#just as you are

[thepeacefulgarden]

[lousydrawingsforgoodpeople]

[spiritualseeker777]

[momentsbeforemass]

Right now

Sometimes the haters get it right.

Today’s Gospel is the story of Zacchaeus. An admitted extortionist, and a successful one.

But also, someone who wants to see Jesus. So badly that he’s willing to embarrass himself by climbing a tree. Just to get a glimpse.

Jesus’ response to Zacchaeus? “Today I must stay at your house.”

Of course, the people who hate Jesus have to say something. And they do – “He has gone to stay at the house of a sinner.”

Sometimes the haters get it right.

Let’s be clear, Zacchaeus isn’t just a morally questionable person who’s extorting other people for his own profit.

He’s a sell out to the foreign power that’s occupying his homeland. He’s helping Rome collect taxes. So that the Jewish people can pay for the cost of the foreign army that’s keeping them in line.

Zacchaeus is getting paid to do that. Then making it worse by overcharging people. And keeping the extra for himself.

Sometimes the haters get it right. But not in the way they think.

Because Jesus doesn’t wait for Zacchaeus to fix everything. Jesus doesn’t wait for Zacchaeus to become a good person (whatever that means) or to clean up the mess of his life.

Jesus responds to Zacchaeus by meeting him where he is. Right in the middle of his train wreck of a life. Right now.

Which, as Jesus explains, is the whole point, “For the Son of Man has come to seek and to save what was lost.” Which means what?

That God isn’t side eyeing you, saying “come see me when you’ve got it all sorted out.” God isn’t waiting for you to become a good person (whatever that means) or to clean up the mess of your life.

God isn’t looking for perfection.

What is God looking for?

God is looking for you.

Just as you are. Right now.

Today’s Readings

[cavalierious-whim]

Fifteen Years Too Slow (WrioLette)

Part of 'Just as You Are'.

Wriothesley is nearly forty when he finally kisses Neuvillette.

Read here on AO3. You can also, follow me on Twitter and Blue Sky..

At the moment, my written work is my only source of income whilst I'm between jobs. Other ways that you can support can be found below-- even if HALF of my followers on Twitter follow my $1 Tier on Patreon, it'd be life-changing income for me, so if you love my work, please consider it!

You can find my Ko-Fi and Commission Info/Shops here.

You can purchase Digital PDFs of some of my works here on Gumroad.

Pre-Orders for physical books of selected works are still open for preorder in my Big Cartel Shop here.

And you can follow my Patreon here as well!

--

It takes over a decade for Wriothesley to finally do something. Nearly fifteen years. The Archon has come and gone, Monsieur Neuvillette turns out to be a dragon, and Wriothesley sports more gray hairs than not. It’s stress—that’s what Sigewinne tells him. “Late thirties,” she’ll say with a click of her tongue, “and you’re more salt than pepper. Do you want your heart to give out?”

No, but it’s hard when it nearly beats out of his chest with every meeting that he and Neuvillette share. Even now, the thump, thump is loud enough to hear in his ears. Wriothesley swallows as Neuvillette leans across the space, those deft, clawed fingers brushing across his cheekbone. 

“A fluff,” he muses. “Pay it no mind.”

There was no fluff. Wriothesley has to pay it mind because Neuvillette’s intent is as obvious as how his fingers linger when they trace the scar underneath his eye. He’s done this before. Wriothesley always turns a blind eye.

Without thinking, Wriothesley catches his wrist. And then panics. He usually ignores this, laughs it off, and then the meeting goes back to normal. It’s always rinse and repeat, nothing but familiar motions, only his heart will beat twice as fast, he’ll feel like he’s run a marathon, and then he’ll go home and tug one out in the shower. Neuvillette is always graceful about it, polite as he pulls away. But this time—

Fourteen years, three months, and three days come to a standstill as Neuvillette stills, watching him with a curious expression. Wriothesley knows because he’s counted, calendars and journals full of notations through the years. He’s pathetic, hopelessly spineless, and he’s pined for so, so, long. 

“Your Grace?” prompts Neuvillette. But he doesn’t tug away. His skin is cool and smooth underneath Wriothesley's fingers. 

Wriothesley's face crinkles wryly. They’ve known each other for too long to be using such titles. He smooths his thumb across the sharp bone of Neuvillette’s wrist as he thinks. This is supposed to be a meeting. They are hashing out budget reports, not sharing tea in their downtime. 

