#martha x bethany

[pelova4president]

Wingteam

Grace Clinton x Reader

Summary~ You thought you could trust Beth with your secret crush… you thought wrong.

“No Beth, i don’t like her!” you groaned. Why did they always do this to you. Everyone had their suspicions about your crush on the young Spurs talent but they didn’t have to out you like that, in front of the girl herself. You looked away from Grace with red cheeks and gave Beth a warning look.

Beth’s been a sort of mom to you. You stayed at her house when you started playing for the blue and white club. You were just sixteen and your parent lived at least four hours away. Traveling to training every day just wasn’t realistic like that so Beth took you in.

It’s been three years since then and you’ve finally moved out. Beth still had a room ready for you when you wanted to stay over but you both knew it would be better for you if you got your own apartment.

Your captain’s always been noisy. When you lived with the player she was asking for all your latest school and relationship drama. Most times you gave in and told her the gossip but you held some information to yourself, like some of your crushes. But now that you don’t share an apartment anymore she got even more noisy, she felt like she didn’t get all the details of your life so she was digging deep for your secrets.

Beth had invited you over for dinner one evening in the hopes to get an update on your seemingly dead love life. As soon as she opened the door she was asking you the most out of pocket questions.

“So you’ve got a crush hm?” she grinned. Ofcourse she knew you had a crush on someone but you had to deny. “Don’t know what you’re talking about old lady.” you shrugged her off, walking into the living room. Beth rolled her eyes at your nickname but didn’t give up.

“I know you’ve got one, come on tell me. I’m basically your mom by now. You’ve got to tell me kid.” she argued. Beth was pulling the ‘i raised you card’ and you had to give in to her. “Whatever, yeah so what? You’ve had crushes too.” you drowned in her couch cushions.

“I knew it! Oh my god is it someone from the team?” you blushed at that, how did she fucking know. “No way! It is! Is it Celin? Wait no no, is it Lenna? Oh my god is it Clinton..” you looked down. Beth’s mouth fell open, “No fucking way.. your crush is Grace Clinton.” she gasped.

“Don’t fucking tell anyone Bethany England. You may act like my mom but you’re not mom enough to go around and tell everyone and their gran my secrets.” you sighed. Why did you even come over in the first place.

“You know me, i wouldn’t tell a soul!” she said, her hand moving to her heart offended. You looked at her with a raised eyebrow, “Yeah, right..”

And just like you expected she just couldn’t keep your secret to herself. In no time Martha knew and told Rebecca who told Rosella and she basically told the whole team. And now you had to deal with their teasing too.

After winning a big North London derby a few of the girls went out to celebrate, including the smiling girl you’ve had your eyes on. And just like always, after a few shots and drinks Celin demanded everyone had to play a game.

“Everyone! Truuuuuuth or dare now.” she yelled across the room. It was hard to not participate or to get out of it since Celin and Grace would literally force you to sit down and play along.

Most of your older teammates had already gone home to their partners, boring. So you sat down in between Charlie and Lenna who had joined you earlier. Grace and Celin sat across from you, together like always.

Sometimes that made you a little jealous but you knew Celin had a boyfriend and Grace probably didn’t like her like that. And Lenna told you Grace saw Celin as her bestfriend, they were like sisters.

When Celin had everyone sitting in a circle the fun could begin. She dared Rosella to down two shot at the same time.

Lenna got asked who she wouldn’t let her kid date and after a bit of poking for an answer she said Celin. Charlie had to tell everyone her worst sex story, and surely no one could top that.

When it was Beth’s turn to ask someone she chose you. She was out to get you and you knew it. “Hmm truth or dare, pipsqueak?” she asked. She knew you absolutely hated that name, she was just trying to embarrass you.

It didn’t matter what you would chose, none of the options would be in your favour. “I hate you, dare.” you murmured under your breath. “Sorry, didn’t hear you there. Speak up.” she grinned from ear to ear.

“I said dare” you repeated. You didn’t think her smile could get any bigger but it was taking up her whole face now. What was she gonna say…

“Hmmm.. what should i say…” your captain pretended to think. “I dare you to… play seven minutes in heaven with…” she was teasing you, you knew it. This fucking hag. Beth was really playing out a whole theatre performance. She was looking around the room, pointing with her fingers until her pointer stopped. Grace.

“I dare you to play seven minutes in heaven with Clinton.” she finished. You looked at your older teammate like she had just murdered your cat.

“You’ve already rejected your last truth so you can’t back out of this one.” your new Australian teammate reminded you.

You looked at Grace with pink cheeks. Grace gave you a shy smile and nodded, signalling she’d participate.

As you walked towards the nearest door you heard your football mom shout. “Have fun! But not too much!” did she really have to embarrass you so much in front of your crush..

Grace opened the door for you like a real gentlewoman. When she closed the door you looked at each other for a bit. You didn’t know what to say so you became red, your ears felt like they were on fire.

“Look, if you don’t want to do anything we can just talk for the next few minutes. All good.” the blonde spoke up. You looked up at Grace and knew that this was probably the best chance you would ever get. That and Beth would probably murder you if you didn’t make a move.

“I do not not want to kiss you.” you whispered softly but loud enough to reach the ears of the English girl. “Hmm, what’d you say. Didn’t really hear you?” she grinned.

Looking at her face you could see she had heard exactly what you had said. But how could you resist such a pretty face with those beautiful eyes and cute freckles. “We can kiss.” you spoke, this time louder.

Grace took that as her chance to take your face into her hands. Her thumb was tracing your bottom lip until you looked her in the eyes. “That’s all i needed to hear pretty girl.” she breathed.

Her pink lips finally touched yours. She was sweet just like you had imagined. She deepened the kiss, her tongue exploring your mouth. Grace was rough this time, biting your lip and exploring your body with her hands.

And when the two of your broke the kiss, completely out of breath she spoke again. “Fuck, how much i’ve been wanting to do that. Seeing you staring at me in training gets me so worked up and you just didn’t seem to make a fucking move. Had to do it all myself hmm.” she laughed.

“Beth’s done half the work. You’ve got such a big ego Clinton, give the granny some credit.” you rolled your eyes.

Still, you’d never admit that Beth has actually helped you with all her secret spilling.

graceclinton_x

liked by alessia and 109.728 others

had to do everything myself to get this girl

comments

y/n_y/l/n you’ve got such a big ego 😒

↳ graceclinton_x you love it tho 🫶

↳ y/n_y/l/n no, i don’t.

↳ graceclinton_x no need to lie love, i know you do

lennagw finally!!!!!! done with this shit

↳ charli_grant me too couldn’t see that shit show for an extra day

↳ y/n_y/l/n grace wasn’t that bad..

↳ charli_grant … wasn’t talking about grace

celinbizet she’s stolen my bestie

↳ graceclinton_x don’t worry, you can be the third wheel :)

↳ celinbizet fuck you grace clinton

bethanyengland4 all thanks to me, yet again

↳ graceclinton_x i’ve done all the hard work, i’ll give you 50% creds max

A/N made the fic different than i wanted but yeah didn’t have much inspiration

[hellaversepolls]

Tournament Poll: The K in FMK (2024)

The next tournament, “Hellaverse Character with the Most Tragic Backstory”, will start this Friday, December 27th, will polls for round 1 being posted until Monday, December 30th.

and the winner of “Most Killable Hellaverse Character” (2024) is…

Valentino

to celebrate, I’ve made a new shitty pic in paint

In summary

Most Killable Hellaverse Characters: Valentino (1st Place)

Stella (2nd Place)

Crimson and Katie Killjoy (3rd Place)

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Competitors (64): Adam, Agent One, Agent Two, Alastor, Alessio, Andrealphus, Angel Dust, Asmodeus, Barbie Wire, Beelzebub, Bethany Ghostfucker, Blitzo, Carmilla Carmine, Cash Buckzo, Charlie, Chazwick, Cherri Bomb, Cletus, Collin, Crimson, Emberlynn, Emily, Fizzarolli, Glam, Glitz, Husk, Katie Killjoy, Keenie, Lilith, Loona, Loopty Goopty, Lucifer, Lute, Lyle Lipton, Mammon, Martha, Millie, Mimzy, Moxxie, Mrs. Mayberry, Niffty, Paimon, Rita, Rolando, Rosie, Saint Peter, Sallie May, Sera, Sir Pentious, Stella, Stolas, Striker, Susan, Toledo, Tom Trench, Vaggie, Valentino, Velvette, Verosika, Vortex, Vox, Wally Wackford, Zeezi, Zestial

EDIT: Rounds 4-6 will START on Mondays instead of taking over the whole weekend. Once Round 6 is over and the ultimate winner is determined, we'll allow the winners the rest of the week to celebrate before moving onto the "Hellaverse Character with the Most Tragic Backstory" poll tournament (by popular vote).

