#savedher

[rahleeyah]

@savedher I love this so much it gets its own post. I wanna print this out and frame it. I love my blog and I feel like you just summed up like my entire personality lmao thank you for this. I'm glad you like what I'm putting out there 😍😍😍

[gabolange]

what’s your favorite headcanon of [lucien & jean]?

For the Ship Asks Meme... this is a really hard one!

I don’t know about favorite headcanon, precisely, but one I come back to that I think is different from how some people think about the show and the relationship...I don’t think Jean’s marriage to Christopher was terrible, and I don’t think he was terrible to her. She loved him deeply, they had their ups and downs and made their compromises with life and circumstance and everything else.  

And this is a Jean & Lucien headcanon because the thing that makes them wonderful is the way that they’ve both made it through a lot of meaningful loss and found each other anyway. The thing I love most about them is utterly dependent on her having had a marriage that she loved and mourned deeply.

[gillywitch]

The sexiest I’ve seen Jean.

The most clueless I’ve seen Lucien.

These two, I swear. 

[it-is-bugs]

savedher replied to your post “TDBM Fic: The Pleasure of Your Company”

really well done. glad lucien didn't overhear any of that. he'd have to go to jail again...

I was actually going to do that, then I realized, yeah, he would have beaten these guys down like Edward Tyneman.  I just kept thinking back to Patrick, who’s now some Oracle of the Sunroom, telling Jean that the article is just the beginning of her social ostracism, and I have to agree with him.  It’s all fine and good for everyone to assume they’re fooling around.  That’s a good laugh over drinks.  But to marry her and give her the social status of their wives!  To expect her to welcomed in their homes, at parties and functions...That’s not going to be easy.   

[rahleeyah]

@savedher replied to your post “@yourjodeanfaceblog replied to your post “@yourjodeanfaceblog replied...”

has that even... i mean... did no one do this yet? why did it never even occur to me? how am i supposed to live without it until you have time to jot it down? seriously considering hiring an investigator to find you just so i can build a roof for your porch

I don’t think it’s been done yet so I’m happy to tackle it, though it will be a little while before I get to it. In the meantime, if you wanted to come build me a roof, I would be DELIGHTED. I keep saying I’m gonna rig something up and then not doing it. But good news is I’ll move again when my lease runs out in April and you can bet your sweet ass my next porch will have a damn roof. I was a fool for not considering it when I moved here to begin with. 

[professortennant]

37 - curious what you'd do with this. lucien can't seem to stay out of jail, but what would jean do?

37. meeting in a prison AU

“Jean, are you ever going to stop trying to save my soul?” Lucien’s sardonic words rung out in the stale air of the prison room and Jean sighed, closing the Bible in her lap and folding her hands over the closed book. 

The Ballarat prison had a rather archaic belief that their prisoners could be saved during their prison stint. The idea was that a good, Christian soul was not a criminal soul. For Lucien Blake, who had spent more time in and out of prison since his release from the British army than anyone else he knew, the idea of his soul being scrubbed clean was laughable.

But then the Church sent Jean Beazley to the Ballarat prison and he took one look at her blue eyes and trim waist and curled hair and decided that he would sit through every Psalm in the book if it meant Jean would hold his hand.

So, three times a week, he and Jean sat in his cell, pressed together from shoulder to hip, and talked. She insisted she at least reference the Bible every once in a while, but in truth, they talked about everything and nothing.

How her boys were getting on, the gossip around town, where she would go if she could go anywhere in the world, what he would do if he could take her there. These sessions were feeling more and more like courtship rituals than attempts to convert Lucien.

Jean put her Bible aside, turning to face him. “At this moment, I’m more concerned with that black eye you have than your soul. You’ve been picking fights again, haven’t you?”

He raised his eyebrows at her, hands clutching at his chest in mock outrage. “You just assume I am the one who started it?” 

She arched a single eyebrow at him, pursing her lips. He conceded, waving her off. “Yes, alright. I started it. He deserved it though,” he added. “Going on about matters he had no business speaking of.”

She sighed and she reached out, cool fingertips brushing the dark, swollen skin around his eyes.  “Lucien...”

He covered her hand with his own, wincing at the added pressure on his eye,  but the feel of Jean’s skin against his own was worth every ounce of pain. “I know, I know. I promise I’ll be a good boy. It’s just so boring in here, Jean.”

Rolling her eyes, she looked at him with exasperation and fondness. “You know you could just not commit crimes and avoid prison altogether?”

In truth, they both knew that Lucien’s crimes were hardly crimes at all. Assault, trespassing, and drunk and disorderly. Even the assault charges themselves were in the name of protecting others and Jean, no matter what the law said, had difficulty in faulting him for that. 

Lucien grinned at her, leaning in conspiratorially, “But where’s the fun in that?”

Before she could respond--she was still deciding if she wanted to scold him or laugh at him--the prison guard was banging on Lucien’s bars and barking at them, “Time’s up! C’mon, Mrs. Beazley.” 

Pulling her hand away from his face, ignoring the way Lucien squeezed her hand before it fell from his face, she gathered her Bible and stood. “Until next time? I expect to see you in tip-top shape; no more fighting,” she said sternly. 

