![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
toward distance
Characters: Urianger Augurelt, Moenbryda Wilfsunnwyn
Warnings: It's smut.
Summary:
Urianger frowns at her. He actually makes the effort to do so. He must shift, exhale--feel the treason of his lungs when they deflate, bringing Moenbryda’s head even closer to his heart--must push himself a little upright with one elbow. To frown upon Moenbryda’s face, Urianger must tilt his chin near his clavicle and touch the side of her jaw with two fingers. She looks at him. He frowns at her. “Moenbryda,” he says, “ever do I wish to hear that which thou hearest in thine heart and in thy mind. Without ceasing do I wish for that.” In declaring this to Moenbryda, he is as grave and weighty as marble, as granite, as an epitaph.
Moenbryda bursts out laughing. “You’re so serious,” she cries. “My dearest Urianger! Oh, would you stop making that face?” He has taken his hand from her jaw, but she grasps it again right away. She is still laughing--ever deep and heaving, her laughter--and Urianger can feel the push of her breasts against his own bare skin, so warm as to be radiant.
“‘Tis a serious face,” he says. He means to be petulant, the stubborn rind of citrus fruit, but he is distracted by her flesh, and how it is pliant and demanding equally.
Of course she continues to laugh. “Indeed it is.” Now she cranes her neck, that she might kiss the tip of his chin. He allows it. “What I am thinking… is that…” And her kisses have found the tender landing of his bottom lip.
He’s quick to grab onto both of her hips. “Nay, Moenbryda. Shouldst thou kiss my mouth, thou wilt kiss and nothing more. Abandoned lie the thoughts which thou didst offer me.”
Moenbryda has not stopped smiling at him, but she sets her head back down against his chest. “Oh, all right. I can’t deny it. Well, here’s what I was thinking.” She digs her chin into his chest; he recalls the sharpness of her elbows, always jabbing him, when they were so much younger.
“I am listening,” he says.
She was smiling before, but now she grins like the coeurl who got the cream. (“Thus devoured by thee,” comes Urianger’s untethered and gossamer thought.) “I know you are,” she tells him. "All right, all right. Somber man.” She reaches up to touch his brow, then the hair at his temple, then the ridge of his ear. “I am thinking about how funny it is, me in your bed--that you let me into your bed, when all I said was--how did I put it?”
“Quoting thee, ‘I think it is time…’”
“Right! ‘I think it’s time you and I had a romp.’ And you let me right in.” She stops stroking his ear; instead, she sticks her thumb into it. He tugs her hand away with rote indignation.
“Wherefore be it comedy?” he demands.
“Well, it’s just--oh, you know--I don’t know!” At last goes her smile. To its place blinks a most unusual phenomenon: her uncertainty, and even something like embarrassment. “It was awfully glib of me. Not that you minded, it seems. I’m just wondering now if I oughtn’t have given you, erm, a little more pomp and circumstance.” She casts her eyes down and at an angle, seeming surprised with herself--perplexed by herself. “You were quite good to me about it. In it. I’ll tell you now, for the record--and with all seriousness--you were quite good.”
Urianger turns his face away, retreating to the best of his ability while he is covered with half of Moenbryda’s body.
“When you do that,” she tells him, “I really want to eat you up.”
“I know it.”
She reaches for his ear again, to slip her index finger into it, and he bats away her hand without a word. “Could you tell me?” she asks, with a voice meant for in-of-doors. She has to wait out his hesitation until he looks back to her. She’s well-known to be brave, so she clarifies: “How you would have done it if you were the one, if you were the one to invite me to your bed. What you might have said.” Then he gazes at her for long enough that she considers rescinding all of it, considers going turncloak on her own bravery, that she might flee without another moment or her clothes.
He does speak, before Moenbryda can acquiesce to cowardice: “Soon shall we be apart,” Urianger declares. “And gone will be mine ear; gone will be thine hand and voice and teeth upon it. I shall cross many waters. I shall cross fields and mountains. Eorzea is vast, and I shall be without my friend.” He stops, but he doesn't close his mouth. His brow takes a shape of consternation, and he licks his bottom lip in search of an oasis. “How could I number the evens I did spend spurning thy warmth and company among the tomes? How long have I loved solitude above my lady? Moenbryda, pray attend me. So will I attend thee. Beneath thee will I study, though mine offering be naught but the willingness to learn afore thine absence--mine absence. I will be diligent, if thou wilt have my diligence.” Now his voice softens--it spreads low and out--it is the slow rising of the ride, the foam that finds the shore. “Moenbryda, pray attend me.”