I also came up with a “gun to your head” style scenario for this tournament if that makes the voting process easier for people that want to vote but aren’t really interested in killing any of the characters.

SCENARIO:

You have once again found yourself with an unpayable debt to a higher power (you should probably stop doing that). The only way the debt can be forgiven is if you kill one of the listed competitors. The debt you've accrued has given you the power and resources needed to kill any of them. Pick whoever you'd be willing to kill.

Voting rules and match lists under read more.

VOTING RULES:

Feel free to spread as much propaganda for your choice as you like if that’s your thing, as long as you remember the following:

- Please Don’t Threaten/Promise to Compromise the Safety of Yourself or Others (Example: “If [x] doesn’t win I will shoot myself”, “If you don’t vote for [y] I’m going to doxx you”, etc.). I cannot imagine anyone actually getting heated enough to do this, but if you’re thinking about it, please don’t :)

- Please try to avoid being racist/transphobic/etc in your propaganda (and like in general, but here is a good start).

- Please try to avoid writing anything extremely graphic (read: “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” levels of shit).

I’d appreciate it if we could avoid bot-spamming in the votes.

================================================

FINAL ROUND:

Stella vs Valentino

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ROUND 5:

Katie Killjoy vs Stella (Winner: Stella)

Crimson vs Valentino (Winner: Valentino)

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ROUND 4:

Katie Killjoy vs Susan (Winner: Katie Killjoy)

Chazwick vs Stella (Winner: Stella)

Rolando vs Valentino (Winner: Valentino)

Crimson vs Lyle Lipton (Winner: Crimson)

================================================

ROUND 3:

Section 1:

Susan vs Toledo (Winner: Susan)

Agent Two vs Katie Killjoy (Winner: Katie Killjoy)

Section 2:

Chazwick vs Collin (Winner: Chazwick)

Cletus vs Stella (Winner: Stella)

Section 3:

Loopty Goopty vs Valentino (Winner: Valentino)

Adam vs Rolando (Winner: Rolando)

Section 4:

Crimson vs Lute (Winner: Crimson)

Lyle Lipton vs Tom Trench (Winner: Lyle Lipton)

================================================

ROUND 2:

Section 1:

Alessio vs Susan (Winner: Susan)

Rita vs Toledo (Winner: Toledo)

Agent One vs Katie Killjoy (Winner: Katie Killjoy)

Agent Two vs Stolas (Winner: Agent Two)

Section 2:

Collin vs Martha (Winner: Collin)

Carmilla Carmine vs Chazwick (Winner: Chazwick)

Cherri Bomb vs Cletus (Winner: Cletus)

Andrealphus vs Stella (Winner: Stella)

Section 3:

Valentino vs Velvette (Winner: Valentino)

Glam vs Loopty Goopty (Winner: Loopty Goopty)

Glitz vs Rolando (Winner: Rolando)

Adam vs Zeezi (Winner: Adam)

Section 4:

Lute vs Striker (Winner: Lute)

Crimson vs Keenie (Winner: Crimson)

Lyle Lipton vs Mrs. Mayberry (Winner: Lyle Lipton)

Emberlynn vs Tom Trench (Winner: Tom Trench)

================================================

ROUND 1:

Section 1:

Alessio vs Blitzo (Winner: Alessio)

Mimzy vs Susan (Winner: Susan)

Toledo vs Wally Wackford (Winner: Toledo)

Rita vs Sallie May (Winner: Rita)

Agent One vs Moxxie (Winner: Agent One)

Katie Killjoy vs Loona (Winner: Katie Killjoy)

Angel Dust vs Stolas (Winner: Stolas)

Agent Two vs Rosie (Winner: Agent Two)

Section 2:

Collin vs Vox (Winner: Collin)

Martha vs Sera (Winner: Martha)

Chazwick vs Vortex (Winner: Chazwick)

Carmilla Carmine vs Charlie Morningstar (Winner: Carmilla Carmine)

Alastor vs Cletus (Winner: Cletus)

Beelzebub vs Cherri Bomb (Winner: Cherri Bomb)

Andrealphus vs Husk (Winner: Andrealphus)

Saint Peter vs Stella (Winner: Stella)

Section 3:

Cash Buckzo vs Valentino (Winner: Valentino)

Emily vs Velvette (Winner: Velvette)

Loopty Goopty vs Zestial (Winner: Loopty Goopty)

Bethany Ghostfucker vs Glam (Winner: Glam)

Paimon vs Rolando (Winner: Rolando)

Glitz vs Verosika (Winner: Glitz)

Adam vs Asmodeus (Winner: Adam)

Barbie Wire vs Zeezi (Winner: Zeezi)

Section 4:

Lucifer vs Striker (Winner: Striker)

Lute vs Niffty (Winner: Lute)

Crimson vs Mammon (Winner: Crimson)

Keenie vs Millie (Winner: Keenie)

Lyle Lipton vs Sir Pentious (Winner: Lyle Lipton)

Mrs. Mayberry vs Vaggie (Winner: Mrs. Mayberry)

Fizzarolli vs Tom Trench (Winner: Tom Trench)

Emberlynn vs Lilith (Winner: Emberlynn)

[timeless-fanfic]

can you please write more Jesus you can do one where he finds out Lazarus got married reader could be his wife

A New Union

Word Count: 1030

Lazarus x Reader

The sun was beginning its descent over Bethany, casting a warm, golden glow over the village. The air was peaceful, and a gentle breeze swept through the hills. You stood at the doorway of the modest home you shared with Lazarus, your husband, gazing out at the tranquil scene. It was hard to believe how much had changed in the past few months—how life had shifted since you and Lazarus had pledged yourselves to one another.

Your marriage had been a quiet affair, a simple and intimate gathering with just family and close friends. Lazarus had insisted on keeping it small, but the love and joy you felt was boundless. It had been perfect. Now, you were preparing for something else—something that made your heart race with both excitement and nervous anticipation.

Jesus was coming to visit.

You’d heard so much about Him from Lazarus, from Mary, from Martha. The stories of His teachings, His miracles, His love for people—it all sounded so profound, so life-changing. Lazarus had always spoken of Him with a deep reverence, describing Jesus as more than just a friend; He was the Messiah, the one they had all been waiting for.

Today would be the day Jesus learned of your marriage, and you couldn’t help but wonder how He’d react. Would He be surprised? Happy? You were excited to meet the man who had such an impact on Lazarus’ life—on so many lives.

Lazarus was inside, preparing for the visit, his face lighting up whenever he mentioned Jesus. You could tell how much this meeting meant to him, and to you as well.

“Do you think He’ll approve?” you asked, turning to your husband.

Lazarus smiled at you, his eyes full of warmth and affection. “Jesus doesn’t need to ‘approve’ of our marriage, my love. He’s my friend, and I’m sure He’ll be happy for us.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. Still, there was a part of you that wanted to make a good impression on the man who meant so much to your husband.

Just then, a familiar voice called out from the edge of the village.

“Lazarus!”

You turned, and there He was, walking with His usual calm demeanor, a gentle smile on His face. Jesus looked much like you had imagined Him—radiant and yet so humble, with an air of peace surrounding Him that immediately put you at ease.

“Jesus!” Lazarus called back, his voice full of joy. He rushed forward, embracing his friend warmly. “It’s been too long.”

“It has,” Jesus replied, His voice rich with affection. “It’s good to see you, Lazarus.”

As the two men exchanged greetings, you stood back for a moment, watching their interaction with a quiet awe. There was something about Jesus’ presence—something almost indescribable. He exuded love, not just in His words but in every movement, in every glance. It was as if He saw right into the soul, right into the heart.

Then, Jesus’ gaze fell on you, and His smile softened. “And this must be your wife.”

You stepped forward, feeling both nervous and honored. “Yes, I am (Y/N),” you said, bowing your head slightly in respect. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet You, Jesus. Lazarus has spoken so highly of You.”

Jesus chuckled softly, His eyes full of warmth as He extended His hand to you. “The pleasure is mine, (Y/N). I’ve heard much about you as well.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. “You’ve heard about me?”

“Of course,” Jesus replied, glancing at Lazarus with a knowing smile. “Your husband is quite proud of his bride.”

Lazarus laughed softly, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. “Well, can you blame me?”

You blushed at their exchange, feeling a mix of love and gratitude swell in your chest. Jesus’ approval was unspoken, yet undeniable. There was no judgment in His eyes, only kindness and acceptance.