She smiled at him softly and turned to leave, the guard waiting for her was holding the cell door open for her impatiently. Lucien caught her hand in his, surprising her, and stopped her movements. 

“Until next time,” he murmured, ducking his head and pressing his lips to the back of her hand. Jean blushed, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart at the feel of his lips on her skin. 

He let her go and watched her disappear out his cell and down the corridor, already trying to memorize everything about their encounter: the way she smiled at him, the warmth and taste of her skin, the sound of her laughter.  

Jean Beazley, he decided, was God’s last laugh at him: everything he wanted and everything he could never have while he was stuck in this prison cell. 

[professortennant]

have you done a cuddling fic? after you murdered jean yesterday, some of us could use a bit of comfort. or maybe a glimpse into their honeymoon where they are climbing a pyramid or people watching and taking turns speculating on the passersby. or, you know, anything where they are both still breathing by the end.

i just really want to emphasize i only committed character murder because @marcuskaen basically told me to BUT OKAY so here’s some plotless fluff and cuddling

Jean sighed and snuggled further into the warmth of Lucien’s body. He had surprised her with a picnic back at the spot in the park she had looped her arms around his neck so long ago. Now, they sat on the thick blue blanket together, playfully offering the other strawberries and biscuits. 

Jean had blushed and laughed him off when he’d pressed the strawberry to her lips, eyebrows waggling and goading her into opening her mouth for him. She’d relented but when her lips brushed his fingers as she took the proffered fruit, she realized exactly why this was so erotic. The combination of the taste of Lucien’s warm skin; the cold, sweet strawberry flavor bursting on her tongue; the way Lucien’s eyes darkened and his breath hitched as she took the fruit: intoxicating. 

He’d settled against the tree, back pressed into the bark, and widened his legs into a vee, tugging her back into his arms so her back pressed to his front. Ducking his head, he buried his face in her neck, pulling her tight against his body. His arms wrapped firmly around her middle and his legs caged her body.

She laughed at the feel of his beard prickling against her neck and covered his hand with hers, leaning back into him. His lips brushed her skin as he spoke, “I wanted to hold you like this the first time we came here.”

“Oh, Lucien,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The first time we came here, there was a strange man in the bushes watching us.”

“Yes, but what I remember from that outing was the way you were practically sitting in my lap and ogling after my lips while you wrapped yourself around me,” he said in a smug, sing-song voice. 

She half-turned in his arms, mouth agape. “Lucien Blake! I was not sitting in your lap.” 

He just grinned back at her shrugging, “That’s not how I remember it.” Jean looked at him, his eyes sparkling with laughter, and her heart felt light and happy. How long had it been since she had seen him laugh–really laugh–like this? She said as much and he smiled softly at her, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. 

“You make me happy, Jean.”

She kissed him then, lips pressed firmly to his. The angle was awkward, she was still half-twisted in his arms, but it was no less sweet. Breaking apart, she pressed another kiss to his nose before turning back around and settling down into his arms. 

“Lucien?”

He hummed against her, distracted. His hand was splayed out over her stomach and his fingers were currently stroking over every inch of her that he could easily reach. 

Jean cleared her throat, “You make me happy, too. Very happy.”

Lucien hid his pleased smile into the curve of her neck. Happy looked good on both of them.

[professortennant]

what if lucien tried to communicate with jean via the piano? like, oldie songs - i'm sorry, so sorry, unforgettable (but maybe he doesn't finish because he thinks she could move on from him completely and even forget him)

this song was my selection (tried to stick with timeline accurate songs)

There was a part of him hoping she’d come barging in, demanding he go to bed and stop the incessant noise. Maybe she’d loop his arm around her neck and carry him to bed. Maybe he’d finally be able to get the words out of his throat--tell her how sorry he was, how much he loved her, how scared he was that she’d leave him (how he wouldn’t blame her if she did).

But she didn’t come. 

He downed the rest of his drink and his fingers danced aimlessly over the keys in no particular tune. Perhaps she was listening somewhere in the house--angry and hurt. Singing had been easy for him, his mother telling him music was the food of love: modern day poetry. 

He hoped Jean was listening. Lucien thought of what he wanted to say, searched for the perfect song. And then he began to play, singing along, eyes closed and pouring every ounce of emotion he could into each lyric, hoping his voice wouldn’t shake.

I’m sorry, so sorry. I’m such a fool. You tell me making mistakes is part of being young, but that don’t right the wrongs I’ve done.

I’m sorry, so sorry. Please accept my apology. But love was blind, and I was too blind to see.

A rush of anger and self-loathing flowed through him. He’d been a bloody fool and he was in danger of losing the best thing that had ever happened him--all because he was too impatient, too arrogant. He banged his hands against the keys, the ugly clanging sound oddly satisfying. 

Anger morphed so quickly to despair and tears stung at his eyes. He closed the lid to the piano and stood, clearing his glass and whiskey away. Jean wasn’t coming.

As he escaped to his study, intent on drinking himself into oblivion, anything to dull the fear in his chest and the ache in his heart, he missed Jean sitting on the stairs, listening in to his musical confession. 

Another miscommunication, it seems.