“Wriothesley?”

Oh. Wriothesley looks at Neuvillette whose expression is terse, a line between his brow. Studying him—Neuvillette is always studying him as if he doesn’t quite know how mortals function. He probably doesn’t. He’s always watching Wriothesley as if he holds the answers. 

“I’m—It’s…” There is something about Neuvillette’s expression that nags Wriothesley. That furrow between his brow doesn’t seem like just confusion, it’s deeper than that. Off-putting. Wriothesely aches to kiss it away. 

“Wriothesley.”

Wriothesley did not realize he’d leaned closer, crossing the distance between them instinctually. He’s always been drawn to Neuvillette like the tide to the moon. Neuvillette doesn’t retreat even though Wriothesley is only inches away from him. 

Neuvillette’s gaze tips down, settling on Wriothesley's mouth, and his lips part, tongue caught between his teeth. 

Wriothesley moves and cups Neuvillette’s face with his free hand. He presses their mouths together in a chaste kiss, testing the waters, pulse raging in his ears because what the fuck is he doing?

And what the fuck is Neuvillette doing? He moans softly and kisses him back, tongue sweeping across Wriothesley's lips without a shred of hesitation. Heated and passionate. Neuvillette’s hand curls around the back of Wriothesley's neck and settles there, holding him. Wriothesley can’t retreat, he can’t pull away—not that he would with Neuvillette responding so eagerly. 

It’s messy and unpracticed, and it’s clear that Neuvillette is rusty. There is a little technique there; Neuvillette isn’t entirely without experience. Too keen perhaps. Wriothesley wonders just how long he’s wanted this too and laughs against Neuvillette’s mouth before pulling back. “Slow down,” he says, pressing a short, sweet kiss against Neuvillette’s mouth.

“I—It has been…” Neuvillette grunts softly. “I do not wish to slow down. More please.”

“So polite,” muses Wriothesley, tracing Neuvillette’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “There’s plenty of time. No need to rush.”

“I have waited long enough.”

That makes Wriothesley raise an eyebrow and tuck the thought away for later. He’ll ask. He’s desperate to know just how long Neuvillette has been pining because the kiss they shared wasn’t one of a man mildly interested. It wasn’t curious, it wasn’t just going with the flow; it was consuming in a way that bears feelings, and Wriothesley would be lying if that didn’t spark heat in his gut.

“How many times have you told me to be patient?” 

“Wriothesley—”

“Alright, alright, but savor it, at least.” He means it as a mild tease, tipping back Neuvillette’s face slightly for a better angle. 

This time when they kiss it is slower and sweeter. Neuvillette humors him, tongue sweeping across Wriothesley's lips, through his mouth, down and along his tongue as he tastes him in the same way he does his fancy waters. It is lazy almost, Wriothesley leaning over Neuvillett’s lap with one hand braced against his thigh. 

Neuvillette’s tongue is forked. He tastes like the ocean, like salt-brine, and Wriothesley can’t get enough. The fifteen years of his waffling is worth it for this one moment. 

Their meeting overruns as they get lost in themselves. Sedene knocks on the door, too polite to barge in, and when Neuvillette doesn’t answer as expected, she slams her fist against it instead. 

Wriothesley pauses. “Should we…?”

Neuvillette laughs as his grip against Wriothesley's neck tightens to keep him there. “Ignore her. Now, more please.”

Insufferably polite. Neuvillette is going to be the death of him. But, Wriothesley is a simple man: what Neuvillette asks for, Neuvillette gets—which is one last grin before Wriothesley leans in for another.

[thereadingchallengechallenge]

JOMP BPC - July 7th - Books and a Cold Drink

some multi-fruit cordial with my current read Just As You Are by Camille Kellogg, an f/f adult romance that I’m hoping is gonna give me some butch lesbian representation 🤞

[vizthedatum]

I WANT THIS all the time from everyone and I believe it:

(I wanted to watch horror and Renee Zellweger but then didn’t like the movie I picked out and went with one of my favorite Pride and Prejudice retellings with Colin Firth nailing Mr. Darcy as he always does. Sigh, such mastery.)

[acreasy1]

Do you know who loves you? It's me. I love you. ♥️

[wordsofwisdomandsoul]

[gramdma]

Just a reminder that I love you exactly as you are.