As the three of you made your way inside, Martha and Mary were already preparing food, their laughter filling the home as they greeted Jesus. The day was filled with light conversation, laughter, and stories shared among friends.

At one point, as the others were busy, you found yourself sitting beside Jesus, the two of you sharing a quiet moment. He turned to you, His gaze gentle but penetrating, as if He could sense the questions lingering in your heart.

“You’ve chosen well,” Jesus said softly, His words surprising you. “Lazarus is a good man.”

You smiled, nodding. “He is. I feel blessed to have him in my life.”

Jesus’ smile deepened, His eyes reflecting a love that seemed infinite. “Marriage is a gift. To find someone who walks with you, who supports you, who loves you—that is a reflection of the love our Father has for us.”

His words struck a chord in your heart, filling you with a sense of peace. “I want to honor that gift,” you said quietly, looking down for a moment. “Sometimes I feel... unsure, like I’m not worthy of the blessings I’ve been given.”

Jesus placed a hand on yours, His touch gentle but grounding. “You are worthy, (Y/N). Our Father’s love is not given because we earn it—it’s given because it is His nature to love. And your love for Lazarus is a reflection of that. Don’t doubt what you’ve been given. Cherish it.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and you quickly blinked them away, feeling both comforted and understood. “Thank You,” you whispered, your heart full.

Jesus nodded, releasing your hand. “Lazarus loves you deeply, (Y/N). And I have no doubt you will walk this journey together with grace and faith.”

At that moment, Lazarus returned, unaware of the conversation you’d just had, but you felt lighter, more confident. You stood to join him, feeling Jesus’ words settle in your heart like a quiet reassurance.

The evening passed with warmth and joy, the house filled with the sounds of family and friendship. But as you looked at Lazarus, then back at Jesus, you knew this moment—this blessing—was something you’d carry with you for the rest of your life.

[apenitentialprayer]

Six days before Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus was, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. They gave a dinner for Him there, and Martha served, while Lazarus was one of those reclining at table with Him. Mary took a liter of costly perfumed oil made from genuine aromatic nard and anointed the feet of Jesus, and dried them with her hair; the house was filled with the fragrance of the oil. Then Judas the Iscariot, one of His disciples, and the one who would betray Him, said, "Why was this oil not sold for three hundred days' wages and given to the poor?" He said this not because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief and held the money bag and used to steal contributions. So Jesus said, "Leave her alone. Let her keep this for the day of My burial. You will always have the poor with you, but you do not always have Me."

the Gospel According to John (12:1-8)

They were having their supper, having a good time. And Mary anointed His feet with perfume and wiped them with her hair. The perfume was worth the equivalent of a year's wages. Maybe she had to take out the pins that were holding her hair bound. I would be embarrassed. It was a transcendent act, beyond boundaries. But the Son of God, He's going to die - I would probably do something dramatic [too].

Mary did a good and lovely thing. What can I do that would be good and lovely? It doesn't have to be great. If someone aroused our anger, hurt us, you could search for a way of reconciliation. It doesn't have to be publicized. A phone call. A postcard. Go down the street and knock on their door.

We shouldn't carry our resources around in a jar and use a medicine dropper to expend them. We should give what we have for His glory, not for our own. That's difficult for me; Mary did a gauche thing, an intimate thing, an embarrassing thing. […] How can we break through our shell and do something good and lovely, reach out to another human being?

President Jimmy Carter, in a sermon given in April of 1995 (x).

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

Awake O Sleeper (A Jesus x Mary Magdalene Romance)

The Asherah grove at the heart of the temple of Our Lady is full of olives and grape vines, in the sacred heart of our worship. Men come to do penance to the Goddess, worshiping us as the qadesh leads them into the bosom of the Mother. I often go to the well at the temple’s courtyard and wish upon the moon reflected in the still waters. She is beauty in the grips of Yahweh, bosom companion of our Heavenly Father.

Jerusalem is a bustling city, full of Canaanites and Samaritans and Jews and Philistines. This Bethany township is but an extension of the metropolis. Herod rules from his abode and the Temple is corrupted, and people are forgetting the old ways, cutting down Asherah groves at the root and pissing on her fig and olive trees. Where stands a temple to El, there rests an Asherah grove. From the Mount of Olives to our own temple in Bethany, where I left Martha and Lazarus behind to become a priestess, I have been trained in anointment and service to the Goddess.

Sometimes starlings roost in the roof and we clip their wings to keep as pets, and I am reminded, I do not live for myself, but for Her, and my body is but a vehicle of prayers. The grove has stood for mayhaps thousands of years, as the olive tree does, cut down then to spring forth from the stump. We prune, we worship, we sing hosannas and we do not weep.

There is nothing to weep over in the temple of the Goddess. Sacred whore, they say, woman of seven devils. It is true, there are demons in my mind, and I am wont to make love to the Damned as well as the angels, as all my fellow anointed qodeshah are, but that can break the body, disassemble the mind, leak out your wineskin until you take the shape of the emptiness of stars, and then, mayhaps, you die. But I survived the temptations of Samael, I have roosted in Lilith’s Huluppu tree, I have eaten flies with Beelzebub and tasted fish to fight back Asmodeus. I have consecrated my virginity to El and Asherah, and Asherah, dear Asherah, has staked her claim on my destiny.

There are rumors from Nazareth. From Egypt. From Galilee. From sea to desert to mountain strand. God walks in human form. Merely twenty, and I am eighteen. He goes by Yeshua, like Joshua of old, and I am Miriam Magdalene in this temple, a watchtower of the lord, Migdal Eder. Mary Magdalene as the Greeks who worship through me say. They say this young man preaches sermons on mountaintops and topples false idols and cuts down Asherah groves. Cuts the Goddess down by the root. Says he is El, says he is the Father.

I have no time for fools. I have no time for false messiahs. I know Asherah, I know El, and though the Messiah is promised, he does not live on manna alone. This Yeshua shits and bleeds, I am sure he fucks, and were he to come to my temple, I would take my teraphim and drive it through his heart.

God bleeds, after all, and Simon Magus is just as much a fool, levitation or not. So is that John the Baptist, beheaded someday soon, an Essene surviving on stale locusts and rotting honey and dumping bodies in the River Jordan.

I survive on the wilderness alone, the barrenness of my heart, for it is only by being empty that one can let the Goddess in. I am a vessel of dripping myrrh and a garden of lilies, oh Asherah. These cults come with passing moons and cycles of suns, and they wax and wane, Mithras and Cybele and Anath and Baal (there are many Baals, after all) and the strange peculiarities of the Romans. I say, stick with what is tried and true. Lady Asherah is Queen.

My brother Lazarus has taken up with this Yeshua, and I hate this false prophet for it. For stealing my impressionable, starry-eyed brother as some false disciple. They say Yeshua loves Lazarus so much he would raise him from the dead. Crackpot talk. Martha, my sweet older sister, has entertained this Yeshua at our rich home across the field. I refused to go. Why, perhaps because Martha wants to know the heart of God, and this Messiah, this Yeshua, has a strange draw on the practical types like Martha and dreamers like Lazarus alike.

They say he believes women equal to men. That his mother Mary and aunt Salome and friend Joanna and now my sister Martha are equal in his eyes, his radical ministry in the desert. They sew and preach and anoint. In his name, they cast out demons. This strange man that claims to be God may well be speaking parables of smoke and mirrors. Here at my temple, we give our bodies over to the Goddess. When has this Yeshua given his body, his blood, his Sacrament, over to God? If that happens, I shall fall to my feet and worship. But he goes around in tattered clothes, a wanderer, and has the woman radically engaged in his ministry. How strange.

Lazarus writes that Yeshua will not touch women. Resists worshiping the Mother. Does not know the way of the flesh, is a Rabbi yet will not take a wife. Will not even contemplate a woman to share in his ministry at its highest point. I think of the rumors flying around Jerusalem and the provinces often as I tend to the duties of the temple, sewing and cleaning and singing and worshiping in body, wine, and moon’s blood.

How can this Yeshua have sway over Martha and Lazarus, when but Asherah is the way and Yahweh, squeezed into a man’s body, would have but the world as his Logos? Were he to meet me, would he give in to the Goddess? Has this strange madman forgotten the way of our ancestors? For every Yahweh, his Asherah. Thus this Yeshua needs a bride. To neglect the Goddess, why, that usurps the whole sun and moon. That is light without the darkness of the womb.

A starling comes with a note summoning me from the High Priestess. There is a visitor. I must go attend to my temple duties. He has requested me to anoint him and be his vessel of worship. The High Priestess say he has paid handsomely for my Sacrament. Far more coins than ever spent on one of the temple priestesses. I wonder if it is mad Herod himself. That would amuse me more than anything.

