john thornton. rafael.

newbury

Scarcely is she around the corner when she all but runs headlong into -- well. He's not Rafael here. He has another name. But it's him, unmistakably, and she knows he knows her too because he said her name yesterday in the church,

and because now, staring at him, he looks startled, and then starved, and then all at once takes a sharp breath, grabs her in one swipe, pulls her into a tight, hard embrace.

They are still a ways from the town commons. But they're not hidden. They shouldn't embrace long. They both know it: he just seems to have forgotten.

Devon

Nearly runs into his chest when she circles a building, looking for Faith and Nicholas, hoping to avoid Samuel. She isn't even thinking about Rafael, about 'John', when she nearly hits his chest.

Looks up at him. Knows his scent, too, and it fills her nostrils even before she sees his face. Her skin awakens, a chill rushing over her skin from wrists to shoulders, ankles to thighs. When the wave crashes over her middle it turns hot, and by then he is grabbing her, pulling her close.

Devon is having none of this embrace. She puts her hands on his face, pulling him down to her, kissing him with a heavy, shaking gasp. She nearly pulls herself onto his body, her open mouth hungry on his, panting.

newbury

Sometimes it's like her passion defies gravity. Like she could flow backward, upward, up his body -- but it's just the illusion, because it's his arms around her pulling her up, it's his strength coming to bear.

This time, anyway. They tangle together and the kiss is a mad, hungry thing, unheard-of in these repressed and bitter times. He growls into it, animal and ferocious and recognizing.

When it comes apart he's still holding on to her, her feet off the ground. He clasps her fiercely against his chest, his hand gripping her head, her hair; his arm tight around her ribs. It's not the most comfortable embrace, but neither of them are thinking about comfort, or romance, or anything but an attraction that stems from survival.

"Overheard the talk as I was following after you," he mutters. "They'd already jailed three women. Probably more now. They've got some judge coming up, be here tomorrow afternoon latest. What do you wanna do?"

Devon

It isn't fear. She doesn't think it's fear. It isn't romance, either. Perhaps traces of comfort, of not being alone here. Mostly, it is what it has been since she saw him across the church yesterday: keen, animal hunger. She kisses him fiercely as he lifts her against him, ready to wrap her legs around him, ready for him to turn her back to the wall and hike up her skirts, unlace his breeches, fuck her soundly and madly there in the open. She doesn't care.

Her body aches when he growls. Her chest is heaving, her feet somehow on the ground and Rafael hugging her close, tender and ferocious all at once. Something about it makes her come down. Makes her realize where she is, and what could happen, and how afraid he must be, and how afraid she really should be. Devon starts shaking. She doesn't know why.

She still isn't afraid of these people. What they might do to her. She knows she should be, it would be smart to be, but she doesn't feel it.

Her hands press against Rafael's back as he talks. Feels his voice thrumming under his bones and skin and muscle as he tells her what he's heard.

"I want to save them," she exhales. "I don't know how. But -- the widow Goffe -- she told me what those men did. What they were. They deserved worse than what they got. They really did. None of the women in this town should suffer any more for calling it down."

newbury

Wasn't what he meant. He'd meant: what did she want to do, vis-a-vis escape? Getting out of this town? Running away, hiding, finding their way back to their own time and world? That's not what she speaks of. Quite the opposite: and in response he growls again, giving a short hard shake of his head.

"If they can slaughter a dozen people and stash them in the church, they can handle what's coming to them. More worried about getting you out of here."

Devon

Devon doesn't think of Rafael running away. Well: maybe from her. From intimacy. From talking about his feelings for her. From whatever. Long time since that's been an issue. She doesn't think of him running away from a fight. He likes fighting. She asked him once about what he enjoys, what he likes to do.

He likes fucking killing things.

He tells her nope, they can handle this, let's get the fuck out. And Devon...

snorts. She draws back from his tight embrace, looking up at him with a screwed-up little look on her face, her brow wrinkled, her eyes piercing. "They called upon spirits to do that for them," she says quietly. "And if they all get thrown in the stocks or hanged and none of the women can go cast spells in the woods or call on those spirits, they can't handle what's coming their way."

newbury

That embrace dissipates. They don't quite draw apart, but there's a distance there now. "And what if you get thrown in the stocks? Or -- or worse? I hear people talking about Salem, Devon."