You are welcome here and cherished here.

You will always find a warm plate, a warm blanket, and a warm hug with me. 💕

🎶 you and me together we'll be

Forever you'll see

We'll always be good company, you and me 🎶

[thepeacefulgarden]

[happytheoristdreamer]

I am worthy. You are worthy.

[whiteshipnightjar]

Zoozve, my beloved

[kochei0]

I turn to Ares.

Thanks to Tyler Miles Lockett who allowed me to draw inspiration from his ARES piece for page 2! Look at his etsy page it's SICK

⚔️ If you want to read some queer retelling of arturian legends have a look at my webtoon

[cavalierious-whim]

A Bit of Rouge (Wriolette)

Part of 'Just as You Are'.

Clorinde tests out some lipstick on Wriothesley and gets an eyeful unasked for.

Read here on AO3. You can also, follow me on Twitter and Blue Sky. This fic was heavily inspired by this hilarious comic by 18tea81, which can be found here on Twitter.

At the moment, my written work is my only source of income whilst I'm between jobs. Other ways that you can support can be found below-- even if HALF of my followers on Twitter follow my $1 Tier on Patreon, it'd be life-changing income for me, so if you love my work, please consider it!

You can find my Ko-Fi and Commission Info/Shops here.

You can purchase Digital PDFs of some of my works here on Gumroad.

Pre-Orders for physical books of selected works are still open for preorder in my Big Cartel Shop here.

And you can follow my Patreon here as well!

--

It is not that Wriothesley is a weak man, it is that he is scared shitless of Clorinde. 

One wrong word and he’s staring down the end of her gun barrel, effortlessly drawn with a flick of her wrist, the tiniest twitch of her fingers before being held aloft at the perfect angle. Wriothesley is not perfect; he has found himself on the end of that pistol a few too many times, and even if she’d never actually shoot to kill, she’s definitely lodged a bullet in his thigh at least twice.

“Come here,” she says with a curl of her finger, and Wriothesley goes. 

Three people—there are three people with this level of command over him. Sigewinne when in a nasty mood, usually seen when Wriothesley has (unintentionally) forgotten to take care of himself. Neuvillette, which—well, for obvious reasons—one bat of those forever long lashes tipped blue at the ends, and Wriothesley is weak in the knees. And, Clorinde, when she needs something, which never bodes well.

She guides him to a chair and forces him down with a strong grip. This is the worry. What is her aim? Clorinde rarely needs something unless it’s taste-testing for poison, or something of a similar nature. “Who’d miss the Duke of Meropide?” she used to tease when Wriothesley was a loner. No one back then, that’s for sure, and even now it’s a strange concept that a partner is waiting for him at home every night. That his sheets are no longer cold, and his mornings drag on with heated skin pressed together. Still, even back then Clorinde would only tease.

“I need your help.”

Right. Those are thoughts for another time. “Ominous,” replies Wriothesley, forcing a terse grin as he meets her face. 

Clorinde levels him with a salty-sweet look that dares him to fight back. He won’t. She sees the way he squirms in the chair and her mouth quirks ever-so-slightly. She pulls a metal tube from her pocket and with a twist, reveals a length of red lipstick. 

“A new formula,” she says. “I don’t want to embarrass myself out on a date if it’s shit, so let me test it on you.” There are worse things she’s asked of him. Wriothesley lets loose a sigh of relief, his entire being relaxing. “Oh shove it,” she mutters, watching. “You’re acting like I was going to ask to use you as target practice.”

“Sigewinne told you that you couldn’t anymore.”

“What Sigewinne doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Clorinde leans close, resting her knee against the seat cushion right between his thighs to balance herself.

“Hey, watch it—”

“Hold still,” cuts in Clorinde, grabbing Wriothesley's chin in an iron-clad grip. 

Wriothesley's eyes cant back to the lipstick which gleams bright red like blood. “I don’t think that’s my color, Cleo—Ow.” He hisses when her nails dig into the meat of his jaw in warning. Right, right, she hates being called that. It’s a hard life for a man whose love language comes in the form of pet names. 

He holds still as she sweeps the rouge across the swell of his bottom lip. She hums, tracing his mouth with the red, her hand still and deft as she marks him up. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Wriothesley catches sight of a startled Neuvillette. He looks, face already creasing as he fails to hold back a smile.