Moenbryda works her throat like a woman in the desert. “By the gods,” she says at last, and reaches down to grab his cock.
“Moenbryda--”
She rubs his cock like it’s the well-loved haft of her battle axe. “If you’d said that to me--hells, if you’d said but half of it--why, I’d have leapt upon you in that very instant.”
“For a blessing, then,” says Urianger, “that I did not.” His face is the vivid color of the blood that so too stiffens his cock against her palm. His rich blush touches upon his neck as well, and even dusts over his chest. Moenbryda kisses the patchy border of his flush, close to the eager peak of his nipple, close to the eager racing of his heart.
“Hey, let’s not have just the one shag between us. Give us another for the road.” Her lips are damp against his skin, and so is her laughter when she gives it. This laughter isn’t boisterous: it’s uneven, depleted, maybe sheepish. “There I go again. You deserve something prettier than that out of me.”
His cock jumps in her hand when he says that, and just as insistent, he touches her face with all ten of his fingers. “My lady,” he says. How can a man speak this softly when his cock is throbbing so? “What loveliness do I lack in knowing thee? If thou beest deficient in beauty, how could I begin to conceive of its impossibility?” His voice, while she strokes him, sounds like the fog at dawn that causes dew.
Moenbryda kisses near his nipple, then at it. She likes what it does to the twitch of his dick. “You always manage something like this. The prettiest little speeches from the prettiest little man.”
“I’ve grown at last,” he protests, almost slurring.
“So you have.” She lets go of his cock, and he makes a quiet vowel sound that might be from a dead language. Now she puts her first two fingers into his mouth, as if she might come across diamonds, the treasures of his words. “It’s not--” She looks like she might inch up to lick his mouth, but then she only sighs while his tongue accommodates her fingers. “It’s not fair, you know that? We could have done this an age ago. A hundred times by now--five hundred. But you chose the night before you’re leaving to give it a go.”
He has no reply for her. She watches his lips around her fingers, and how he doesn’t look her in the eye. So she slides her fingers over his bottom lip, and out of his mouth.
“The stupidest brilliant man I’ll ever meet,” she says. “I hope.”
“Moenbryda,” he says, in lieu of an apology.
She brings her hand between his legs again, though moving past his cock. “Never mind that,” she says, and slips a slick finger up inside of him. “Here we are now, aye?”
“Here we are,” he breathes, already shifting his hips, trying to take her another knuckle deeper. She gives it to him. Even then, she fucks him only barely, first with just the one finger, then with two.
Despite the addled writhing of his body, Moenbryda espies a tension at his brow. “Oh, I’m not mad at you!” she says lightly, pushing her fingers into him with spirited cheer.
“Thou wert,” gasps Urianger, “for a glimmer.”
“For a glimmer,” she concedes.
“And now thou touchest--” He squirms, seeking the fullness of her fingers, and she realizes that her hand has stilled and she’s forgotten to keep fucking him.
“Oh, sorry!” she says, and gives him a nice, deep rub while she crooks her fingers.
“Thou touchest me,” he says, on the sharp peak of his thin breath, “whilst I lay no touch upon thee.”
“Upon me,” she says.
“Within thee.”
“Within me.” She’s smiling.
It gets him to beg. “My lady,” he murmurs, “please.”
Moenbryda has always loved it when Urianger gives in and asks her for aught--her help, her warmth, her time, her company. Her breast, now, which she gives to him as she shifts onto her side and aligns herself lengthwise with him. Her sturdy arm has good reach along his body, but he lifts his ass to better let her finger it, and his breaths are all pleas when he takes her nipple into his mouth. He sucks at her breast like he’s never been shy in his life, and she tells him, “Seven hells,” and fucks him a little harder to delight him in return. She thinks he’s going to come, then, with the soft but sudden way he bites along her breast, but he’s instead reaching over to touch the firm bounty of her thighs. He touches her thighs, between her thighs, and how wet (so very) he has made her there. Never before this has Urianger wished to drown.
