beelzebub seems to have been the ancient world's go-to demon because the name has been used interchangeably with everyone from Lucifer, Satan, and even Hades in some gnostic texts.

Unfortunately, we don't have much information about Beelzebub's pre-Christian origins other than some iron age ruins in what is now modern day Israel that suggest his temples were decorated with little golden flies, which is pretty neat.

Interestingly, Jesus himself was accused of being a worshipper of Beelzebub multiple times in the New Testament. Maybe the Pharisees were projecting?

Throughout the Middle Ages, Beelzebub reappeared again in the Lantern of the Light (where he was associated with the sin of envy), De Occulta Philosophia, Princes of Hell, and other demonology texts. 16th-17th Century French Inquisitor Sébastien Michaelis elevated him to the rank of fallen angel in his book The Admirable History of Possession and Conversion of a Penitent Woman: Seduced by a Magician that Made Her to Become a Witch, translated to English in 1613. It was around this time Beelzebub started to become strongly associated with witchcraft. Michaelis should know; he burnt over 14 women accused of being witches!

Unsurprisingly, his name came up repeatedly during the Salem witch trials.

Beelzebub and fellow demons new and old bounced all over different classifications of demons during the 1500s and 1600s. In John Milton's epic poem Paradise Lost, first published in 1667, Beelzebub was part of an unholy trinity consisting of him, Lucifer, and Astaroth. Occultist Johan Weyer decreed that Beelzebub was the Emperor of Hell, having led a successful revolt against the devil. German theologian Peter Binsfield described him as the Prince of Gluttony in his 1589 Treatise on Confessions by Evildoers and Witches. Before that, he was associated with Envy, then Pride.

We even have his personal signature! (At least according to the Grand Grimoir, an anonymous text on black magic of unknown origin)

Beelzebub's physical appearance is even more diverse. He's been depicted as everything from a leopard, a feminine man as tall as a tower, a snake, a calf with a fly's face to...whatever the literal hell this is:

"'dressed like a bee and with two dreadful ears and his hair painted in all colors with a dragon's tail"

Jacques Albin Simon Collin de Plancy (1793 – 1881)'s Dictionnaire infernal was among the first to depict Beelzebub literally as a fly. No duck feet, no lion's mane. Just a fly.

Still better than this.

As Plancy was a skeptic influenced by Voltaire, the book was first intended as a folklore compilation but was later modified to fit with Roman Catholic theology after he converted, much to the consternation of his admirers. Many of his lurid illustrations later appeared in S. L. MacGregor Mathers's edition of The Lesser Key of Solomon...for better or for worse.

Put Adrammelech in Helluva Boss you cowards.

So basically, Beelzebub has been a public domain character since before King Tut was laid in his golden sarcophagus, and people have been just making shit up about him for millennia. What's your favorite depictation of Beelzebub? This is mine:

Nothing beats 2nd Edition Dungeons & Dragons artwork.

[nogetron]

Lugh, warrior of light of the Tuatha dé Danann. Lugh was born as the grandson of the Fomorian chief Balor. Destined to be killed at birth by his grandfather’s decree like his brothers before him, Lugh’s mother hid him among the Firbolg, requesting that they raise him well. As the god of light, Lugh brought warmth to the downtrodden Firbolg, who were enslaved with the Tuatha dé by the Fomorians. Lugh was described as a beautiful young man, whose body shined like rays of the sun, with strength that rivaled even the greatest of the Tuatha dé. Experiencing the plight of both the Firbolg and the Tuatha dé, Lugh presented himself to the convening Tuatha dé. The gods spoke of rebellion against the tyrannical Fomorians, Lugh understanding their suffering wished to join them. to test the young deity, Ogma stepped forth, picking up an unwieldy boulder and throwing it across the horizon. Lugh answered the challenge, swiftly catching the rock mid air before hurling it back to Ogma without landing on the ground. Proving himself to the Tuatha dé, Lugh took command of a legion of warriors, with a speech these warriors were roused in strength and spirit, their power growing to that of kings. During the following battle, Lugh encountered his grandfather Balor, opening his eye Balor reigned destruction upon the battlefield. Their fight was a sight to behold, however, hurling his spear Lugh punched out Balor’s eye and used it to decimate the Fomorian forces. After the battle, the Dagda gathered Lugh and Ogma to help him take back his harp from the retreating forces of the Fomorians. The Fomorian chief Balor had survived the war, his rage still burning he continues to try and invade the mortal world, however each time Lugh drives him away with his spear, causing storms in the process. Lugh is also the father of the great hero Cú Chulainn, with the hero being his earthly incarnation.

Lugh was one of a trinity of deities known as ‘three gods of skill’, together they held prowess in all forms of skill, whether it be art or war. Despite the Christianization of Ireland, Lugh was still a popular folk hero, with him still pervading the public consciousness. However due to the Christianization of Ireland, the nature of his divinity is still unclear. Some have posited that Lugh was a sun god, a sort of divine counterpart to his grandfather Balor who was the demon of the scorching sun. Most likely he was also a storm god, bringing fertility and life to the land through storms. Lugh’s spear accentuates this, as it is described as fiery and is capable of returning to the wielder, clearly being a weaponization of lightning. Lugh’s title of Lámfada translates to “of the long arm” sometimes also rendered as “of the long hand”, this title is not literal as it most likely alludes to his rulership, the long arm being a allusion to his wide reaching power. Lugh is the Irish form of the Gaulish chief god Lugus, with Lugus’ importance translating to Lugh’s popularity in Ireland, despite the Dagda being the Chief god of Ireland instead. In wales, Lugh was referred to as Lleu Llaw Gyffes. The romans equated Lugh to their god Mercury, however unlike other peoples whose myths and legends were taken by the victorious Romans, much of the Celts mythology stayed the same, mainly due to the genocide of 2/3rds of the population by Rome, with the Celts facing less Hellenization attempts. Lugh also corresponds to other deities across the world, as a storm god he owes his origin to the Semitic Baal, and shares his status with many other storm gods such as the Vedic Indra, the Norse Thor, the Slavic Perun, and many others. Like the other storm gods, Lugh’s fight with Balor is an instance of the Chaoskampf, an archetypal myth which has the storm god go against the forces of Chaos to bring back order and fertility to the world, whose origins can also trace back to Baal’s fight with Yam and Mot. Lugh could’ve been originally seen as an aspect of the Dagda with Ogma, with the ‘three gods of skill’ being a remnant of this, similar to the Morrigan’s Morrigna. Another origin could be that Lugus had absorbed and fused with the Gaulish storm god Taranis, however this theory is merely conjecture.

[petit-atelier-de-poesie]

La surprise est aussi au cœur des grandes rencontres amicales : en ouverture de son recueil « Les yeux fertiles », dédié à Picasso, Éluard écrit de son ami qu’il lui est « entré dans le cœur par surprise ». Le poète peut d’ailleurs être défini comme cet être absolument disponible à l’inattendu, à l’accueil de ce qui vient - mots, idées, images, émotions… Développons donc notre disponibilité en goûtant ce rapport poétique à l’existence.

Charles Pépin. La rencontre. Une philosophie. 2021