I dress myself in scarlet, anoint my cheeks with rouge and lips with berries, line my eyes with kohl, and make a messy knot of my curls. My hair never behaves, auburn in that strange way of women burned in Egypt as witches and my eyes the light speckled brown of a sparrow. Once I am done preparing, bedecked in jewels as befit Asherah, I go to the qodeshah room.

There he awaits. Smiling like a lamb yet with the grace of a lion, dressed simply in dusty white, all lithe muscle and smiling dark green eyes that the fire dances in. Smoke clouds the room. I have the sudden urge to run my hands through his dark locks and kiss him senseless. Gravity overtakes me, that calling that drives me into ululations of ecstasy, only it is not one of the seraphim or cherubim that courts me, but divinity himself. Who is this stranger, eating grapes and draped like a Roman over dinner?

“Miriam, a glass of wine?” he asks with a voice like olive oil. He takes the carafe from the table and smiles bemusedly. The red sloshes into a bejeweled cup. His hands are like the milk from the cows of spring. Not the color, mind you, or the softness – they are tan and calloused, fingernails short like the poor. I would think him a carpenter or stonemason, someone who carves idols or builds temples.

I take the glass of wine and scrutinize him. “I am the one who offers wine and anoints you, oh mysterious stranger. Don’t you know the ways of Asherah?”

He laughs like an ewe. “Oh sweet Miriam, but that is not my purpose. My purpose is to do penance and devotions unto you. Come, sip the wine of my blood. It is to you I offer the first Sacrament. They will forget it was you who I offered the Last Supper to first, thirteen years before my death. Eat this bread, this loaf of my flesh.” He takes from his pocket a rich loaf wrapped in linen. I take it hesitatingly, dip it in the wine, nibble a bit, and it is somehow the best meal I have ever had as I chase it down with the goblet. Strange, this man, a mystic perhaps.

Suddenly, I smell blood. “What?” I ask, incredulous. I look down at the bejeweled cup and am horrified to find ruby blood. The bread I hold is a heart that is bleeding. I drop both and scream. This man laughs, laughs at my terror, laughs at his miracle, as if it is the most mundane thing a woman could ask for.

“Yeshua?” I breathe.

He beckons me to him. It is the most natural thing to curl up beside him. I am under a moonspell of Michael, and rushing water fills my veins, icy yet warm, like the River Jordan meets a desert night. We lay together chaste yet starstruck and I stare aghast at him, unable to resist his gravity.

“That is my name, yes, sweet Magdalane, my comely Bride. They will call you a Whore. But you are my Truth, the Gnostics will adore you, and the Cathars, troubadours, and Knights Templar will worship at your hips. You are Asherah. There is no need for this temple, not anymore, as I hold you here manifest in my hands!”

He runs a hand through my curls and unbinds them. “So it’s all true. You are the Lord made flesh…” I trail off, my tongue still bloody and warm with skin and meat and muscle and gore. The bread I dropped and my goblet of wine have disappeared. I am hyperventilating, barely cognizant in the overwhelming grace and fire of this stranger, yet I know him better in my heart than Yahweh, for he is the Father El, made Son.

Lazarus and Martha were right. Damn me a nonbeliever.

“I am but a man, at most, with a few tricks up my sleeve. You will be my comfort, dear woman. My apostle of apostles. My witness. Follow me out of this cursed ground and leave your seven devils behind. The ways of Asherah are over. For you are Asherah, not these statues, never these trees. To be material is a terrible thing! The ways of whoring out your body are done. It is the dawn of a new age, of my sweet Shekinah, my Wisdom, Sophia made New Eve. Cannot you see how red thread bears my loins and your womb together? They will whisper about us in hushed circles millenia down the line, write us poems and canticles and heresies and all agree that to me, you were above all the reason, my anointer, my best disciple, my most beloved. I will raise the dead for you. I will die for you. And you will grow old without me, and you will be my testament, oh Migdal Eder.”

His words are rapturous. His words are true. I cannot divine the future, but I feel the shape of it.

We burn the Asherah grove down with my oil lamp.

I leave behind any vestige of myself.

I follow him out of the temple, across the field, on a donkey out of Bethany, into the winepress night.

And never, ever, do I look back.

Thirteen years pass, and the Last Supper draws close. I am a mystic following in Christ’s footsteps, ever-weeping, washing the dust from his feet. Peter damns me for my passions, but Levi praises me, and Mother Mary holds me closest of all.

Rain outside the window of our kitchen, and Lazarus’ body is held up in the tomb for four days. My sweet older brother, a starstruck wanderer at Christ’s side, just as I cast my lots in with this mad messiah whose gristle and blood I drank down thirteen years ago at the tender age of 18. All to know redemption, as my Temple of Asherah burned and I left my wanton ways behind for higher ground, better things, blessed by doves. To become Asherah in my own might and right! The plague took Lazarus, a wasting away with pustules and jaundice and fragile limbs.

I thought with the Lord, all things were possible, but in his domain is death, and so in my quiet ways, I rage.

Martha and I have washed and dressed and anointed our brother in myrrh and linen – our wealthy parents died when we were but children, leaving us treasures beyond measure as merchants are wont to do and Martha and Lazarus to raise me. The whole town is in mourning over Lazarus, and our expansive household has been filled with mourners.

Yeshua has been at Jerusalem preaching to the masses, but I sent a pigeon from our dovecote with a letter to my Lord of his beloved’s death, our family whom he cherishes above all, and Christ wrote back in eager, wrathful script that even death has no hold on his disciples.

So we have prepared a feast for the other wanderers: dates, lamb, greens, bread, wine. Martha and I have been hard at work in the kitchen baking and cooking and mixing herbs and fruits and vegetables. I purchased vintage straight from Italy a local trader had traveled far to obtain, enough casks to hold a wedding feast like blessed Cana, only this is a funeral.

I can hear him rumble with wrath in the distance. My sweet Rabboni feels like an oncoming storm. Sometimes when I am debating and sparring wits with him over philosophy and pedagogy and theology, the sky suddenly darkens and thunder rumbles as Christ opens his lips, and out comes rains and retorts as lightning strikes. Once we were debating the virtues and vices of angels – how do they serve God, do they have free will, yetzer ha ra versus yetzer ha tov: is a teraphim able to care for its family or is it more golem?

I said I did not believe in free will, and Yeshua said: “Then what shall I die for but humanity’s freedom, my Migdal Eder?” and he laughed like a wine press and it began to gale and storm.

He took me into his arms and we danced by palms at the oasis in the radiance of the tempest, singing hosannas, and I was soaked to my underclothes and my red dress clung to my breasts and hips. Peter would call me an adulteress just for that. Christ’s dusty white robes were glued to his skin like a snake, Nachash be damned. Lazarus found us both dancing like plagues and begged us come inside and break bread with the other disciples, but we were lost inside each other, starved of the wrath of God.

Mother Mary brought us blankets afterward as we both rid ourselves of chills by the fire, Joseph laughed, and Salome made it a running joke: Mary and Yeshua have the tempers of storms, beware if they curse your fig trees or drive your demons into squealing pigs in the ocean’s squall. Salome and her dagger tongue! Judas remarked we could have been struck by the firmament, but Yeshua said: brother, I am God, can’t you see how the storm is my heart of darkness? Peter and Thomas and Luke and John and James paid reverence to Christ, but I was too busy staring into the fire we grilled fish on, eating my loaf, haunted by what would come when the sky darkened for Yeshua’s death.

My eyes tear up at that memory as I am tending Christ’s bread, which is his body, a small taste of what is to come. It is leavened and ready to be devoured. I set the table, the long wooden beauty my father picked up from some far northern country, was it Ing’s land? Who knows, but the Celts have such intricate eyes for knotwork. Living beasts in the legs. I would like to go to their province someday. To see where these curiosities come from. What strange gods and demons they worship.

There is a knock at the door. Salome is there with Zebedee, John, and James in tow. She looks like a gazelle, all proud and lithe lines, not a bit of wasted space about her. “Mary, Martha, we came as soon as we heard!” Salome explains, impassioned. There are tears in her, Zebedee’s, John’s and James’ eyes. She wipes at it with a cloth. “Lazarus was the best of us. How you two must mourn. Here, John, James, take the horses to the stable, Zebedee, why don’t you unpack and set up camp? Lord knows Miriam’s house is big, but not enough for all the disciples. Elohim took Lazarus under fair weather, so we will have no problem in the courtyard.”