They’re out of sync while they finger-fuck each other, their motions, their heartbeats, their breathing, just all of it. Neither of them understand the other’s pace; they know only that they are inside each other and that they make each other shake. Urianger fits a third finger into the greed of Moenbryda’s pussy, and the jut of his knuckle there overwhelms her in every way she wanted. She says some foul cuss, and Urianger pushes his face between her breasts.
Then he actually asks for what he so fears of deep water, what he so desires now, mouthing at her chest: “Thou mought drown me.” His teeth glance over one of her nipples. “Would that thou wouldst drown me.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asks, like her head is at high altitude, too little air. Urianger thumbs her clit insistently, and while he does that to her, he pulls back from her breasts to finally--finally--look into her eyes. They stare at each other. “Thaliak preserve me,” Moenbryda breathes, and slides her fingers out of him with caution and wonder.
Unlike Urianger, she has fucked other people, but none of them have arranged her as Urianger does now. He sets her against his pillows and gently bends one of her knees. He opens her legs as if she is one of those beautiful old books he loves so much--as if inside of her is priceless enlightenment. Moenbryda can hardly believe that she’s looking down to see his face between her thighs, and she cannot believe it when she feels his mouth meet her pussy. She doesn’t even bother to try and keep from calling out; she just yells with joy.
And she thinks he’s very noble down there, even valiant, despite being unfamiliar with giving someone head. She’s reminded of listening to him study an ancient language, training his tongue into mastery. She remembers the diligence there and the diligence he promised her here for just one moment, before everything leaves her head but the shape of his mouth while it takes her. Good gods--oh, the gods are good--he picks up how to fuck her with his tongue and he makes her come. He grasps her thighs hard with his hands, but she grasps his head harder with her thighs.
“Oh!” Moenbryda says. She sags against the pillows, and when the edge of her orgasm allows for it, she laughs. “Well? Have I drowned you down there?”
“Verily hast thou,” he says, without the dignity of saying it--really, he moans. He presses the side of his damp face to her thigh and all the might it offers, and he shuts his eyes, for all the world seeming like an agonized poem. This is a man who has lost his footing at the precipice of lust.
Moenbryda reaches down to stroke his hair. “You poor, lovely thing. Come here, up here, so we can get you finished off.” Once he is atop her, she embraces him not like he is leaving, but like he’s just come back. “Go on, go on,” she says. “There you are. That’s good.” She opens her legs for him again, and he enters her with ease. Slow, profoundly slow, but easily. They fuck with a tidier rhythm, now, mostly beacuse she pushes him into her by bracing her palms against his ass. When she lifts her hips, his cock is as deep into her as it can be, and he moves against her like he’s searching for sanctuary.
“Silly man,” Moenbryda breathes, with the head of his cock so far up into her. She trembles around him, holding him with the whole of her body. “I’ll miss you, too.” When he comes inside of her, it is so warm--it is every warm evening they never spent together.
After a while, Urianger is the one who lies with his head against Moenbryda’s chest. She touches the back of his head idly. She observes the moonlight on the ceiling; Urianger, she assumes, has fallen asleep. But then he tells her something. He says, “I am afraid.”
She wants to say to Louisoix, You’re taking him away from me. You’re scaring him, and you’re taking him away. But she knows that none of it’s quite right, and instead, she tells Urianger, “Don’t be. I’ll be right on my way if you need it, so don’t keep from calling for me. You’re going on a grand adventure, Urianger. You’ll do amazing work.”
He is silent. Then he is quiet; his voice is quiet. “Thou wouldst attend me?” Now Moenbryda understands--it means everything.
“I would,” she says. “I will. Don’t be afraid, and whenever you’re afraid, you can give me a shout. Now, doesn’t that sound fine? How can you be scared of anything when you’ve got me to call?”
He is silent. Then he is quiet, and his heart is beating so hard against her. It might bruise her own, the force of it. “Then I shan’t be,” he says. “Then I am not. Whilst thine ear be tuned to my calling, I shall not fear.”
“That’s right,” she says. She shuts her eyes. “I’ll never not come running.”
Warnings: It's smut.
Summary:
“I am listening,” he says.