“Wriothesley,” hisses Clorinde, tugging his face back and stilling it.

“I’m sorry, just—”

“Ah,” murmurs Neuvillette. He blinks, his gaze sweeping over Clorinde’s fingers against Wriothesley's jaw. Not jealousy, no—but Neuvillette’s expression cools slightly nonetheless. He is unused to close friendships and though he grasps that Wriothesley and Clorinde live to needle each other constantly, the sight of her painting him up must come as odd. “I… shall leave you to it, then,” continues Neuvillette, amusement curling about in his tone.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” says Wriothesley just as he turns to leave. Wriothesley bats away Clorinde’s hands and stands, nearly teetering over at the sudden movement. “Wait.”

Neuvillette waits, a fraction of a second, just long enough for Wriothesley to latch his fingers around a slim wrist and tug. 

The kiss comes as a surprise. They don’t kiss in public, certainly not in the canteen of the Opera Epiclese. Neuvillette is particular about these sorts of things which Wriothesley throws out of the window in favor of feeling tasting Neuvillette’s mouth at that moment. 

Neuvillette falters, sinking into it. He sighs against Wriothesley's mouth, relaxing, lips parting ever so slightly to deepen the touch. 

Unexpected. Wriothesley smiles, taking the opportunity for all that it’s worth, tongue slipping into his mouth to tease every corner. Neuvillette groans softly, eyes slipping closed. He holds Wriothesley by the bicep, grounding himself. Wriothesley cups his cheek, angling his face back, seeking out more—

And then Clorinde coughs very loudly.

Neuvillette jerks back as if jolted by Electro, eyes wide and tittering with the same sort of nervousness of a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “I—”

Wriothesley turns to Clorinde and asks, “How’s it look?”

Neuvillette’s expression turns baffled. 

Clorinde hums, looking thoughtful. “Good actually. Not a smudge. Looks as though the saleswoman at the boutique wasn’t talking out of her ass when she said it was ‘completely transfer-proof’.”

“Nice,” says Wriothesley, drawing out the word. “Found a winner for Navia, then.”

“Wriothesley, what on earth—”

“The lipstick, Sweetheart.” When Wriothesley turns back to Neuvillette he laughs at his curled expression and the way his mouth tightens at the pet name. Perfect. “Clorinde was testing it out on me.”

“Also,” says Clorinde, “never subject me to watching such a display again. I only have one set of eyes.”

Wriothesley snorts, giving her a teasing, half-slitted smirk, to which Clorinde responds with a very rude gesture. Neuvillette looks appalled, unused to seeing her stripped down and lacking propriety. As far as he’s concerned, Clorinde is the picture-perfect example of polite and poised—everything that a Champion Duelist should be. 

They watch her pocket the lipstick and leave. Neuvillette still holds Wriothesley by the bicep, rooted to place. 

“Hey, there,” murmurs Wriothesley, dipping in close. “How about another kiss?”

“Wriothesley,” warns Neuvillette.

“The damage is already done. Everyone’s already seen. Why don’t we really put this lipstick to the test, hm?”

Neuvillette doesn’t pull away. He watches Wriothesley with a serene expression, thumbing over his bicep and tracing the muscle there. “Wouldn’t somewhere more private be a more prudent option if we were truly to test the integrity of the lipstick?” His tease shocks right through Wriothesley who suddenly cannot unthink about pulling him into an unused office and making out there. And Neuvillette knows that look on Wriothesley's face. He tilts his face up with a soft, complacent sigh.

Wriothesley knows a victory when he sees it. Neuvillette rarely grants him these opportunities to show him off as a partner. This time when he kisses Neuvillette, he keeps it chaste and sweet, unwilling to push his luck. It lingers, soft, gentle pecks until Neuvillette pulls away. 

“It is not unhandsome,” he murmurs, reaching up to press a thumb against Wriothesley's bottom lip. 

“Oh? So it goes with my wrinkles then?”

It is Neuvillette who then pulls Wriothesley into his office. And yes, they test the integrity of that lipstick—enough so that Wriothesley could likely publish a paper about it.

[thereadingchallengechallenge]

JOMP BPC - September 5th - Representation

what I wouldn't give for more representations of butch lesbians in traditionally published books. preferably where being butch is treated like an identity not just an aesthetic. and extra preferably written by butches themselves. a girl can dream...