I hug Salome close to me, this mentor of mine who was Christ’s midwife and the first besides Elizabeth to declare him the Son of God. In some ways she was first, first to catch the placenta and afterbirth and caul of Christ the King. Finger withered at his might.

No wonder he was a calamity come into this world that has been relentless ever since. He is my storm dancer. My soul. I can only imagine 33 years ago, Salome at 12, in a manger with blessed, tough-as-nails Mother Mary and nervous Father Joseph. Mary is never nervous. Never doubts. Always asserts. She is our strength, like Gav’riel, who favored her. Sometimes Gav’riel still visits her when he thinks no one is looking and they have long talks in the reeds – angels sound like panpipes and bells and regrets. I have caught her in quiet corners talking with that messenger of the archangels about Yeshua’ road to Calvary and ending in Golgotha. Gav’riel has prophesied as much, told us his days are numbered. Christ accepts it, with the bullheadedness of his mother.

That I will grow old without Yeshua.

It is something I do not like to contemplate much.

“Mary, my sweet daughter, in all my 45 years, I have never seen anyone with as much devotion to Yeshua as you, besides his own mother. He said he would raise the dead for you.” She hugs me hard with her whipcord muscles, then accompanies me to the kitchen and greets Martha.

“Martha, my other blessed daughter, do you not know what service you do to our Lord? Us ladies are the backbone of the ministry, after all. From our own funds we support these rambunctious men. I have tried holding James and John in check, but yet they go casting out demons and fishing for souls and preaching. Zebedee is easier to tame. That is why I married him, hah!”

Martha laughs and embraces us both. “Oh Salome, our family reunited, yet for such sad occasion. Having Lazarus gone, why, a missing limb. Wine without a glass, spilling constantly. Here, eat!” She takes a date and presses it to Salome’s mouth. Salome smiles and bites it mischievously.

“Let us go to the wishing well, girls. The women rode ahead. Yeshua held a lengthy sermon with the men, giving us time to charge ahead and prepare the banquet and speak to the angels. Joanna and Mary and Susanna await.”

“Oh!” I say, wiping away hot tears as I dwell on Lazarus. They say my tears could fill an ocean.

The peach pit in my throat lightens a bit at the thought of my spiritual sisters here to visit my Bethany township. We make our way to the well outside and see Mother Mary and the others divining in the well. They are staring coolly into its depths. Martha, Salome, and I join them in silence. The six of us peering into the silver depths and we summon an image: Lazarus alive, at the cost of Yeshua.

They are inextricably linked.

“A life for a life, my dears,” Mother Mary says, dabbing at her strong brow with her sleeve. “My son will give his life for Lazarus, for that is the only way to cheat the grave. But Lazarus is well worth the sacrifice. We all know what awaits at Golgotha. Perhaps the men doubt, but my son granted us all the sight. Women’s magic: prophesy. In dying for Lazarus, he gives life to us all, a way to Heaven. It is not what I would have chosen for my only child, but he is the Lord, and I will be living testament to his short life.”

We gather round Mother Mary, hugging one another in sisterly love. Salome grips her fiercely and I fall to her feet and kiss them. We then retire to the dining room until the men arrive.

“There was no choice in this, was there, Mother?” I ask Mary.

Joanna and Susanna share a look of wistfulness. Salome bites like a lion with fury into a bit of crusty bread ends dipped in olive oil. The two phases, or likewise feelings, surrounding what awaits Yeshua ahead: fury at Christ’s death or sadness. Or an interim like me, awe and resignation.

Mother Mary sighs. “No, Gav’riel told me as much, sweet Magdalene. My son’s life was never his own, but then again, neither are ours. We will be near deified, us outcast desert ramblers. I just hope I have prepared my loving son for the hatred and ultimate cost of his sacrifice. Joseph will take it the hardest. Joseph always does. Martha will take it the second hardest. Salome, you shall curse the ground the Devil walked upon. Susanna and Joanna, you two will be wed in memories and become some of the most eloquent in voicing his ministry, but they will forget you, just as they will hold small memories of Salome.”

Mother Mary takes a sip of wine, then looks to me with lambent eyes under her shawl. “Girl of Migdal Eder, yours is the most cursed fate. For asking Lazarus back, to you goes the blame. For your passion and devotion, they will mark you a whore. I can see how this all ends, centuries, nay, millenia down the line. Our ministry divided into a thousand fractured shards. Our legacy used for villainy and anything but radical love. They will snuff our teachings out at the bud and mark them heresies. Us women used as props and all but forgotten. They will say my son stood for hatred and oppression, yet while he walked this earth, he was hated and oppressed. And you, my Miriam. You will suffer the most out of love. Love is all our cross to bear. But I say, drink now, live well, and so be it!”

We all echo her and raise our glasses in toast, then chase down the wine. Martha’s eyes are fire. “I know what price I ask of Yeshua. I ask it anyway, so damn me to Gehenna. Lazarus needs to live, just as Yeshua must die for our sins. That was shown to us all in the well, my sisters sweet.”

There are muffled voices outside and the whuff of horses and call of hounds. The men have arrived. With a steel face done with crying, Martha goes outside to meet our maker.

I sit with the women who are closer to me than my own mother. “What Martha asks, what I ask of Yeshua, his will be done, a life for a life, flesh for flesh, blood for blood, a grave for a grave, perhaps they will look back on us and think us selfish. Perhaps they will believe us mighty. But asking never hurt anyone, I say.”

“The sun gives life but cares not who he burns,” Joanna and Susanna say in unison. They are always together, commiserating, sharing ecclesiastic knowledge, singing the Song of Solomon, speaking in rhyme and time. They are full of the Holy Ghost, moreso than any f us.

We all smile. “Makes the mustard seed grow, does the Son,” Salome says in but a whisper, and we all laugh.

There is weeping at the door. Levi clings to hunched over Martha, who looks like she has gone into labor of the soul. He practically carries her inside. Tears flow like gold from her blue eyes. “Mary, the Master is come, and calls you out.”

My heart stirs like a falcon. I walk out to the well. Yeshua stands alone, drinking water from a canteen. The other disciples are heard with Zebedee and James and John setting up camp in the courtyard. My Rabboni’s eyes have flames like Uriel’s sword in them. Some kind of samiel wind from Arabia. Without a word, he embraces me, then kisses me on the lips as he does his disciples when we need the Logos most. I cling to him. I will get in trouble for clinging to him someday, somewhere in a garden, with a stone rolled away, beyond the grips of death.

He laughs and strokes my hair. “Do not cling to me, woman,” he teases. I laugh through my tears and kiss him back. “What did you think, that I would let Lazarus lay dead? Oh my Magdalene, damn your doubts. For you I would raise the dead. It is for you I will die. It is for me you will live and be my witness. Can’t you see how our love will be consummated on the Cross? Me bleeding blood and water into your mouth. Pick up that sword that will stab me, sweet Mary, and become an angel of the Lord, with flaming blade and your red hair of fury. I want you to wreak vengeance with your words and wit when I am gone, my girl.”

I wipe my tears. “Yes, Rabboni.”

“I am not Rabboni now, not ever, Mary Miriam. Call me servant. Call me your lover. Call me your witness.”

“Witness, servant, lover, it doesn’t matter. You are my heart.”

“You are a stubborn girl, aren’t you? Remember when we met those thirteen years ago, I twenty and ever the fool, you 18 and priestess to a dead goddess? No, Miriam, the Shekinah is stubborn, Wisdom never gives up, Sophia is relentless. She comes with the greatest pearl of great price. Challenge me in your storm. Ask, and ye shall receive.”

“Give your death for my sweet brother, Yeshua. Raise him from the dead.”

Yeshua smiles and contemplates the lines on my palms clutched to his hands. “Thy will be done, my Migdal Eder. Where have you laid him?”

“In a cave outside town. The mourners are still there.”

We make our way to the stony entrance. People are red eyed and watery mouthed, wailing, commiserating, remembering, drunk off and stinking of wine. Lazarus was always the most loved, bookish neighbor of Bethany. He was the only one that died of the sickness, as if he was marked by the Lord to suffer. A bleeding wound of God’s tear.

Yeshua falls down weeping, wracked with sobs, and from his tears grow ivy. From his tears grow roses. From his tears grows vines ripe with red grapes. The sky darkens, and the familiar storm of our hearts engulfs from Galilee to Nazareth, with its dancing eye in Bethany. The surrounding firmament is tumultuous, but here where the sky parts, the sun glows, and there is a rainbow akin to God’s promise. The brilliance engulfs my Rabboni, and he curses the stone, and it rolls away of its own accord, revealing my brother’s corpse.