She was smiling before, but now she grins like the coeurl who got the cream. (“Thus devoured by thee,” comes Urianger’s untethered and gossamer thought.) “I know you are,” she tells him. "All right, all right. Somber man.” She reaches up to touch his brow, then the hair at his temple, then the ridge of his ear. “I am thinking about how funny it is, me in your bed--that you let me into your bed, when all I said was--how did I put it?”
“Quoting thee, ‘I think it is time…’”
“Right! ‘I think it’s time you and I had a romp.’ And you let me right in.”
toward distance
Urianger frowns at her. He actually makes the effort to do so. He must shift, exhale--feel the treason of his lungs when they deflate, bringing Moenbryda’s head even closer to his heart--must push himself a little upright with one elbow. To frown upon Moenbryda’s face, Urianger must tilt his chin near his clavicle and touch the side of her jaw with two fingers. She looks at him. He frowns at her. “Moenbryda,” he says, “ever do I wish to hear that which thou hearest in thine heart and in thy mind. Without ceasing do I wish for that.” In declaring this to Moenbryda, he is as grave and weighty as marble, as granite, as an epitaph.
Moenbryda bursts out laughing. “You’re so serious,” she cries. “My dearest Urianger! Oh, would you stop making that face?” He has taken his hand from her jaw, but she grasps it again right away. She is still laughing--ever deep and heaving, her laughter--and Urianger can feel the push of her breasts against his own bare skin, so warm as to be radiant.
“‘Tis a serious face,” he says. He means to be petulant, the stubborn rind of citrus fruit, but he is distracted by her flesh, and how it is pliant and demanding equally.
Of course she continues to laugh. “Indeed it is.” Now she cranes her neck, that she might kiss the tip of his chin. He allows it. “What I am thinking… is that…” And her kisses have found the tender landing of his bottom lip.
He’s quick to grab onto both of her hips. “Nay, Moenbryda. Shouldst thou kiss my mouth, thou wilt kiss and nothing more. Abandoned lie the thoughts which thou didst offer me.”
Moenbryda has not stopped smiling at him, but she sets her head back down against his chest. “Oh, all right. I can’t deny it. Well, here’s what I was thinking.” She digs her chin into his chest; he recalls the sharpness of her elbows, always jabbing him, when they were so much younger.
“I am listening,” he says.
She was smiling before, but now she grins like the coeurl who got the cream. (“Thus devoured by thee,” comes Urianger’s untethered and gossamer thought.) “I know you are,” she tells him. "All right, all right. Somber man.” She reaches up to touch his brow, then the hair at his temple, then the ridge of his ear. “I am thinking about how funny it is, me in your bed--that you let me into your bed, when all I said was--how did I put it?”
“Quoting thee, ‘I think it is time…’”
“Right! ‘I think it’s time you and I had a romp.’ And you let me right in.” She stops stroking his ear; instead, she sticks her thumb into it. He tugs her hand away with rote indignation.
“Wherefore be it comedy?” he demands.
“Well, it’s just--oh, you know--I don’t know!” At last goes her smile. To its place blinks a most unusual phenomenon: her uncertainty, and even something like embarrassment. “It was awfully glib of me. Not that you minded, it seems. I’m just wondering now if I oughtn’t have given you, erm, a little more pomp and circumstance.” She casts her eyes down and at an angle, seeming surprised with herself--perplexed by herself. “You were quite good to me about it. In it. I’ll tell you now, for the record--and with all seriousness--you were quite good.”
Urianger turns his face away, retreating to the best of his ability while he is covered with half of Moenbryda’s body.
“When you do that,” she tells him, “I really want to eat you up.”
“I know it.”
She reaches for his ear again, to slip her index finger into it, and he bats away her hand without a word. “Could you tell me?” she asks, with a voice meant for in-of-doors. She has to wait out his hesitation until he looks back to her. She’s well-known to be brave, so she clarifies: “How you would have done it if you were the one, if you were the one to invite me to your bed. What you might have said.” Then he gazes at her for long enough that she considers rescinding all of it, considers going turncloak on her own bravery, that she might flee without another moment or her clothes.