Devon

"Like you'd let that go," she says, sarcastic but firm. "For a minute there I thought those men in the church were your doing, Rafa. From what I heard, I wouldn't be surprised if they were dripping with the Wyrm's influence, to a man."

She straightens. She's still holding onto him, even as they separate enough to look at each other. She holds his arms, at least. At very least.

"Remember when this happened to you?" she says, quietly. "You had to go. You knew it wouldn't be happening without a reason for you to be there. That's how I feel, here. I'm not running away." Devon's jaw sets.

Irish.

Stubborn.

He's heard rumors of that, hasn't he?

"You've seen what I can do. And I think I might be stronger here, now, than I am in our time. I think I'm here to help. And I think you're here to help me."

newbury

He does remember. She can see it in his eyes: that immediate recognition, remembrance. Being transported in time and space into a stranger's life. Being there alone, and being there for a reason: summoned, brought back to accomplish something. At least here, they are together.

The thought makes him reach out to her again. He takes her face between his hands and kisses her for no other reason than to kiss her.

"It wasn't me," he says, after. "At least, I don't think it was. But if you're staying, then so am I. Just tell me what to do. Who to tear apart. Whatever you need. We should work something out, a time and place to meet every day -- so if you're not there, then I know you're in trouble."

Devon

He's looking at her, and Devon is willing him to kiss her. She's willing him to come within reach so she can take him. She wants so badly to fuck him. She needs it, hungers for it; her body aches, sometimes with searing pain, like not having him is going to seriously hurt her.

He kisses her, then, and she hopes it wasn't witchcraft that drew him to her lips. All the same, she struggles to contain the soft moan she lets slip at the touch of his mouth. Her cheeks are flushed when he lets her go this time.

She nods. "There's a wood, near the place where this girl lives. It has to be after everyone's gone to sleep. When the moon is high. If you find a safe place in those woods, I'll find you."

Says it with such certainty.

She found Nicholas, didn't she?

newbury

He does remember. She can see it in his eyes: that immediate recognition, remembrance. Being transported in time and space into a stranger's life. Being there alone, and being there for a reason: summoned, brought back to accomplish something. At least here, they are together.

The thought makes him reach out to her again. He takes her face between his hands and kisses her for no other reason than to kiss her.

"It wasn't me," he says, after. "At least, I don't think it was. But if you're staying, then so am I. Just tell me what to do. Who to tear apart. Whatever you need. We should work something out, a time and place to meet every day -- so if you're not there, then I know you're in trouble."

Devon

He's looking at her, and Devon is willing him to kiss her. She's willing him to come within reach so she can take him. She wants so badly to fuck him. She needs it, hungers for it; her body aches, sometimes with searing pain, like not having him is going to seriously hurt her.

He kisses her, then, and she hopes it wasn't witchcraft that drew him to her lips. All the same, she struggles to contain the soft moan she lets slip at the touch of his mouth. Her cheeks are flushed when he lets her go this time.

She nods. "There's a wood, near the place where this girl lives. It has to be after everyone's gone to sleep. When the moon is high. If you find a safe place in those woods, I'll find you."

Says it with such certainty.

She found Nicholas, didn't she?

newbury

"All right."

He kisses her again. His hand big and warm behind her head; his hand at her waist, gripping at her body beneath all those ridiculous and shapeless clothes.

"I'll see you tonight," he says. "Be careful. Stay safe."

Then he lets her go. Walks swiftly off, without a look back -- toward the small mill at the edge of town where, for a small cut of the profit or the flour, the Thorntons mill the villagers' grain.

Devon

Devon doesn't want to stop kissing him. Or meet him later in the woods outside of Samuel Noyes's house. She wants him to take her away now. She wants him to push up her skirts and eat her out until she comes, wet and writhing right on his tongue. She holds onto him, aching, still unsure of where this raw, naked want is coming from and caring less and less.

So she kisses him again, fiercely, even after he's started to let go of her. She has high color in her cheeks, pink under her freckles. Licks her lips as though to taste him there and just nods. "You, too," she says, barely mouthing the words.

He walks away. Devon turns her back to the wall and breathes. She fans at herself, waiting for his steps to recede before she goes anywhere. Mary Goffe is right about people being seen together.

She closes her eyes a moment, then goes in search of the children. "Faith!" she calls out. "Nicholas!"