Martha and the disciples have heard the commotion, and Martha is bereaved. “Oh my Lord, he has been dead four days, how he must stink. Surely this is beyond even your glory!”

Yeshua chokes on his tears and roars, hitting the stone and then it fractures into hundreds of pieces. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing and turns to Martha with a feral smile. “I said to you Martha, that, if you truly believe, wouldn’t you see the glory of God?”

Martha is silent, just falls to her knees weeping, and nods. Salome and Mother Mary are by each of her shoulders, comforting and supporting her.

“Have faith in the Lord I have brought into this world,” Mother Mary whispers with her indomitable strength. There is a bit of Gav’riel in her eyes. Over the course of the years, her and her angel have both become messengers, almost yin and yang, Adamah and Chavah, one and the same. At this point, Mary is more queen of angels than human.

Martha blows snot into Mary’s sleeve. Unlike me, she was never a beautiful crier. That makes it more important, the messiness of it. No one would ever build a statue of Martha bereaved, but to me go the idols and repentant whores.

All the disciples and town are weeping. Ululations even, screams of Lazarus, but Christ’s sobbing and fury at that great enemy, Death, are strongest of all. He kneels down, shaking, in prayer, then looks to the swirling sky and violet and green of the parted clouds haloing Lazarus’s stinking grave and suddenly the light illuminates him like a candle flame in Samael’s darkness.

“Father, I thank you that you have heard me. This storm is testament to your wrath, my wrath, at that great enemy, Death. You who always hear me. You who fulfill the wishes of my people, and hence all the world, that follows and loves me. They believe in me through you. I believe in you through them. They are my brides, every one of them, and come New Jerusalem, I will wed the world. But there is a man whose time is not done. My beloved disciple. Lazarus, come forth!”

White light fills Lazarus’ grave, and suddenly my brother rises, rot and sickness gone, still bound in corpse clothes, and his eyes are near violet for a moment until they settle on their black, and Martha screams, and I laugh, and we all fall down in worship to the Christ. I cling to his feet and weep. He embraces Lazarus and undoes the cloth covering his face.

“Yeshua,” Lazarus breathes. “You kept me to your bosom for four days. I would like to return there on my true dying day, to become your marrow, but here I am healed and whole, my body restored, no longer hollow of soul. You talked long over these four days and nights of how Martha, Mary, and I will serve you.”

Lazarus and Yeshua kiss, and then Yeshua picks me up and kisses me. “Rise, my flock!” he says through fierce tears, then embraces and kisses every one of us. We are moved by the spirit and begin singing. The rain comes and we are soaked. Yeshua eyes me as he is kissing sweet, innocent Judas. There is a trickster fire in his eyes, just like Gavr’iel. It is a message I am not yet privy to, as if to say: this is my death, and you are my life, my Magdalene.

Later that night, past supper, Yeshua takes me out into the storm for one of our secret talks, the storm of his heart, and he kisses me, and he whispers in my ear: “In six days before Passover I shall return to Bethany. Wait for me here, sweet Magdalene. Peter may be my Sapha, but you are my Migdal Eder. Your rivalry: watchtower and cornerstone, is but the fight of Adamah subduing Chavah only for Chavah to be triumphant in the end of days. You will cry at my feet as you always do and anoint me as the Bride does the Bridegroom for my death. It is you I place this burden on: my witness. My accuser. My seducer. My destroyer.”

“You know not what you ask,” I whisper.

“Oh, but Miriam, I do. On the Cross I will make love to you finally after these long thirteen years, if only through my wounds nursing you. You will never bear my children as you want, Mary. We will never marry. We will never join as man and wife. I will leave you long behind when I take my place beside my Father, but you will always be faithful in ways Peter will forget. They will curse you. They will drag your name through the mud. But at the end of days, it will be you I wed foremost. It will be you who eats the final Sacrament. Can you promise me Mary, that you will not shy away from dressing me for the tomb? I promise you as Apostle of Apostles, Miriam of Bethany. I pledge my troth to you, though it is a strange and scary vow.”

“I accept it all, all the pain, all the testaments to you! I will anoint you with my own wanton red hair and costly myrrh. I knew this was coming. I bought the myrrh three years ago, sweet Yeshua.”

“Let us dance in this storm, my Magdalene.”

So we did.

[ramrodd]

Jesus & Josephus | You Don't Understand!

COMMENTARY:

Judea in the 1st Century wasn't Ireland during the potato famine. Josephus understood that Judea was part of Pax Romana and le dolce vita of the Mediterranean and the Jews in Jerusalem were far better off acting like diamond dealers on Time Square than Jews Against Jesus in France after the Reformation.

The reason why Josephus doesn't mention Paul is because Paul's activities took him far out side he Area of Operations of the Tenth Legion that patrolled the trade routes from the Lavant and Orient that travels through the Galilee to the land bridge into Egypt and Africa.  Josephus cribbed much of his narrative of the Jewish Wars from the intelligence archives of the X Legion which included what we now refer to as Quelle in regards to the Synoptic Gospels. The Sopel of John uses the εὐθὺς time stamp of the Roman Standard Time and login, but it is John Mark's memoir of his 3 years as the Beloved Disciple. James Tabor's intuition that Mark and John are interrelated narratives is exactly correct.

Jewish scholars don't begin to have the mushy interpretation of Josephus that Jesus Seminar scholarship. The take him entirely at face value and consider him an invaluable reflection of 1st Century Judea. Period. The issue for them isn't whether Jesus existed: it's whether He improved the legacy of Moses. Shammai, Hillel and Jesus agreed on the basis of the Law of Moses: the difference is that Shammai and Hillel were committed to sustaining and defending the boundaries of Judaism while Jesus employed it as a point of departure for the horizons Judaism made possible.

The Tower of Babel is a cautionary parable waring against the vertical structures of theocracy, in general, and Temple Worship, in particular. That warning applied to the pre-Reformation Vatican.. In the final analysis, the Torah is a military field manual for cultural transformation with a primary purpose to create a cultural test tube to create Jesus, a good Jewish boy with impeccable breeding  from Eve, forward.  Jesus shares the cultural vanity of intellectual rigor. It's His side of the bet He makes with The Satan in the Wilderness. The sociology that is favored by the intent of the Bible is horizontal.. like the federal organization of the Pharaoh's in Genesis 41.  If Moses had been a Marxist, Jewish sociology would have stopped evolving with the Book of Judges and the horizontal confederation of the 12 tribes., but the advantages of the economies of scale of the Egyptian federal system was not lost in the racial memory and the central executive of a king led to the verticle structures of the Temple. What was beginning to emerge as the current synagogue rubrical  structures from the influence of Aristotle on Alexander the Great in the 3rd cnetury BCE is essentially the central reform Jesus was promoting. Josephus could see the Temple business model fitting in quite nicely with the Pax Romana of Hellenistic Judaism in the synagogues that existed througout the Galilee that represented a diamond exchange on the Times Square of Rome.

Josephus had a very intimate relationship with the X Legion resulting in his surrender and subsequent eye witness of the investment and reduction of Jerusalem. The X Legion is the incubator of Quelle. What would be fascinating is to determine his interaction with Cornelius at any time from his treason against Jerusalem and the Triumphal in Rome. If he was aware of the Talking Cros covenant with the Italian Cohort in Rome doesn't seem to cme up in conversation.

The Gospel of Mark is written from the perspective of the garrison of the X Legion in Capernaum and the Gospel of John is written from the perspective of the household of Martha, Mary, Lazarus and John Mark in Bethany.

[hinacu-arts]

So ive been working on possible secret tunnel au ships on and off all week (been super busy so i couldnt give it much time) and i cant believe the one who's outline i finished first (which i do after brainstorming and spit ball drafts) was a freaking Jumanji ship

of all fandoms IT WAS JUMANJI

[incorrectjumanji]

I decided to do one of those Ship Headcanon Things for Martha and Bethany

First one to confess their feelings: Bethany. She's not one to sit around and simply pine after the one she likes.

First to apologize after a fight: Martha. They are both pretty good about knowing when they need to apologize, but Bethany is definitely more stubborn.

First to wake up: Bethany. It takes her longer to get ready in the morning, so she wakes up first. She also likes to do yoga in the morning, and will have a coffee ready for Martha when she has to get up.

First to fall asleep: Also Bethany. Martha is a night owl. She stays up late studying, reading, or whatever else she needs to get done. She does make a point to be in bed while doing those things so that Bethany can cuddle up to her.

The affentionate one: Bethany. Martha finds PDA awkward, though she can get pretty cuddly when they are alone.