He does speak, before Moenbryda can acquiesce to cowardice: “Soon shall we be apart,” Urianger declares. “And gone will be mine ear; gone will be thine hand and voice and teeth upon it. I shall cross many waters. I shall cross fields and mountains. Eorzea is vast, and I shall be without my friend.” He stops, but he doesn't close his mouth. His brow takes a shape of consternation, and he licks his bottom lip in search of an oasis. “How could I number the evens I did spend spurning thy warmth and company among the tomes? How long have I loved solitude above my lady? Moenbryda, pray attend me. So will I attend thee. Beneath thee will I study, though mine offering be naught but the willingness to learn afore thine absence--mine absence. I will be diligent, if thou wilt have my diligence.” Now his voice softens--it spreads low and out--it is the slow rising of the ride, the foam that finds the shore. “Moenbryda, pray attend me.”
Moenbryda works her throat like a woman in the desert. “By the gods,” she says at last, and reaches down to grab his cock.
“Moenbryda--”
She rubs his cock like it’s the well-loved haft of her battle axe. “If you’d said that to me--hells, if you’d said but half of it--why, I’d have leapt upon you in that very instant.”
“For a blessing, then,” says Urianger, “that I did not.” His face is the vivid color of the blood that so too stiffens his cock against her palm. His rich blush touches upon his neck as well, and even dusts over his chest. Moenbryda kisses the patchy border of his flush, close to the eager peak of his nipple, close to the eager racing of his heart.
“Hey, let’s not have just the one shag between us. Give us another for the road.” Her lips are damp against his skin, and so is her laughter when she gives it. This laughter isn’t boisterous: it’s uneven, depleted, maybe sheepish. “There I go again. You deserve something prettier than that out of me.”
His cock jumps in her hand when he says that, and just as insistent, he touches her face with all ten of his fingers. “My lady,” he says. How can a man speak this softly when his cock is throbbing so? “What loveliness do I lack in knowing thee? If thou beest deficient in beauty, how could I begin to conceive of its impossibility?” His voice, while she strokes him, sounds like the fog at dawn that causes dew.
Moenbryda kisses near his nipple, then at it. She likes what it does to the twitch of his dick. “You always manage something like this. The prettiest little speeches from the prettiest little man.”
“I’ve grown at last,” he protests, almost slurring.
“So you have.” She lets go of his cock, and he makes a quiet vowel sound that might be from a dead language. Now she puts her first two fingers into his mouth, as if she might come across diamonds, the treasures of his words. “It’s not--” She looks like she might inch up to lick his mouth, but then she only sighs while his tongue accommodates her fingers. “It’s not fair, you know that? We could have done this an age ago. A hundred times by now--five hundred. But you chose the night before you’re leaving to give it a go.”
He has no reply for her. She watches his lips around her fingers, and how he doesn’t look her in the eye. So she slides her fingers over his bottom lip, and out of his mouth.
“The stupidest brilliant man I’ll ever meet,” she says. “I hope.”
“Moenbryda,” he says, in lieu of an apology.
She brings her hand between his legs again, though moving past his cock. “Never mind that,” she says, and slips a slick finger up inside of him. “Here we are now, aye?”
“Here we are,” he breathes, already shifting his hips, trying to take her another knuckle deeper. She gives it to him. Even then, she fucks him only barely, first with just the one finger, then with two.
Despite the addled writhing of his body, Moenbryda espies a tension at his brow. “Oh, I’m not mad at you!” she says lightly, pushing her fingers into him with spirited cheer.
“Thou wert,” gasps Urianger, “for a glimmer.”
“For a glimmer,” she concedes.
“And now thou touchest--” He squirms, seeking the fullness of her fingers, and she realizes that her hand has stilled and she’s forgotten to keep fucking him.
“Oh, sorry!” she says, and gives him a nice, deep rub while she crooks her fingers.
“Thou touchest me,” he says, on the sharp peak of his thin breath, “whilst I lay no touch upon thee.”
“Upon me,” she says.
“Within thee.”
“Within me.” She’s smiling.
It gets him to beg. “My lady,” he murmurs, “please.”
Moenbryda has always loved it when Urianger gives in and asks her for aught--her help, her warmth, her time, her company. Her breast, now, which she gives to him as she shifts onto her side and aligns herself lengthwise with him. Her sturdy arm has good reach along his body, but he lifts his ass to better let her finger it, and his breaths are all pleas when he takes her nipple into his mouth. He sucks at her breast like he’s never been shy in his life, and she tells him, “Seven hells,” and fucks him a little harder to delight him in return. She thinks he’s going to come, then, with the soft but sudden way he bites along her breast, but he’s instead reaching over to touch the firm bounty of her thighs. He touches her thighs, between her thighs, and how wet (so very) he has made her there. Never before this has Urianger wished to drown.
They’re out of sync while they finger-fuck each other, their motions, their heartbeats, their breathing, just all of it. Neither of them understand the other’s pace; they know only that they are inside each other and that they make each other shake. Urianger fits a third finger into the greed of Moenbryda’s pussy, and the jut of his knuckle there overwhelms her in every way she wanted. She says some foul cuss, and Urianger pushes his face between her breasts.
Then he actually asks for what he so fears of deep water, what he so desires now, mouthing at her chest: “Thou mought drown me.” His teeth glance over one of her nipples. “Would that thou wouldst drown me.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asks, like her head is at high altitude, too little air. Urianger thumbs her clit insistently, and while he does that to her, he pulls back from her breasts to finally--finally--look into her eyes. They stare at each other. “Thaliak preserve me,” Moenbryda breathes, and slides her fingers out of him with caution and wonder.
Unlike Urianger, she has fucked other people, but none of them have arranged her as Urianger does now. He sets her against his pillows and gently bends one of her knees. He opens her legs as if she is one of those beautiful old books he loves so much--as if inside of her is priceless enlightenment. Moenbryda can hardly believe that she’s looking down to see his face between her thighs, and she cannot believe it when she feels his mouth meet her pussy. She doesn’t even bother to try and keep from calling out; she just yells with joy.
And she thinks he’s very noble down there, even valiant, despite being unfamiliar with giving someone head. She’s reminded of listening to him study an ancient language, training his tongue into mastery. She remembers the diligence there and the diligence he promised her here for just one moment, before everything leaves her head but the shape of his mouth while it takes her. Good gods--oh, the gods are good--he picks up how to fuck her with his tongue and he makes her come. He grasps her thighs hard with his hands, but she grasps his head harder with her thighs.
“Oh!” Moenbryda says. She sags against the pillows, and when the edge of her orgasm allows for it, she laughs. “Well? Have I drowned you down there?”
“Verily hast thou,” he says, without the dignity of saying it--really, he moans. He presses the side of his damp face to her thigh and all the might it offers, and he shuts his eyes, for all the world seeming like an agonized poem. This is a man who has lost his footing at the precipice of lust.
Moenbryda reaches down to stroke his hair. “You poor, lovely thing. Come here, up here, so we can get you finished off.” Once he is atop her, she embraces him not like he is leaving, but like he’s just come back. “Go on, go on,” she says. “There you are. That’s good.” She opens her legs for him again, and he enters her with ease. Slow, profoundly slow, but easily. They fuck with a tidier rhythm, now, mostly beacuse she pushes him into her by bracing her palms against his ass. When she lifts her hips, his cock is as deep into her as it can be, and he moves against her like he’s searching for sanctuary.
“Silly man,” Moenbryda breathes, with the head of his cock so far up into her. She trembles around him, holding him with the whole of her body. “I’ll miss you, too.” When he comes inside of her, it is so warm--it is every warm evening they never spent together.
After a while, Urianger is the one who lies with his head against Moenbryda’s chest. She touches the back of his head idly. She observes the moonlight on the ceiling; Urianger, she assumes, has fallen asleep. But then he tells her something. He says, “I am afraid.”
She wants to say to Louisoix, You’re taking him away from me. You’re scaring him, and you’re taking him away. But she knows that none of it’s quite right, and instead, she tells Urianger, “Don’t be. I’ll be right on my way if you need it, so don’t keep from calling for me. You’re going on a grand adventure, Urianger. You’ll do amazing work.”
He is silent. Then he is quiet; his voice is quiet. “Thou wouldst attend me?” Now Moenbryda understands--it means everything.
“I would,” she says. “I will. Don’t be afraid, and whenever you’re afraid, you can give me a shout. Now, doesn’t that sound fine? How can you be scared of anything when you’ve got me to call?”
He is silent. Then he is quiet, and his heart is beating so hard against her. It might bruise her own, the force of it. “Then I shan’t be,” he says. “Then I am not. Whilst thine ear be tuned to my calling, I shall not fear.”
“That’s right,” she says. She shuts her eyes. “I’ll never not come running.”