The overprotective one: Martha. Neither of them are very overprotective, but Martha can get a bit jealous when people flirt with Bethany. When that happens a bit of Ruby starts to shine through. Bethany finds it hot and usually drags her girlfriend to a secluded area to makeout after.

The money savvy one: Martha. She's constantly trying to convince Bethany that she doesn't need to spend so much on clothes and makeup. But she also finds it adorable when Bethany throws a tiny fashion show to show her all the new clothes she got.

The more charismatic (popular) one: Bethany.

The better caregiver when the other is sick: They are both pretty in tune to the other and know what the other needs when they aren't feeling well.

Does the cooking: Both of them cook. They are both decent at it, so they switch off.

Does the housework: Martha. She's definitely the neater one of the two. Bethany's organized mess sometimes drives her crazy.

Does most of the speaking: Bethany. She's the more outgoing extraverted one out of the two.

Designated driver: Martha, she doesn't drink that much. Part of that is because she's a huge lightweight, meanwhile Bethany can drink a lot and barely be hungover in the morning.

Has good penmanship: Both of them. Though Bethany’s got better than Martha’s when she learned calligraphy for her cartography

Has a troubled past: Neither of them. Unless you count Jumanji.

Has more experience with relationships: Bethany. Though they certainly weren't the healthiest ones.

Keeps more secrets in the relationship: Martha. They both are pretty good about being open with each other, but sometimes Martha's insecurities and anxiety keep her from telling Bethany something in.

Sensitive to subtle changes in their partner: Bethany. She's actually really observant.

The one who proposes: Bethany. She proposes in front of a waterfall on one of their adventures.

The one who dies protecting the other: Preferably neither, but in the context of a Jumanji game, it would be Bethany.

[mypurelyselfindulgentprompts]

Jumanji Fanfic Idea

I someone to write about Bethany being really into exploring after Jumanji. She uses her photography skills to get a job as a traveling photographer. And she drags along her girlfriend Martha. (And hey if she comes out as nonbinary or trans, that would be cool too)

Martha starts martial arts, and it turns out that she has a knack for it. She ends up becoming a black belt does competitions. She also starts taking dance classes. Bethany goes to all the recitals and competitions that she can. And when she can't she makes sure to have flowers sent to their apartment, and calls her asking how it went.

Fridge turns out to be a zoology genius and gets a scholarship for it. He still plays football, but it's no longer his main focus. It takes him and Spencer longer to get together than it does Martha and Bethany. But when they do, it just feels right. Afterall, Mouse and Bravestone were very close.

Whereas before Jumanji when Spencer was worried and freaked out by pretty much everything, he is now a lot more confident. There is a new air around him, and sometimes he even will smoulder. He still isn't that into working out, but he will drag Fridge hiking and rock climbing. Spencer was the one to ask out Fridge.

(I don't even know what the fic would be like, but I want it. One that ignores The Next Level. Not that I didn't enjoy that one, but I wish that they were each a little bit more effected by their avatars from the game.)

It’s free real estate. Please feel free to use this idea. If you do use it, please just let me know. My ao3 is KnightsofAce if you want to gift it to me. Or just let me know if the comments. I want to read it so please just let me know if you write something based on my idea.

[such-fandom-very-tears]

Spencer: This is my girlfriend Martha, and this is her girlfriend Bethany, and this is her boyfriend Fridge, who is also my boyfriend.

[charasthetics]

Bethany Walker Aesthetic

[merganfm]

so i just saw Jumanji: The Next Level and after Welcome to the Jungle I shipped Martha and Bethany even though i Knew nothing would come of it, but when The Next Level started with Bethany texting Martha what she was leaving to come see her and how excited she was, and how Martha and Spencer weren’t together anymore for ~some reason~ and how Martha had found people who liked her in college i got Unfairly Hyped because i had the audacity to think we were maybe gonna get a “Martha figured out she was more than a lil bit gay in the interim” reveal, and possibly even definitely had a crush on Bethany. i was saddened to find this was not the case and a lil bit disappointed in myself for thinking a franchise could make a main character canonically queer in a plot where it’s not the point of the story 🤷🏻‍♀️ anyway that’s my thoughts, pls feed me fanfic so i don’t have to write it myself 🙃

[hellaversepolls]

Tournament Poll: Hellaverse Character with the Most Tragic Backstory (2024)

Competitors (70): Adam, Agent One, Agent Two, Alastor, Alessio, Andrealphus, Angel Dust, Asmodeus, Barbie Wire, Beelzebub, Belphegor, Bethany Ghostfucker, Blitzo, Carmilla Carmine, Cash Buckzo, Charlie, Chazwick, Cherri Bomb, Cletus, Collin, Crimson, Emberlynn, Emily, Fizzarolli, Glam, Glitz, Husk, Katie Killjoy, Keenie, Leviathan, Lilith, Loona, Loopty Goopty, Lucifer, Lute, Lyle Lipton, Mammon, Martha, Millie, Mimzy, Moxxie, Mrs. Mayberry, Niffty, Octavia, Paimon, Rita, Rolando, Rosie, Saint Peter, Sallie May, Satan, Sera, Sir Pentious, Stella, Stolas, Striker, Susan, Tilla, Toledo, Tom Trench, Vaggie, Valentino, Vassago, Velvette, Verosika, Vortex, Vox, Wally Wackford, Zeezi, Zestial

No "gun to the head" scenario this time, sorry (holiday stuff left me kinda busy)

"But X doesn't have a backstory" - A fair and probably true point! Most characters in the Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss universe don't have one.

If you find yourself caught between two backstory-less choices, feel free to take a look at both options and make your own judgement about who YOU think probably had/has it worse.

Voting rules and match lists under read more.

VOTING RULES:

Feel free to spread as much propaganda for your choice as you like if that’s your thing, as long as you remember the following:

- Please Don’t Threaten/Promise to Compromise the Safety of Yourself or Others (Example: “If [x] doesn’t win I will shoot myself”, “If you don’t vote for [y] I’m going to doxx you”, etc.). I cannot imagine anyone actually getting heated enough to do this, but if you’re thinking about it, please don’t :)

- Please try to avoid being racist/transphobic/etc in your propaganda (and like in general, but here is a good start).

- Please try to avoid writing anything extremely graphic (read: “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” levels of shit).

I’d appreciate it if we could avoid bot-spamming in the votes.

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ROUND 3:

Section 1:

Husk vs Millie

Adam vs Angel Dust

Section 2:

TBA

Section 3:

TBA

Section 4:

TBA

Section 5:

TBA

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ROUND 2:

Section 1:

Lyle Lipton vs Millie

Charlie vs Husk

Angel Dust vs Mrs Mayberry

Due to how I set up the rounds, Adam moves on to Round 3

Section 2:

Fizzarolli vs Octavia

Agent One vs Niffty

Lilith vs Sir Pentious

Due to how I set up the rounds, Vox moves on to Round 3

Section 3:

Tilla vs Moxxie

Blitzo vs Vaggie

Stella vs Stolas

Due to how I set up the rounds, Zestial moves on to Round 3

Section 4:

Lucifer vs Verosika

Leviathan vs Vassago

Alessio vs Rita

Due to how I set up the rounds, Cherri Bomb moves on to Round 3

Section 5:

Alastor vs Carmilla Carmine

Agent Two vs Striker

Loona vs Vortex

Due to how I set up the rounds, Barbie Wire moves on to Round 3

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ROUND 1:

Section 1:

Glitz vs Millie

Lyle Lipton vs Mammon

Charlie vs Zeezi

Husk vs Saint Peter

Emily vs Mrs Mayberry

Angel Dust vs Chazwick

Adam vs Andrealphus

Section 2:

Lute vs Octavia

Fizzarolli vs Valentino

Martha vs Niffty

Agent One vs Rolando

Lilith vs Sera

Sir Pentious vs Wally Wackford

Collin vs Vox

Section 3:

Tilla vs Velvette

Moxxie vs Tom Trench

Sallie May vs Vaggie

Blitzo vs Toledo

Bethany Ghostfucker vs Stella

Crimson vs Stolas

Loopty Goopty vs Zestial

Section 4:

Rosie vs Verosika

Lucifer vs Paimon

Keenie vs Leviathan

Cletus vs Vassago

Mimzy vs Rita

Alessio vs Cash Buckzo

Cherri Bomb vs Susan

Section 5:

Belphegor vs Carmilla Carmine

Alastor vs Asmodeus

Agent Two vs Emberlynn

Beelzebub vs Striker

Katie Killjoy vs Loona

Satan vs Vortex

Barbie Wire vs Glam

[timeless-fanfic]

Hey can you write a being best friends with Mary of bethany fic

Best Friends with Mary of Bethany

Word Count: 1322

Mary of Bethany  x (Platonic) Reader

The sun was just beginning to rise over Bethany, casting a warm glow over the village as you made your way to the house of your best friend, Mary. It had become a routine of sorts—visiting Mary as the morning light spilled over the hills, filling her home with the first signs of a new day. Ever since you were children, you and Mary had shared everything: your dreams, your secrets, your quiet conversations late into the night.

Today was no different.

As you neared the house, you could already hear the familiar sounds of Martha bustling around inside, likely preparing for the day. But it was Mary’s soft laughter that you recognized first, and it immediately brought a smile to your face. There was something about her presence that brought peace to even the most chaotic of days.

You knocked lightly on the door, but before you could even lower your hand, the door swung open to reveal Mary, her eyes bright with excitement.

“(Y/N)!” she greeted warmly, pulling you into a tight embrace before stepping back. “I was just about to come looking for you. Come in, come in!”

You smiled and followed her inside, taking in the familiar sights and smells of the house. Martha was already in the kitchen, of course, preparing food for the day’s guests, though she paused long enough to give you a welcoming nod. You and Martha had always gotten along well, but it was Mary you had bonded with most. There was something about her quiet strength, her gentle spirit, that had always drawn you to her.

“How have you been?” Mary asked as she led you into the sitting area, gesturing for you to sit beside her on the cushions. “I feel like it’s been forever since we had time to talk.”

You laughed softly. “I was here just two days ago, Mary.”

She smiled sheepishly. “I know, but it feels like longer. So much has happened.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Mary’s expression softened, her gaze lowering for a moment as she collected her thoughts. “Jesus was here again,” she said quietly, her voice filled with reverence.

At the mention of His name, your heart stirred. You had heard much about Jesus from Mary and her family. The stories of His teachings, His miracles, and His kindness had spread throughout the village, and though you had yet to meet Him personally, you could tell how deeply He had touched Mary’s life.

“Tell me everything,” you urged, leaning in with interest.

Mary’s face lit up as she recounted the events of the past few days. She told you of how Jesus had visited their home again, how He had spoken with her and Martha, how His words had brought a sense of peace and purpose to her heart.

“He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” Mary said softly, her eyes filled with admiration. “When He speaks, it’s as if He sees into your soul. He doesn’t just look at you—He understands you, every part of you.”

You listened intently, captivated by her words. There was no denying the change that had come over Mary in the past months. Ever since she had begun following Jesus, she had become more reflective, more at peace. And while you hadn’t yet had the opportunity to hear Him teach, you could feel the impact He had on your friend.

“I wish I could meet Him,” you confessed quietly, your fingers idly tracing patterns on the fabric of your tunic. “Everything you say about Him… it sounds incredible.”

Mary smiled warmly, reaching out to place a comforting hand on yours. “You will,” she assured you. “I know it. Jesus welcomes everyone, (Y/N). You’ll see Him for yourself soon enough.”

There was a certainty in her voice that gave you hope, and you found yourself nodding in agreement, trusting her words.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the warmth of your friendship filling the room. It was moments like these that reminded you just how grateful you were for Mary’s presence in your life. Even when you didn’t speak, you always felt understood, always felt at home when you were with her.

After a while, you turned to her, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Do you remember the time we tried to bake bread together?”

Mary burst out laughing, her laughter filling the room like music. “How could I forget? We nearly set the house on fire!”

You joined in her laughter, the memory of that disastrous day still fresh in your mind. You and Mary had decided to surprise Martha by baking bread while she was out, but it had quickly turned into chaos when neither of you could get the dough right. In the end, it was Martha who had to come to the rescue, though she had laughed at your efforts once the smoke had cleared.

“We were so proud of ourselves, too,” you chuckled, shaking your head at the memory. “Until Martha walked in and saw the mess we’d made.”

“She’s never let us forget it,” Mary added, still giggling.

As your laughter died down, you leaned back against the cushions, a content sigh escaping your lips. “We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?”

Mary nodded, her expression turning thoughtful. “Yes, we have. And we’ll have more.”

The sincerity in her voice warmed your heart, and you smiled at her, grateful for the bond you shared. There were few people in the world who knew you as well as Mary did, and fewer still who understood you the way she did.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mary,” you said softly, your voice filled with affection.

She looked at you with equal warmth, her hand squeezing yours gently. “And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

For a while, the two of you sat in peaceful companionship, the quiet sounds of the house around you adding to the serene atmosphere. It was one of the things you loved most about your friendship with Mary—there was never any need to fill the silence. You could simply be, and that was enough.

Eventually, Martha called from the kitchen, announcing that lunch was ready. You and Mary exchanged a glance before rising to join her, your stomachs growling in unison. As you helped Martha set the table, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you.

Life in Bethany wasn’t always easy, but with Mary by your side, you knew you could face anything.

Later that afternoon, as the sun began to dip lower in the sky, you found yourself sitting outside with Mary, watching the sky turn shades of pink and orange. It was a quiet, perfect moment, the kind that reminded you of how fortunate you were to have her in your life.

“(Y/N),” Mary said after a while, her voice soft but filled with meaning.

You turned to look at her, seeing the seriousness in her eyes.

“I want you to come with me the next time Jesus visits,” she said, her words a quiet invitation. “I want you to meet Him. I think you’d… I think you’d love Him.”

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. But as you looked at her, seeing the way her eyes shone with love and devotion, you felt something stir within your heart—a longing to know the One who had brought so much peace to your best friend.

“I’d like that,” you whispered, your voice filled with quiet anticipation.

Mary smiled, and in that moment, you knew that your friendship with her was only the beginning of something far greater.

[ramrodd]

One Hour. One Book: John

Commentary:

The Gospel of John was written by John Mark and your intuition that it reads like a diary is exactly correct it is the memoir of John Mark's experience as the Beloved Disciple with Jesus from the time of his Bar Mitzvah in the Passover of 28 CE to the Galilee after the Resurrection.

  John Mark was not the author of the Gospel of Mark, which was written by Cornelius no later than 40 CE, but he is the young man who runs away "naked" in Mark 14. He provides the eye witness testimony to Jesus' passion in Gethsemane and the Kangaroo Court in Caiaphas' house at the end of Mark 14, Dr. James Tabor's  intuition that the narratives of Mark and John are deliberately entwined is exactly correct and the narrative converge twice, at John 4 - 6 and Mark 6 and at Mark 11 and John 11.  

The Mediterranean was profoundly Hellenistic in the 1st Century, Jesus enlarges the Shema to include Plato with the addition of "mind" and the Prologue to the Gospel of John 1:1 - 15 is right out of the school of Philo of Alexandria and the liberal tradition of Hillel,  The combination of the narrative of Mark and the narrative of John can be understood as the Greco-Roman play-by-play of Jesus's ministry of a Pagan Christian and the color commentary of a Hellenistic  Jesus Follower who has been expelled from the Synagogues by the 19th Blessing of the Amidah by "the Jews"

  You are exactly correct regarding the composition of the Gospel of John being before 70 CE and began to be distributed out of John Mark's publishing house in Alexandria possibly before Paul was executed in Rome. Your thesis about John 21 is probably correct and was added at the same time Mark 16:9 - 20 was added at the same time because, even in English, the syntax is the same and John Mark would have had access to Luke's amicus brief for Paul's defense, which became The Acts of the Apostles.

  According to Dan Wallace, 90% of the existing manuscripts before the 4th Century CE orignated in Alexandria, John Mark's publishing house. The Apostle John may have become the Bishop if Ephesus, but he didn't write and distribute the Gospel of John from Ephesus

  The Gospel of Mark is organized around the testimony of Peter that Cornelius acquired during the 3 days of debriefing cited in Acts 10. The Gospel of Peter is Peter's memory of the contents of Pilate's euangelion to Tiberius that Cornelius transmitted to him off=stage of Acts 10. Paul uses the term euangelion 19 times in his Epistles which was conveyed to him by Peter in Acts 15:7.

  Among other things, we discover that Jesus had a second base of poerations in Bethany that the Roman spy net work of the X Legion was unaware of. I believe He had a separated safe house from the household of Martha, Mary and Lazarus of Bethany, which was a venue of John Mark when he wasn't in Jerusalem, A question I have is whether Mary of Bethany and Mary of Jerusalem are the same person.

  Another fact seems to be that the family of Mary of Nazareth, Jesus's mother, was comfortably bourgeoise and that the gifts of the 3 Magi represented a significant dowry that underwrote the family business of wedding caterers.

[sprnklersplashes]

I cannot believe Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle ended with Bethany and Martha falling in love wow